On 19 June 15, the Ancient Origins website published an article by Mark Miller entitled "Ancient Greeks apparently feared zombies so much they weighed down the dead".  In his article, Miller says ancient inhabitants of the island of Sicily feared zombies so much they used large boulders to weigh down the bodies of the newly buried dead. This, apparently, was the result of the fear of revenants held by the Ancient Greeks. Miller defines revenants as existing in a state between life and death, in which the undead would be able to "ris[e] from their graves to haunt the living."

Both Miller and an article published by Richard Gray on Mail Online quote heavily from a Popular Archaeology article which confirms that "necrophobia, or fear of the dead…has been present in Greek culture from the Neolithic period to the present."   These articles are the result of the excavation of a site in Sicily yielding close to 3,000 bodies. Two of the burials found were covered with heavy amphora fragments and rocks, presumably "to trap [the bodies] in the grave."

To read the full article, please visit http://eliseabram.com/revenants-are-real/

**image from: http://goo.gl/OW5oPG

Dark Lady is a mystery novel written by Richard North Patterson. 

 It is a complex story that talks about politics, political corruption, organized crime, big construction  projects,  misappropriation of public money and influential people with some of their darkest secrets exposed.

 Dark Lady is a 'dark' novel. I was particularly disturbed by the masochistic love making scenes and by the vivid description of the mutilation of bodies by a cold blooded killer.

 Patterson's characters are complex, believable individuals with their own secrets that the author exposes to move the story along. By following their life stories, the characters seem real. Their dialogues , both spoken and in thoughts, allow us to see into their soul and understand their motivations.

 The protagonist of the story is a young, ambitious Assistant County Prosecutor, Stella Marz (Marzewski) who was given the nickname Dark Lady by a courtroom deputy due to her "ruthless" cross-examination practices. She has lived in Steelton, a city divided by Onondaga river into the West and East sides beside lake Erie, all her life. 

 Stella was a daughter of the West Side - known as Warszawa - where a wave of Polish immigrants "poor, hardworking, Roman Catholic and largely illiterate" settled in the late 19th century. 

Among those newcomers was Stella's grandfather, Carol Marzewski. He too was offered a job in America by Amasa Hall, a wealthy owner of steel mills, who paid his workers as little as possible and became rich in the process.  

This is how Stella remembers stories about the early settlers and her ancestors.

 At twenty-three, Stella Marz,  decided to leave her parent's home, unwilling to accept a life of poverty and enduring abuses by her old-fashioned father (Armin Marz), whose loss of job left him "unemployed and bitter." 

She landed a job at the Jack Novaks's law firm in Steelton city. Wealthy, influential, attractive at his thirty eight years of age, Novak offered Stella a refuge from poverty and family unhappiness and supported her law-school studies.  Nothing was given to Stella. As an honor student Stella had worked diligently through college and law school.

 She fell in love with Jack Novak. Her boss. Stella believed she had found a partner at law, a lover who could understand her, only to learn with time that Jack was a troubled man. 

 Not only was Jack Novak the lawyer of the ruthless Mafia head Vincent Moro, who paid Jack well to bribe whoever could be bought in the Police and the justice department in Steelton county, but Moro practically owned Jack. That and Jack's strange sexual fantasies aided by use of drugs and third party either watching or part-taking in sexual orgies, made Stella decide to leave Jack Novak and his firm.

 As his gesture of good will, Novak offered Stella his help in getting her a job as the Assistant County Prosecutor working for Arthur Bright. Stella proved to be a great lawyer and having passed the Bar exam, her ambitions grew as well.

 Arthur Bright was the first African-American ever elected Prosecutor of Erie County. It was he who had eventually made Stella Head of the prosecutor's homicide unit.  Bright aspired to become the Mayor of Steelton city, which was the reason he entered the 2000 Mayoral race. Stella's ambition to become the first woman elected Prosecutor of Erie County depended on how successful Bright would be in defeating the current Mayor, Thomas Krajak, who was running for re-election.

 To replace Bright, Stella needed his endorsement. Bright, on the other hand needed Stella to campaign for him in the Warszawa among predominantly white and racially biased voters. Both have devoted much of their professional life to a fight against drugs, demanding and enforcing tougher, stiffer sentences, more education and better treatment facilities. 

 Thomas Krajak, the current Steelton's Mayor, believed that his ticket to re-election was to build the baseball stadium. The $ 275 million project that he named "Steelton 2000" would benefit not only the biggest local developer, Peter Hall and his company Hall Development, but also every other contractor, as well as the city itself.  According to the agreement, Hall Development would share any savings in construction with the city. The city will benefit from new tax revenues from jobs created as well as sales of baseball and concert tickets, All-Star games and other events. That was Krajak's pitch in "selling" the Steelton 2000 project to the voters.

 Krajak needed Peter Hall on this project. Peter unlike his heartless, former steel baron grandfather Amasa, was very respected in the business community and popular in the county. He was a graduate of prep school and Princeton and with guaranteed career in business and the fourth generation of inherited wealth, Peter Hall entered the Steelton 2000 project not only to earn more money and have the stadium for his "Blues" baseball team but also to attract more businesses to the city and create more needed jobs.

 To coordinate the business and to overlook the payments to contractors and subcontractors, Peter Hall hired Thomas Fielding as the project supervisor for Steelton 2000. 

Thomas Fielding was totally devoted to his job of checking and certifying that the compliance goals are being met.  The agreement between Hall Development and the City guaranteed Steelton 2000 thirty percent of the work performed by the workers of minorities. The minority general contractor was a company called the Alliance Company.

 After thirteen months working on the project Steelton 2000, Thomas Fielding was found dead. His Maid found his naked body in the bedroom of his townhouse next to a dead black prostitute, named Tina Welch. He died of an overdose of heroin. 

 Only a few days later another dead body was discovered. The Chief of Detectives, Nathaniel Dance informed Stella Marz of a homicide - "a big one". A unanimous caller alerted the police. Jack Novak was found hanging from his closet door. He wore a garter belt, stockings, and a pair of black high heels lay where they had fallen from his feet.

 In search for motives and subsequently for the killer or killers of Thomas Fielding and Jack Novak, Stella discovers a dark secret of the County Prosecutor's Arthur Bright. A hidden tape in Jack Novak's home, discovered by Stella, showed a drugged Arthur Bright wearing a garter belt , stockings and a pair of black high heels while being pleasured by a prostitute.  The tape also showed another person killing the prostitute after the act.

  Arthur Bright was blackmailed by the mafia head Vincent Moro to support Steelton 2000.  Moro ordered Jack Novak to do the "convincing" part. Jack Novak understood the consequence of failing to get Bright to comply. Bright did not agree and consequently Novak was executed. The way Novak's body was mutilated was a warning to Bright.

 Stella suspected that Moro was involved in the Fielding's murder as well. Only this time it was Mayor Krajak who demanded of Peter Hall that Fielding continue signing the performance reviews of the Alliance Company's subcontractors. Fielding refused to sign the bills and review performances when he realized that there was no Alliance Company; that it existed only on paper and that the city was robbed of millions of dollars. Fielding was convinced that the money was going to someone with whom Mayor Krajak had an agreement with. Krajak informed Moro of Fielding's refusal to cooperate. Fielding was found dead soon after.

 The killer of Fielding and Novak was the man who was seen killing the prostitute on the tape, an old school buddy of Vincent Moro, a senior police officer Johnny Curran. Moro gave the execution orders personally to Curran, who in turn completed them.

 The only killing that police was able to pin to Moro, was his killing of Johnny Curran during the last secret meeting between them.  Curran was wearing wiretap.

 As for Arthur Bright, the County Prosecutor... Unable to cope with the prospect of having his dark secret exposed and the shame he would bring onto his family, Bright commits suicide. 

 Dark Lady is not Richard Patterson's the most acclaimed novel. But it is well written and makes one think about social and moral issues connected to political decision-making in our daily lives.

 Richard North Patterson has written fourteen bestselling and critically acclaimed novels. Formerly a trial lawyer, Patterson served as the SEC’s liaison to the Watergate special prosecutor and has served on the boards of several Washington advocacy groups dealing with gun violence, political reform, and women’s rights. 

Dark Lady (424 pages) was published by The Ballantine Publishing Group in 2000.

Announcing EMSA Publishing’s very first ever Fabulous First Lines Competition!

The first line of a novel is incredibly important in that it sets the tone of a novel, establishes point of view, and hooks the reader. Here’s your chance to see how your novel’s first line stacks up.

The Rules:

• The Fabulous First Lines Competition will be open to thirty (30) self-published and indie-published authors.
• The competition will run throughout the month of August 2015 as follows:
  • August 2 – 8 => voting will take place for the first group of 10 authors
  • August 9 – 15 => voting will take place for the second group of 10 authors
  • August 16 – 22 => voting will take place for the third group of 10 authors
  • August 21 – 29 => voting will take place for the top three winners from each week, with a winner being declared on 30 August 2015
• The prizes:
  • bragging rights
  • a badge you can proudly display on your website
  • your book featured on EMSA Publishing’s homepage slider for the month of September 2015
  • posts to social media (Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Google+, and Storify) directing readers to a blog post featuring your novel’s cover, book blurb, and author bio

For more information, visit the Fabulous First Lines Competition page.

 It is a hot Friday night in Lilburn, Georgia and the cool breeze is a welcome relief as it touches my face with a gentle caress…I hear the firecrackers in the far distance popping at Stone Mountain Park.
        Anderson Cooper is interviewing a family member of one of the victims of the Charleston Nine in Charleston, South Carolina. My windows are open and I hear the firecrackers like muted gun shots, and the emotional verbiage from my television in the Cable twenty-four news cycle on CNN and MSNBC. I dare not touch the remote button that would bring up the conservative spin on Fox News…my blood pressure is high enough.
       As I have listened, the last two days about the horrific killing of nine innocent people at a Wednesday evening Bible Study at an AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina, the commentators, the experts and the reactions have ignited my emotions faster than any speeding six-flag rollercoaster.
        I admired the family member’s classy forgiveness message to the “Racist Terrorist” and the humble heart-felt response from the killer’s family. I’m still baffled about the response, from the Charleston Judge, and I am working on how I am going to emotionally respond to his remarks at the opening of the hearing of the alleged killer.
        I hear words.
`       I hear responses.
        I hear all this talk, but unless you grew up in the AME Zion Church, you don’t have a clue about the response the faith community is exhibiting in Charleston. Why they are forgiving a heinous killer with love as their love ones lying in an undertaker’s establishment.
      I can hear people asking… they forgive in less than 48hours? The answer is a resounding…yes!
       I grew up in Winder, Georgia at Bush Chapel AME Zion Church that sits on a hill and still dominates the community. My great, great grandparents helped build that 100-year-old stone brick church.
      It was a place of forgiveness.
      It was a place of LOVE!
       Love dominates the church as exhibited by the Lord Jesus Christ. That is what is coming through in Charleston, South Carolina and in every AME Church across America!
       You see small crowds, at services, but you see people dedicated people who love Jesus Christ. I learned early, if you don’t let  love penetrate deep then hate will surface and now you have anger then a reaction that will lead to further violence.
        Bush Chapel AME Zion Church was a place of worship on Sunday mornings and Bible Study on Wednesday Evenings.
         Many Wednesday evenings, in the late 50s and early 60s, I held my       Grandmother Katie’s hand and we walked through the cemetery to the church at the top of the hill for Bible Study. As I looked at the 87-year old Charleston Victims face, I could see my grandmother…I cried.
        Back then, I felt so safe.
        I felt love.
       I also held that same strong hand as we walked through segregated Winder, Georgia to Peskin’s department store or stood in line at the back of Hardegre’s Restaurant, at the Colored Window, waiting for my favorite hamburger with the special sauce, chili, tomato slices and ketchup.
         The last two days have brought back memories…I see the love in the people.
        Bush Chapel AME Zion Church was a place of safety and love that carried us through “Segregated” times in rural Georgia.
        In the summer, the windows were opened for the cool air to come in. We knew that “racist” could do anything, but we knew that GOD was bigger…nobody was ever afraid.
        I know the “Charleston Nine” knew in their last minutes, the GOD of love was with them and carry them home.
        From my Bible Studies, I learned many things, but one of the most important was something from the Old Testament: Deuteronomy 31-8: “Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord is the one who goes before you. He will be with you; He will neither fail you nor forsake you.”
         The last few evenings have been full of anguish, but I know that God lives.
          When I heard those responses from the Charleston AME Zion Church family, I could feel what I learned at an early age…Love!
          It was deep!
          It was in the soul!
          It was true!
          It was Christian!!!
         You can’t love or hate at the same time.
         If you hate, you will take up the banner of the Charleston Killer.
        If you love, you will take up the banner of the Charleston Christians.
        It’s your choice?
         May God richly bless the “Charleston Nine” in heaven and their families still on earth?
        The “Killer” must be in our prayers. I was re-taught this principal of “Christian Love:” from the Charleston Christians who spoke today at the court hearing,
        God Bless the person, who killed nine innocent people at the Bible Study, and his family.
          For a Christian, this is what we must do.
         This is our calling.
         May God Richly Bless You!

SnowMan

Having an edited, ready-for-publication manuscript is paramount when searching for a publisher or an agent. Some vanity publishers—like EMSA Publishing—will provide editing in exchange for a percentage of the royalties. Others will provide you with a list of approved editors and ask you to pay from your own pocket for their services. Similarly, when self-publishing, the onus is on you to self-edit and/or hire an editor to get your manuscript up to standards.

In today’s economy, hiring an editor isn’t financially feasible for most of us. Authors are forced to become jacks-of-all-trades as a result, writing, publishing, advertising and editing on their own. Out of that array, editing is perhaps the most difficult to master, especially when it’s on your own manuscript.

Two reasons why self-editing is hard

Reason One – lack of education

Whether your highest level of education is a high school diploma or graduate degree, chances are you were never formally taught grammar in school. This is especially true if only a decade or so has passed since your graduation. I remember, in middle school,  having to parse sentences to pick out the subject, object, predicate, etc. I was never very good at it because I was never formally taught any of the rules. My knowledge of grammar is more intuitive than practical—if it sounds good, it’s probably grammatically correct. When in doubt, I can always look it up online, a luxury I didn’t have in middle school.

Reason Two – it’s not how our brains work

As a writer, you’re too close to your work. Nick Stockton’s article, What’s Up With That: Why It’s So Hard to Catch Your Own Typos, says writing is a critical thinking task. When you challenge you brain with higher-level thinking, it tends to generalize. You remember where you wanted to take the story and  your brain fills in the blanks, glossing over the errors. It’s hard to edit your own work, not because you can’t or don’t know how to fix the issues, but rather, because you know what should be on the page so well that your brain doesn’t realize it’s not there.

Even with the cards seemingly stacked against you, there are still techniques you can use to help with this aspect of the publication process.

Read about the 5 ways you can make editing easier at EMSA Publishing.

THE LIFE OF THOMAS MORE BY PETER ACKROYD

 

 

Peter Ackroyd's book "The Life of Thomas More" is not the one many readers would chose to take on holidays unless they love history and are interested in reading about the changes that occurred after King Henry VIII succeeded with his self-serving plan to set up his own church of England. A good friend of mine, talking about his ancestors and Thomas More recommended this biography to me.

 

It was not an easy book to read. My basic knowledge of Latin and the Early Modern English was not sufficient enough to completely understand (without using a dictionary) the writings and dialogues of Thomas More and his contemporaries. Ackroyd uses them sporadically as in the originally spoken languages in order to give the reader a more accurate picture of Thomas More and the way he interacted with others.

 

Ackroyd writes very little about the intimate, family life of Thomas More, except about the way he was educated; his absolute admiration for his father and the love for his son and daughters, especially the eldest, Margaret.

More insisted that all three daughters receive the same education as his son. In Henry VIII's time, the education of girls was the privilege of the royal and the rich. It was not intended to educate women as independent thinkers though.

 

Ackroyd pictures Thomas More as a brilliant scholar of 16th century England who died rather than betray the Catholic church.  As a young man, More seriously contemplated becoming a priest, but went on to become one of the most successful politicians of his time. He studied Latin and Greek literature at Oxford University for two years and continued his education by studying common law in London .

 

More's lifelong friend was Erasmus of Rotterdam, the Dutch Renaissance humanist with whom he shared similar views on social affairs, the Bible teaching, and Latin translations of Lucian's works. Although very busy practicing law, More continued with his literary and spiritual interests. He wrote Utopia, a work of fiction and political philosophy.

 

As a prominent attorney, Thomas More acted as a secretary and confidant to King Henry VIII in 1518 . With the assistance of More, King Henry VIII wrote the "Defense of the Seven Sacraments" as a response to Martin Luther's attack on Catholic doctrine of salvation and other practices. From there on Thomas More occupied a series of important posts such as Treasurer of England's Exchequer, Chancellor of Lancaster and speaker of the House of Commons.  In 1529 he replaced Cardinal Thomas Wolsey as Lord Chancellor, which was the most important government position in England .

 

But the fate of Thomas More will soon change and he will lose all the privileges he enjoyed, when More refuses to sign, under oath to recognise King Henry VIII as the Supreme head of the Church of England. More refused to undermine the authority of Pope.

 

Ackroyd constructs the last period of life of Thomas More in a masterful way. This is the best part of the book in that Ackroyd's writing prowess comes to the fore. Just as he describes the London's streets which More took daily while studying law at Lincoln's Inn , so detailed is Ackroyd's description of Thomas More's last dwelling quarter where he spent as a prisoner in the Tower of London, his trial for treason , the heartbreaking partaking from his family and daughter Margaret and Thomas More's execution (on July 6, 1535).

 

Ackroyd's book The Life of Thomas More is accompanied by a couple of pages of illustrations and portraits of More's family members, close friends and of Thomas More himself. On his portrait as Lord Chancellor of England, More wears a golden chain with S-S as an emblem of the service to the King. The letters stand for the expression:  "Souvent me souvien" (Think of me often).  Five hundred and eighty years has passed since his execution, yet Thomas More remains one of England ’s most celebrated historical figures. Ackroyd's biography of Thomas More adds more light to More's shining star.

 

The intense years punctuated lives with a totality which is difficult for the ignorant to understand, and the intervening calm became another type of pause. While we are in the moment we cannot escape the force of its presence, but after we extricate ourselves time alters our impression and dilutes its intensity. For some the nightmares return unexpectedly, unleashed by an unintentional word or question.

As each of the women became part of a different place and made different lives their letters to each other became less frequent. Each was always pleased to hear from her friend and glad that all was well. They never lost touch completely, even if a memory was the only thing left; there was comfort in the sense of place they had shared.

Eveline had taken over the running of her cousin’s farm house in the country side near Limoges and had made it into a chambres d’hotes. Her simple, classic country dishes satisfied and delighted the weary traveller, who was at liberty to make the garden their own and relax amongst the plethora of vegetation and free flowing flora.

Her style was quietly sociable with a slightly shy reserve; some might have described it as wary. She spoke to those whom she automatically trusted.

Her salad of tomatoes in its subtlety of olive oil, parsley and garlic, was a talking point. Its simplicity evoked a continuum of conversation around the table; one could almost feel the absent company in the empty chairs. She spoke of a fire in a church where people had been imprisoned and a woman separated from her child she could never reach again.

She could not stop her testament until she had regurgitated the whole, all the while standing quietly and with uncanny stillness. It seemed a necessary catharsis and yet one knew she would tell the tale again trying to make sense of the past and the repetition of history.

At breakfast the next morning she would say she had had bad dreams.

Simone had walked away with the others, carrying a suitcase, having abandoned the belongings she had put on the neighbour’s cart.

And as she continued along the road towards Paris even her valise became heavy and awkward. She sat down by the side of the road and searched for what she could do without, and having done so, left the sundry articles behind amongst the other items people had jettisoned for similar reasons. She walked on amongst the rejected shoes and bric a brac that were strewn intermittently about the route. The straggling line of a displaced population, leaving because that was the only thing to do, continuing its long progress.

If one was to visit those northern towns fifty years on, how clean and neat they would appear. Enterprise and new enthusiasm ribboning through the fields and former sights of battle. New roads carrying the new Europeans across the continents consuming the landscape in a different fashion. Only the ever watchful shades and nuances between the sight lines in the wide sky above you, a silent carrier of what had been done and said.

In a cellar somewhere removed in time and space from that first war, Martine thought of the lady in her drab dress and apron sweeping the ruins in the church. She had been trying to keep her concentration and not allow her nerves to overwhelm her. Waiting in this tiny hole for several hours, with nothing to eat or drink, had begun to disorientate and weaken resolve.

When they had come for them early that morning it was an inelegant arousal and the German officers had not allowed much time for preparation or the collection of luggage; that did not happen in these circumstances. In spite of being told at the outset what lay ahead in the event of discovery, the shock was palpable. The coldness of the assailant, and his intention to inflict violence and cruelty upon his victims, exuded like a foul sourness from every part of his being. The air was redolent with the decomposition of humanity and Martine felt numb.

She tried to will herself to die now, it would avoid what was to come, which in itself would result in being shot after hours of torture and interrogation. She heard the faint sound of what seemed like two gun shots somewhere to the right of her and above her head. As she looked upwards, in automatic response, she could make out the outline of a square grill in the wall where faint traces of light penetrated through the dirt. Footsteps faded on the ground, then the sound of different footsteps, closer and much louder approached.

Picardy seemed a long way away now. Simone and some of the others had taken shelter for the night in a farmer’s barn. By chance, in the form of miscellaneous trucks and discarded bicycles, they found themselves just north of Paris at Senlis.

The journey south had been circuitous and the need for avoidance techniques, and a degree of nonchalance when potential dangers presented themselves, a necessary requirement in such strained circumstances.

The days travelling had given her time to think, why Paris? She did not know anyone there. Would there be a possibility of melting into the crowd and becoming part of a wartime community under occupation?

Jacqui, a younger woman with whom she had struck up a good day to day relationship, knew people there and she seemed happy enough for Simone to accompany her. Having made the effort so far she might as well carry on she thought, there would be cafés and bars she could find work in, who knew? It would be summer soon and that meant life would feel easier to contemplate. It was extraordinary how a person adapted to this nomadic way of life and that some days just seemed like any other.

She lay against some wooden pallets, their shallow layer of straw providing some comfort, and fell asleep, the quiet chatter of the others around her soothing her into oblivion with its softly enunciated cadences.

When she awoke the next morning the rest of the group had already gone across to the house where the farmer had provided a simple breakfast of bread and coffee. She joined them and apologised hurriedly for being so late. The table made a focal point in the plain room, and her eyes glanced at the lofty ceiling towering above the assembled group; how welcome these functional surroundings were she thought. There was even some homemade cherry jam on offer; life in the countryside retained its rhythm and ritual come what may it seemed. She should write this all down for future generations.

When they finally got to Paris the group had diminished, many had decided not to go as far as that and had decided to try their luck on the outskirts. Jacqui had insisted that Simone stay with her and she would find a place for both of them. Her cousin, Monique, lived near Place de Clichy and there was bound to be room at her place for a while. She thought Simone might fit in well, in fact there might be the possibility of some work, depending on her tastes for excitement. Simone caught the whiff of something too dark here that might need to be carefully avoided.

Monique’s apartment was situated in one of the myriad of streets that congregated around that busy quartier. Even in these times life went on and the proximity of clubs and bars meant that the occupying population was as well served as the indigenous inhabitants always had been. The apartment, on the second floor, was accessible by lift and stairs. The lift tended to be temperamental so it was advisable to use the stairs. A woman had been found badly beaten inside it recently which was an indication that life continued, but at a price.

Simone eventually found work at a laundry a few blocks away near Montmartre. Monique had quickly introduced Jacqui into a twilight world, to which she had taken to easily and without much hesitation. Simone had avoided being persuaded into following suit, preferring to take up a more neutral way of life. She never enquired much and saw Monique and Jacqui only briefly, usually on their way out in the evening. Sometimes she was aware of voices and laughter, people arriving and then leaving again hours later. Once there was the sound of arguments in the street, doors slamming and the scent of cigar smoke penetrating the room from the corridor.

One Saturday morning she was aware of a couple of men watching the block, gazing at the apartment windows, then walking away into the main boulevard again.

Her life was solitary for the most part, her routine at the laundry brought her into contact with a variety of people, some as out of place as she, but this was an out of place time so she did not appear that unusual. A conversation shared over a cigarette and a glass of wine, listening carefully and empathetically to the warp and weft of the everyday slog. Simone fitted in quietly, without drawing attention to herself, and lived her life as simply as she could.

The walk back to the apartment at her usual, leisurely pace took about half an hour. The late September afternoon made the way down from Montmartre a gentle and almost nostalgic event. It was as if time had turned back upon itself and life was as carefree as it had been a few years ago. The little picture house she passed, a slither of a place, was a popular venue and she had to dodge the people queuing to get in.

By the time she had turned into Rue Le Mercier she had almost forgotten the times in which she was living, and as she walked into the vestibule she greeted the concierge as usual, who looked up from her knitting and nodded without expression, as usual; Simone remembered where she was.

She could hear the low beat of the jazz and the soulful voice behind it as she reached the top of the stairs. She went in quietly, the door to the main room at the top of the corridor was open slightly and the smell of perfume, brandy and cigarettes permeated the place; she saw through the half opening and took in the scene. Monique, Jacqui and three men were in various states of undress, asleep and full of the good brandy they had been consuming. They lay spread upon the chairs and settee, dead to the world for the moment, a soft snore of a fart emanated from someone.

The door to one of the bedrooms opened and a woman came out to visit the bathroom. She pulled the straps of her silk petticoat up over her shoulders as she walked by and Simone noticed a bruise on her upper arm as she did so. The occupant of the bedroom shouted something indistinct at her from behind the door as it shut.

Simone went as quietly as she could to her own room where a couple lay entwined and asleep on the bed. She went to the little kitchen and made coffee, lighting her own cigarette and forgetting any sense of the nostalgia she had previously felt.

Much later, when the party broke up and its pleasure-makers had left, the men, quietly triumphant and sated with sex and alcohol, far too absorbed in themselves to notice any observer, Simone caught sight of one of them and recognised him as the man she had seen some weeks ago, looking up at the apartment. She listened to their footsteps clumsily descending the stairs and the sound of a car pulling away.

Monique was tidying up the residue of the debauched hours and saw Simone at the kitchen table. She placed the glasses in the sink and returned to collect more items in need of restoration which she would then replace, unsullied, in the cabinet.

The sounds of furniture being put back in its rightful place and the music ending were audible from the salon. Jacqui was attending to that. The door to the other bedroom was still shut, presumably the third woman was asleep.

“They pay, they call the tune,we comply. We see the bright lights and the pizzazz, and give them what they ask for. Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes not, but the alternative, well there isn’t one now, truthfully you’re better out of it.”

She sat down, asked Simone for a cigarette and stared into space.

The girl had been a pretty thing, blonde and slim. The dark, full nipples strikingly prominent. The vulnerability in her eyes stared out at one as she lay lifeless on the bed.

Her body was half covered by the sheet and there was a series of red marks on her face and neck, one of her breasts had been slashed underneath its nipple. There were layers of marks on her back, the result of being repeatedly beaten as she lay unable to escape her attacker. There were also bite marks on her right ear.

Jacqui had discovered the body and had made a phone call. Some men came and removed it. Who they were, or where they took the dead girl, was not clear and no questions were asked. It seemed that in the present climate, in certain contexts, this procedure was one that took place in an understated and silent manner. “Le silence” prevailed.

Simone left the apartment without notice and searched for work and accommodation elsewhere, always wary that the face of the man she had recognised at the apartment might appear again.

There were always men who would behave like that given half the chance, but somehow the circumstances which facilitated licence to procure and punish with such terminal consequences, erupted in profuse intensity in some quarters at that time. Calm, cold, eyeless and booted, they haunted the street corners and drank champagne in the star dust inns of the corrupt, entrapping their pretty things all the way.

www.lock publishing.com/dunbar.html

Okay. I'm going to make this quick.

Blogging, also known as online article writing, is a great way of getting backlinks and becoming noticeably throughout many websites, and especially google. Your Facebook or Twitter Posts could only get you a few readers from your circle, but if your aim is to attract a lot of readers to believe in what you're writing, then you may want to become a blogger, and start using the article submitting websites.

If you are submiting your well written articles to many different channels at one time, everytime, you are guarantee to receive a lot of followers in the long run. Why and How? Because your online works would eventually reach its intended readers, those who thought to look up or google an idea like the one you'd composed. 

The more articles and websites you submit to, the more notoriety your writing would become, and you may become a more successful writer if you gain enough the faithful followers who loves and would share your works.

While WebPress may be well known blogging platform, it is not the best writing platfrom for writers looking to attract a lot of like-minded readers, because wordpress works just like facebook and twitters, meaning that your news would only spread to your inner circles, and you would spend more time designing your website more than writing. 

Below is a list of the websites I believe you should start submitting your full-length articles (Blogs) to in other to start gaining instant viewings from everyone. 

Indie Writers Support

GoodReads

Yahoo Group

Google Groups

Quora

LiveJournal

EzineArticle

Hubpages

Bukisa

ArticleBase

Wordpress

Blogger