#SampleSunday I predicted this economic mess in Jobless Recovery

In the year 2000 I first noticed the trend in the United States to outsource jobs overseas. It was all about cheaper labor and lax labor laws. In 2001 I realized that greedy corporations had started to misuse work visas to import cheaper labor to replace working Americans. These are the same corporations that expect Americans to fight and die in the U.S. military to protect their interests here and abroad.

I wrote a novel, Jobless Recovery, and published in 2005. By 201009 many of the things I wrote about in the book had come true. I updated the book and republished in 2010. It doesn't take a psychic to predict an economic collapse in a country run by politicians who have sold their people out to corporate sponsors. I just didn't expect it to happen this fast.

Excerpt from the book. Dave Griffin has just lost his computer programming job to cheaper imported labor and has decided to call Washington and complain:

All the staffers responded as if reading from the same script and they spouted the same meaningless phrases, "education is the answer" and "trade creates jobs."

The pigeons had gone away disappointed, and Dave’s jaw had clamped into an unhealthy tightness by the time he got around to calling the U.S. Department of Commerce.

“What education? How exactly does trade create jobs when all the trade is only flowing one way?” He realized his voice did not sound like the calm, cool, Dave-in-command he’d wanted to project and instead had grown whiny and maybe a little desperate.

“The cash for clunkers program and the economic stimulus will create jobs,” said another phone voice in soothing tones.

“But I don’t have a clunker and the corporations getting all the stimulus money aren’t hiring. They aren’t even loaning money to people. I don’t want a handout, I want a job.”

“You simply don’t understand how the system works.” A disdainful snort sounded over the line. “Since workers have their retirement money in the stock market, anything companies do to increase profits is good for workers even if they lose their jobs.”

“What did you just say?” His voice cracked like that of a teenager. “That’s insane.”

“Sir-er,” the nasal voice said, making sir into a two-syllable word, “contact your local Employment Security Commission.”

Click.

Dave sighed. He’d exhausted all his options. If there was a book called The New Economy for the Completely Clueless, he hadn’t read it. But all evidence indicated no one in Washington had either.

He felt as if he’d been smacked in the teeth by robots spouting government double-talk. He tried to imagine a scenario where the fast-talking salesman who’d sold him the Behemoth had tried to woo him with statements such as, "Celebrate diversity and wage compression in your vehicle. Let no car be left behind in the race to global sourcing. The new free trade in vehicles—and clunkers--will spur economic growth through increased auto production and new low interest rates to stimulate consumer confidence. So don’t worry about downsizing, rightsizing, and offshoring of your current model. Education is the key to safe driving. Just call this toll-free number for training and the free health care plan for your car."

He’d have peeled out of the Spectrum Motors lot like a scalded cat. Why, then, had he not reacted when his own government dealt the equivalent of that speech to the American people, not once, but many times over? As long as the trucks kept bringing goods to stock the shelves of the discount marts and the Foodarama, like everyone else, he’d allowed himself to become practically comatose.

As an afterthought, he dialed the toll-free training number given him by U.S. Department of Labor Comment Line. The number connected him to a recruiting office for the United States Army.

Jobless Recovery

#SampleSunday Meet Ned and LaRue

Chihuahua Edie sitting on recliner Old Mama with blankets Candy Cane and LaRue

I name inanimate objects. Well, doesn't everyone? I mean, if you have more than one of something, such as blankets, doesn't it make sense to name them rather than having to waste a lot of time with descriptions?

Example: Me (shivering on the couch) to one of my offspring, "While you're upstairs would you please get me a blanket? I want the soft, white one I keep on the end of my bed."

Ten minutes later offspring says, "Here you go, Mom."

Me (after a brief pause to curl my lip in disgust), "No, not the little white one with the fringe. That's only for decoration. Get me the big one. It's soft and plush feeling like a teddy bear."

Offspring, looking blank, "I have no idea which blanket you mean."

Me, "Your sister gave it to me for Christmas last year."

Offspring, acting all too casual for someone whose mother is in the throes of hypothermia, "Which sister?"

Me, lips turning blue and now unable to curl successfully, "Does it matter? Fetch me the stinking blanket before I freeze, okay? It's on the end of my bed and it's big and white and plush."

Offspring, rolling eyes so far heavenward they nearly become dislocated, "OMG, will you chill?"

Me, teeth chattering, "I AM chilled and I want my blanket now, you little sadist."

Personally, I find that kind of exchange annoying and a waste of effort. How much simpler it is to simply give names to your possessions.

Example: Me, wearing a pleasant smile, "While you're upstairs will you please get Ned off the end of my bed and bring him to me."

Offspring, looking at me with fondness, "Ah, soft, fluffy Ned. He's one of your favorites, isn't he? Consider it done, Mother."

Now isn't that better?  

So if you happen to be in my neighborhood drop by for a cup of coffee brewed in Mrs. Nell. Join me at one of my computers--Lester, Delta, or Riker, your choice. Sit in my recliner, Old Mama, under one of my blankets. I have many, but may I suggest Candy Cane, Bucky, Scottie, or LaRue? If you want to enjoy some music I have a selection of iPods for your listening pleasure. Just let me know whether you prefer Thor, Sheldon, Leonard, or Archer. 

Of course I've named our cars. They are Darken Ess Red and Greenie.

My life is now simplified. Why don't you try naming stuff and see for yourself? Your family wouldn't go for it, you insist? I say, drop the defeatist attitude. 

Hey, if I was able to train my crew, then you can consider yourself the family whisperer.

#Sample Sunday: Talented Horsewoman

As I announced yesterday, my publisher for Talented Horsewoman the first in my Leigh McRae horse mystery series has put it on sale to help me promote the upcoming indie publication of the second in the series. Talented Horsewoman is reduced from $6.99 to $2.99 for a short time only. If you love horse mysteries, now is the time to get the first book.

Here's a sample from Chapter One:

Chapter One

If only. Those two little words were to haunt me for weeks. If only I hadn’t put off getting my hair trimmed, I wouldn’t have had to spend so much time forcing the flyaway blond strands into a single neat braid. If only I hadn’t paused to answer the phone, I wouldn’t have wasted ten minutes, too polite to hang up on a telemarketer who said my name—Leigh McRae—in reverent tones that could have indicated she’d mistaken me for a movie star.

I finally cut her off and, still feeling no sense of urgency, sauntered out to my truck.  Later I would wonder why I’d given in to a demon sweet tooth that had made me stop for coffee at Bo’s Diner and then linger stuffing my face with a chocolate donut.

It wasn’t until I’d licked the last bit of sugar from my fingers that I finally considered I’d be late if I didn’t hurry. I drove a few miles over the limit until I came to a construction zone where I lost all the minutes I’d gained.

Cursing under my breath, I inched my way past a mile of traffic cones and then sped the rest of the way down Brick House Road to whip the truck into Rita’s driveway. I bounced through a pothole, rounded a bend, and instantly registered a horse barreling toward me. In a microsecond I hit the brakes and jammed the shift lever into park, barely avoiding a nasty collision.

A sorrel filly raced free as a mustang back down the driveway. She’d streaked toward the truck at dazzling speed before sliding to a stop that left grooves in the dirt. Without pause she rolled on her hocks and reversed direction. After a quick circuit of the corral, she finally slowed from a gallop to a prance, flying her flame-red tail like a banner and holding her head high as the prow of a sailing ship. 

My breath whooshed out. The one horse stampede was over. Another second or two and the filly I knew as Sandstone Tinker Star would likely head for the patch of Bermuda grass near the hay barn and settle down to grazing—easy for me to catch her. But before I could act, a screaming woman brandishing a flimsy pine branch flashed into view from the left, and Tinker turned on the afterburners.

I leaped out of the truck and hit the ground running, my arms whirling like plane propellers. "Stop screaming and waving that stick around. You’re scaring her."

The branch-wielding woman showed no signs of having heard and, as Tinker raced past, she planted her legs wide apart and landed a solid blow on the filly’s rump. Without missing a beat, Tinker fired with both hind legs, just missing the woman’s shoulder. The filly’s tail swished and she swerved toward the training arena.

By then I’d had time to conclude that the horse-chasing woman was Millie Destin, Rita’s neighbor from across the road. If she wasn’t careful she was going to end up with getting kicked or worse.

I turned to follow Tinker’s movement, hoping she wouldn’t head back to Millie. As I tracked the galloping form past the barn, a bundle of rags on the ground barely merited my attention—until an instant later when I realized the bundle wasn’t rags. With a jolt somewhere in the center of my chest I stumbled forward.

"Oh, my God, it's Rita," Millie sang out, echoing my thoughts. She scurried over to grab my arm, her fingers digging in like pincers until I peeled her loose. I glanced sideways and noted her complexion was the color of an undercooked biscuit. Mine probably matched.

We moved closer and I saw that the figure was indeed Rita Cameron. Holding on to each other for support, Millie and I stared down at Rita. She lay on her stomach, her face pressed against the concrete that formed a parking pad in front of the hay barn. Blood had pooled around her head.

I dropped to my knees and felt for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. I knew it might be dangerous to move her if she were still alive, but she wasn’t breathing. CPR might be her only chance, so with Millie’s help I rolled her over. Then I wished I hadn’t. Rita’s blue eyes were wide open and had taken on the blankness of dolls’ eyes. Her blood-caked face was tinged purple.

“She's dead, ain't she?" Millie stuck her hands in the pockets of her baggy overalls. She screwed up her mouth in an attempt at a smile as if we were simply discussing last night’s rain, but I couldn’t miss the wobble in her voice.

I nodded. I’d never seen a dead person up close, but there wasn’t a shade of doubt. Living people have light in their eyes.

"Must of fell out of the hay loft." Millie bobbed her head to reinforce her conclusion.

I swallowed hard, barely able to take in that Rita was gone. “Looks that way.”

A soft whicker drew my attention back to Rita’s filly. After ending her race at the edge of the woods, she'd ambled back as far as the training arena gate where she stopped and watched us, her head lowered and her ears flicking back and forth. For the first time I saw the bright smear of crimson on her right shoulder.




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Sample Sunday: The Witness Wore Blood Bay

Coming Soon: The Witness Wore Blood Bay

Leigh McRae Has Body-Discovering Experience

In Talented Horsewoman, the first book of my horse mystery series, main character Leigh McRae discovers a body. She also ends up solving a murder. Along the way she helps her cousin Sammi, who is dating a burglar, and she manages to get out from under the control of her overbearing ex-husband.

Now Leigh's friend Candy, a fellow horsewoman, finds herself accused of murder. Who else would she turn to for help except Leigh? After all, everyone in small town Del Canto knows Leigh has body-discovering experience. Never mind that Leigh is busy finding out who's poisoning dogs in Sammi's neighborhood and she's trying to renovate her home without going broke. Or that her ex-husband Kenneth and former ranchhand Doug Reilly have become roommates in Leigh's guest house.

There's a murder to solve. And her friend won't take no for an answer.

Random excerpt from a chapter where Leigh and Sammi hunt for a dog killer

     Like me, Sammi was dressed entirely in black. Her outfit was a black dress that flowed to her ankles and mine was a black sweatsuit that didn’t flow anywhere, but had me--predictably--sweating rivers. It didn't help that I'd dabbed black mascara all over my face to disguise myself. Maybe we didn’t exactly know what we were doing, but I could see we didn’t intend to be seen doing whatever it was we were going to do.

“Hurry.” She made quick little motions with her hands, signaling me to follow her toward the back of her property. I noted she’d put on a black hat and covered her face with a piece of black netting that made her look like a Goth beekeeper. 

"Why? You said they were gone."

“Yes, but there's one thing that’s kind of bothering me, babe.” She paused at her back gate. Her eyes looked like they were checkered because of the netting. “How will we explain ourselves if someone catches us lurking outside the Barker home?” 

“That’s kind of bothering you, huh? I suppose we’ll tell them we were out ghost hunting. I brought along my digital camera so we can say we were trying to snap pictures of ectoplasm--or whatever it’s called--that was floating around the neighborhood. Maybe I’ll even make up a story about a jilted lover who haunts the street looking for his intended.” I patted the front pocket where I’d stashed the camera.

“Oh, wow, you really do have a knack for detecting. I never would have come up with that.” Sammi nodded her appreciation.

“I watch Ghost Hunters a lot. Have you seen the show? They’re plumbers by day, paranormal investigators by night.”

“Dope.” 

“I’m serious. They have a white van for plumbing and a black one for--”

“The Barker place is that way.” She pointed down the block in the direction away from town. “The white house. You want to lead?” Her expression, what I could see of it under the veil and in the dim light, looked hopeful.

I peered in the direction she indicated and made out a house that was lighter in color than the others. Could have been white. Looked blurry to me with no moon and the street light on the corner not working.

“How come I always have to be the brave one?”

“’Cause you’re braver than I am. Come on.” She slipped into the shadows and crept along the fence line, moving as stealthily as a woman her size could. Sammi's nearly six feet tall and big-boned.

I wondered if neighborhood dogs would hear us and bark an alert, but then I remembered there might not be any dogs left on her street thanks to the dog poisoner.  

We Interrupt This Date for Sample Sunday

Short Excerpt from a Random Chapter for Sample Sunday

Skills or no skills, I couldn’t go into business with her. T. Chandler was a successful businessman, but he hadn’t exactly left me rolling in riches when we split. I discovered, too late, that he’d found a way to legally transfer most of his assets out of the country. I was left to cling to the house I’d gotten in the settlement—not yet paid for—and a small savings account, along with an alimony check that didn’t cover expenses. I’d had to refinance the house and take the first job I’d been that came along--an office position in a loan company slash pawnshop.

“To be honest, you probably think T. Chandler Caraway, the cheating weasel, left me pretty well taken care of, but that didn’t happen. I don’t have a dime to invest. Thanks for thinking of me, though,” I finished lamely.

Veronica drummed her fingers on the table. The last word I uttered barely had time to clear my lips before she said, “I didn’t, for one second, think that bastard would have given you more than he absolutely had to. You should have shoved him out in front of a bus and collected his life insurance while you were still married.”

A pink-sneakered woman at the next table choked on her soup of the day. Veronica shot her a mind-your-own-business look.

“Veronica, there was no husband murdering as you well know. So the fact remains, I have no money and it isn’t fair to ask you to take all the risk.” I held out my hands, showing empty palms.

“I’m willing to put up the money and you’ll supply the time and energy. Case closed.”

She’d made her plan sound as foolproof at the blueprints to a doghouse. But then, I still didn’t know what she had in mind. I pictured a trendy antique shop on King Street or Broad, not that I knew anything about antiques. Maybe a gift shop or a boutique. Not that I was an expert on gifts or fashion, either. Oh, God, what could I do? Veronica was kind, but I couldn’t let her do this. I’d been told I was a terrific mother, but unless Veronica planned to open up a daycare, that wasn’t exactly a plus in a business venture. Besides being the mother of one spoiled son in college didn’t qualify me for working in childcare, either.

I shook my head. “I can’t. But I have to know--this business would be?”

“Ghost tours.” She pasted on an “everything’s settled” expression and folded her hands in front of her like a tiny tent. 

We Interrupt This Date is on Red Adept's Top Indie Books of 2010 List!  http://redadeptreviews.com/

Jobless Recovery Sample Sunday

Modified Cover

I've heard from some of my readers that based on the title they thought Jobless Recovery was non fiction. I've now modified the cover to clear up any confusion. Note the new blurb on the front and two new blurbs on the back. You can't read it in the posted image, but you can see how I've moved my name up and put the blurb at the bottom. The front cover blurb reads: JOBLESS RECOVERY - A THRILLING REVISIT OF THE GRAPES OF WRATH -- Barbara Silkstone, author of The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland

Many thanks to author Barbara Silkstone for providing the front cover blurb. Jobless Recovery is still only $.99, but the sale ends on Dec. 31st. 

Short Excerpt from a Random Chapter

A red and white sign over the door of a two-story brick building caught his eye. Avalon Plasma Center and Lab.

A thought drifted through his head. He didn’t like the sight of his own blood--who did? But a person needed to earn money to survive--and to meet his obligations--and he’d heard that you could get as much as two hundred dollars a month for plasma.

He veered right and marched up the brick steps to the building, where a couple of pots of overgrown ferns flanked the outer door. He went inside. The black and white floor tiles gleamed under at least ten coats of wax, and the scent of orange room deodorizer almost masked the disinfectant smell that stung his nostrils.

Chairs were lined up in an L shape around two walls of the room and every chair was occupied. Dave stepped up to the desk and got the attention of the receptionist, a twentyish redhead reading a tabloid. She finally frowned up at Dave and lowered her magazine to the desk.

He leaned on the counter and beamed her a winning smile. “Excuse me. I’d like to sell plasma.” Not quite the truth. He didn’t like to sell plasma, he liked to earn money.

Her expression stayed fixed in a frown. “Sorry. We already have people totally crawling out of the woodwork. You just would not believe. I mean, there’s only so much plasma we can process.” She pointed to a stack of forms on her desk. “You can add your name to our waiting list and if we get an opening, we’ll call you.”

“You mean like in case one of your present donors gets a real job or dies?”

“Whatever.”

He rolled his eyes. Sad day when you couldn’t even get a job letting people stick needles in your arm to take out your blood. He turned down her offer to sign up for the waiting list. He was tired of waiting lists and he was sure he wasn’t the only one. Waiting lists for government services, for training, to put in job applications, and now to sell plasma. Maybe someone should contact the spin doctors in Washington, have them work on the problem. No time at all and people would learn to say, “Would you like to sign up for our opportunity success module, Mr. Griffin? It used to be known as the waiting list, but that sounds so negative.

I hope you like the short excerpt and I invite you to leave a comment. I don't like to post entire chapters. There are so many good books to sample today, that I prefer to keep my excerpts short so samplers can finish and move on to the next.