The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow's Journey by Tommy B. Smith Book Tour and Giveaway :)
The
Mourner's Cradle: A
Widow's Journey
by
Tommy B. Smith
Genre:
Horror
The
tale of a widow's harrowing journey through grief and peril into the
cold remnants of a dead world.
Damon
Sharpe had in part found victory, he believed, in his battle to
unearth a
truth obscured by time.
By autumn, he was dead, leaving to his wife Anne a house of
unfulfilled wishes, remnants, and the key to the enigma of his
obsession, the Mourner’s Cradle.
A
journey through grief and peril delivers
Anne Sharpe from her home in St. Charles to the faraway skeletons of
a long-dead civilization where she will find the desperate answers
she seeks…or die trying.
The
days and hours became lost in a blur. Now she stood in silence in
front of a polished wooden casket. It might be the
first time any of them had noticed Anne’s wispy form, her
light-complexioned features with pale blond hair that fell straight
down on each side, and her brown eyes. The others who
filled the room spoke in hushed tones. Anne heard soft steps
approaching from behind. A hand touched her shoulder. She pulled away
from it. “I’m sorry,
dear,” the person, an elderly woman with curled white hair, said. “Sorry for what?”
Anne replied. She saw no value in artificial kindness. She certainly
didn’t owe it to anyone. She didn’t even
know the woman who stood in front of her or most of the rest of these
people, and they never knew her. They couldn’t know how she felt,
what she and her husband had shared, or what remained now that he was
gone. The only things left
of Damon Sharpe, other than the ring she wore and his still form in
that casket, were inside of her and inside that house they had
shared, though its contents had become almost worthless to her. The
house might as well be empty. In a way, it was. “Anne,” a soft
voice said to her from nearby, “if there is anything I can do,
please let me know.” Anne turned and
fixed the brown-haired woman in the gray dress with a flat stare. The
woman swallowed, taking a step back. “Anne, it’s me,”
she said. “Tabby Reinhart. I know we haven’t talked in a while,
but—” “Miss Sharpe?”
another voice broke in, the voice of a man. The tall man in the
dark blue suit stood just outside of Anne’s peripheral vision, to
her left and behind, as if he meant to force Anne to turn around to
face him. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. She continued to
face the casket. “My condolences,”
the man’s low voice spoke. “Why are you
here?” Anne asked. “Why, Miss Sharpe,
I’ve come to pay my respects.” “There is nothing
respectful about your visit here. We both know that.” The man shifted. She
could imagine the amused look that crossed his face, even if she
didn’t look at him. “Miss Sharpe—” “Mrs.
Sharpe.” A cough. “Very well, Mrs.
Sharpe, my name is Brock Keller. Your husband and I—” “I know who you
are,” Anne said, “and I know why you’re here. You’re here to
have one last laugh before they lower my husband into the ground.” She faced the
black-haired man in the blue suit and locked him full in her stare.
“You have no right to be here.” Keller appeared
surprised. The surprise was feigned, Anne knew. No matter what he
pretended or said to the contrary, Keller knew the hardship he had
inflicted. “You did your best
to destroy everything my husband worked for,” Anne said to him. “No, Mrs. Sharpe,
you have it wrong,” Keller said. “He was my
husband,” she said. “You think I don’t know what went on his
life? You think I don’t know about the things you’ve done? You’re
a liar, Keller.” Keller looked
around, becoming nervous. People were staring. Tabby Reinhart, still
standing near, took another step back. “Get out of here,”
Anne said to Keller. “You are not welcome here. Get
out.” “Don’t you think
you’re overreacting?” he asked. “Get out!” Her
hand twisted into a fist. She swung and struck him right in the face. Keller’s head
jerked back. His face flushed crimson. He grabbed her arms and she
fought him, screaming. “GET OUT! GET
OUT!” Arms grabbed Keller
from behind and pulled him back. Tabby rushed between them, pleading
quietly with Anne. Anne shoved her away. More people pulled Anne
back, but she shouted and fought against them. Keller yanked his
arms free of those around him and strode for the door. At the door,
he took a look back, his jaw clenched. His eyes burned with anger. “Dear, please,”
the older woman urged Anne. “It’s all right. He’s gone.” Anne turned her eyes
toward the door where Keller stood a moment before, saw the truth of
the old woman’s words, and forced her mouth shut. She pushed her
shaking hands down to her sides. “Will you be all
right?” another voice asked her from out of eyesight. She didn’t
know who had spoken and didn’t care. She took a deep breath. With
this group of people around her, she felt like she was suffocating. “Please,” she
said through her teeth. “I just need to be alone.” The group hesitated.
After a moment, someone stepped away. The rest soon followed, leaving
Anne again to stand in front of her husband’s coffin, tears on her
face, emotion pouring from her fractured life. The people standing
behind her still wore those masks of concern, she imagined. She
couldn’t turn to face them. Not now, in her moment of weakness.
They didn’t deserve to witness this, her fragility. Besides, they
wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t sadness
that possessed her and hardened her face against the tears that fell.
It was hatred.
Tommy B. Smith is a writer of dark fiction, author of The Mourner's Cradle, Poisonous, and the short story collection Pieces of Chaos, as well as works appearing in numerous magazines and anthologies throughout the years. His presence currently infests Fort Smith, Arkansas, where he resides with his wife and cats.
Do
you read yourself and if so what is your favorite genre?
I
read every day. My wife bought me a Kindle Paperwhite a couple of
years back and that’s a nice thing to have. It’s easy on the
eyes, allows me to read in the dark, and to carry many digital titles
in a single device.
I
still read paperback books as well, and sometimes I enjoy the compact
collectible hardbacks. Not the gigantic hardback tomes that weigh
fifty pounds, mind you.
Naturally,
I enjoy horror, but I also read fantasy and don’t mind exploring
the full realm of speculative fiction. Literary fiction and
non-fiction as well, as long as it’s of a subject that appeals to
me. It’s typical for me to read outside my genre as an author.
The
only genre that doesn’t appeal to me is romance. I don’t mind a
story having romantic elements, but a pure romance novel isn’t
something I’ll be able to maintain interest in. That’s just my
taste.
Some
people are very narrow in their reading habits. I once had someone
tell me he only read time-travel stories. To me, that means missing
out on a broad spectrum of ideas and possibilities. Then again,
though, it’s a matter of taste, and we all have our own for our own
reasons.
What
have I read lately? Mostly horror, as it turns out. I finished Bring
Her Back by Jeff Strand not long ago, one of the more entertaining
stories I happened across in the past year. Other recent reads
include A Season in Hell by Kenneth W. Cain, The Unfleshed: Tale of
the Autopsic Bride by Lisa Vasquez, and A Bagful of Dragon by Sakina
Murdock.
Pen or type writer or computer?
Computers
make things easier. I remember a time when I regularly wrote stories
in notebooks. Some authors I know still do.
I
had an issue with strangers approaching and interrupting me to ask
what I was writing, or even standing up close and staring over my
shoulder. An odd thing, trying to write in public, although I hear
about many others authors doing it, but I find it distracting. It’s
proven better for me to withdraw into my writing shelter to get the
job done.
Those
authors you hear about who are typing up their newest
works-in-progress in your local Starbucks? They aren’t me.
I
do have an occasional habit of writing stories on hotel stationary
and in guestbooks. Writing exercises, if nothing else, but perhaps a
quick tale to occupy someone’s time.
Typing
is quick and easy, however. I’ve used computers since well before
the reign of the internet, and value them as useful tools of the
modern world.
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