Spotlight: The Revolutionist by Robert Tucker

Two different families escape from the political tyranny of their respective homelands, the Josephsons from Sweden and Matias and Kurt Bauman, brothers from Germany and Austria Hungary, with the aid of a Viennese opera diva, Sophie Augusta Rose, and Jean Guenoc, a former Jesuit priest, family friend and protector and partisan of the French underground.

Their journey brings them to America in the throes of the industrial revolution during the 1890s and early 1900s. Ingrid and Olaf Josephson settle on a small wheat farm in North Central Minnesota to raise their children, Newt and Julie.

Among the Jewish entrepreneurs forced to leave Germany and Austria-Hungary, Matias and Kurt Bauman re-establish their transportation company in Chicago, Illinois.

In search of a secret list of insurgent social democrats, the bounty hunter assassin, Luther Baggot, tracks his victims to the American heartland. Following the murder of their mother and father, Newt, Julie, and their friends, Aaron and Beth Peet, hide from the killer in a Northern Minnesota logging camp. Believing the children have taken possession of the list, Luther tracks them down.

Fleeing to a central Minnesota town, the four young people come across a remote business location of Bauman Enterprises and meet Matias Bauman, who had been a friend and former political collaborator with Newt’s and Julie’s parents. He takes them all to Chicago where a different world opens up to them as they are thrust into the turmoil and violence of an urban society and economy careening into the new century.

Excerpt 

The smoke from morning fires sifted from tall chimneys in wispy tendrils blending with the gray prelude to dawn.  A thin stream of people began to stir from their shops and apartments into the streets to bring Vienna out of sleep.  

Carrying a large carpet bag and with a leather trunk in tow, Sophie struggled through her front door and called out to an urchin bent on scavenging his breakfast.

“You, boy, schnell get me a cab from the Ringstrasse and three guilders are yours.  You can buy your breakfast.”

The boy waved he understood and ran off, returning a few minutes later with a horse and cab in tow.  She paid the boy to remain long enough to assist her in hefting the trunk to the driver, who positioned it behind him on the roof of the cab.

“To the wharf,” she instructed.

“Ya, Fraulein.”

The horse pulled the cab at a brisk trot along the cobbled street, took the turn to the Ringstrasse and headed south along the boulevard through the sparse morning traffic of cabs, light coaches and carts and wagons.

Approaching the waterfront, they penetrated a fog rising from the river partially concealing a long row of warehouses and shipping offices that lined the wharf.  Keening seabirds that had migrated inland swarmed overhead swooping in and out of the whitish tendrils where two steam ships and a tug and barge nudged the algae-encrusted pilings.  

Sophie called to the driver to stop before the Wohlman shipping office and warehouse.  She stepped out of the cab and the driver clambered down with her trunk.  As soon as the cab pulled away, a plainclothes police officer walked over to her from a cavernous warehouse door where stevedores were transferring freight to one of the steamships.  

“Guten Morgan, Fraulein Rose. Planning a little trip?”  He barred her way.

“Guten Morgan, excuse me, please.  I must buy my ticket.”

“Why are you leaving Vienna?”

Her haughty imperious glare did not intimidate him.  “You are being impertinent. It is no business of yours.  I’m performing in an operetta in Budapest.”  

“We’re looking for a friend of yours, a Heinrich Wohlman.   He was recently seen in your company.”

“Perhaps you are looking in the wrong place.  Do you see him with me now?”

“Do not get surly with me, Fraulein.  I can take you in for questioning and you will be detained.  Your understudy will have to sing in the operetta for you.  I’m certain the audience would rather see you appear on the stage.”

“I have many friends who are writers and musicians.  Herr Wohlman is among them, but he and I do not often see each other unless there is a gathering at a kaffee haus.  We have no personal attachment.”

“He was seen a week ago leaving your apartment - late at night.”

“So you have been spying on me.  I will have the Emperor speak to your supervisor.  You expect me to know where he is at this moment? Herr Wohlman has been writing a libretto for me for an opera in development by Johann Strauss.  You may have heard of this composer.”

“Indeed I have Fraulein, but your answer does not satisfy me.  We believe you met with Herr Wohlman in the ghetto last night.”

“Believe what you want.  My boat is departing shortly.  I do not have time to satisfy your curiosity.  If you want to know more about the opera, I would suggest you call on Johann Strauss yourself.  Guten Morgan, mein Herr.”

She shoved past him and marched through the door of the shipping office with indignant strides to purchase passage, completed the transaction, reemerged accompanied by the agent who carried her trunk, and went on board. Upon glancing back, she saw the police officer conferring with two men in plainclothes who had stepped out of another of the waterfront buildings.

As Sophie crossed the gangplank onto the main deck, she was greeted by a member of the crew who looked vaguely familiar, especially the twinkling blue eyes.  “Wilkommen, Frauline Rose.”

Take away the beard and yes – “Heinrich, is that you?  How clever.”

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About the Author

Rob is a graduate of the University of California, Santa Barbara and received his graduate degree in communications from the University of California, Los Angeles.

Rob worked as a business and management consultant to advertising, corporate communications, and media production companies as well as many others. Now retired, he resides with his wife in Southern California where he devotes much of his time to writing.

He is a recipient of the Samuel Goldwyn and Donald Davis Literary Awards. An affinity for family and the astute observation of generational interaction pervade his novels.

His works are literary and genre upmarket fiction that address the nature and importance of personal integrity.

For more information, please visit Robert Tucker’s website. You can also find him on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.

The Revolutionist

Read an excerpt from A Dangerous Game by Heather Graham

Wrapping up a normal day at the office, criminal psychologist Kieran Finnegan is accosted by a desperate woman who shoves an infant into her arms and then flees, only to be murdered minutes later on a busy Manhattan street.

Who was the woman? Where did the baby come from? Kieran can’t stop thinking about the child and the victim, so her boyfriend, Craig Frasier, does what any good special agent boyfriend would do—he gets the FBI involved. And asks Kieran to keep out of it.

But the Finnegans have a knack for getting into trouble, and Kieran won’t sit idle when a lead surfaces through her family’s pub. Investigating on her own, she uncovers a dangerous group that plays fast and loose with human lives and will stop at nothing to keep their secrets—and they plan to silence Kieran before she can expose their deadly enterprise.

Excerpt

The pub itself—and her brothers, upon occasion!—had been too involved in deadly activities taking place in the city. She’d actually met Craig in the middle of a diamond heist—a situation Danny had ridiculously gotten her into while attempting to help a friend—and Kevin had recently been a suspect in a murder when an actress he’d been dating had been found dead in the church-turned-nightclub that backed up to the alley just behind the pub. The good thing was that they were all friends with Egan and the FBI. By tradition, of course, they always hosted police officers from the local precinct and firefighters from the fire hall down the street. After all, being a cop had once been a major Irish occupation—and the city had certainly been filled with the Irish!

“It’s Saturday—I thought I’d help out around here.”

“And you are always a help,” he told her. “But as you can see, the cleaning crew was already in. We don’t open the doors until eleven thirty. Chef is busy…we have a full staff on. In fact, I think we probably have one server too many today. Sounds ridiculous, but if I don’t give them all enough tables, they can’t make it in their tips.”

“Ah, and no worries!” came a cheerful cry. Mary Kathleen came through the tables in the dining room, having just left the kitchen, or so it appeared. She was wearing a light spring jacket and carried a large disposable takeout tray. “Kieran, hello there, me love!” Mary Kathleen paused to kiss Kieran on the cheek. “I’m off to the mission by St. Peter’s.”

“That’s so nice!” Kieran told her. She’d known that—a few times a month, at least—Mary Kathleen volunteered at a mission soup kitchen just down the block off Church Street by old St. Peter’s.

The mission concentrated on immigrants who needed support—on seeing that they were fed, first and foremost, and then offering information on citizenship, green cards, work and whatever else might be necessary for someone newly arrived to the country, searching for the American dream.

“Chef has given me a great big dish of shepherd’s pie!” Mary Kathleen said, nodding affectionately toward Declan. “Thanks to the generous soul of your brother Declan. Well, actually, thanks to the largesse of all the Finnegan family.”

“Oh, no, that’s all Declan. He makes the decisions,” Kieran said. “But I’m awfully glad. I know that we were all—and different family members have been through the decades—immigrants. I’m delighted we’re helping people.”

She looked around the spotless, still-empty pub.

“Want some help at the mission or whatever it is?”

“Soup du Jour!” Mary Kathleen told her. “It’s great—the Catholics and Anglos and Jewish community and members of several of our NYC mosques came together to fund it. All are truly welcome—and we do mean all. It would be great if you came with me! Super. People will love you. Oh, and don’t go thinking they’re all dirty, that the people who come in are sleeping in doorways and the like. Many work hard—it’s just a difficult thing to come into this country sometimes and instantly make a living, especially in an expensive city like New York.”

“Naturally,” Kieran said. “And yet we—as Americans, who really have it pretty good—like to whine!”

Mary Kathleen laughed. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my beautiful adopted homeland. But here’s the thing—people come here because we can whine. Complaining is the God-given right of every American! You just have to remember that throughout history, people have come here for a dream. And right here in good old NYC, there used to be notes on the doors of all kinds of businesses that said No Irish! We have to watch out for prejudice against any new group. People still come for the same American dream.”

“And even when we think we’re a mess, we’re still the best kind of mess?” Kieran said. She smiled. Mary Kathleen was going to be a wonderful sister-in-law.

“‘Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time,’” Kieran quoted. “Churchill, 1947, to the House of Commons—if I remember right!”

“Yes, except I’ve been told that he was quoting a predecessor,” Mary Kathleen said. “Anyway, the point is, people do come here for a dream. And sometimes, it’s damned hard to realize. In fact, it can be a nightmare for some. They fall on hard times.”

“Please, I hope you know me better than thinking I would be dismissive or mean in any way. I wasn’t thinking of judging anyone, really,” Kieran assured her. “I was just thinking…”

Declan suddenly strode directly between the two of them.

“Kieran was thinking she needed to be occupied—or she’d drive us all crazy,” Declan said. “Thank the Good Lord, Mary Kathleen. It’s a true kindness you can give her something to do! Go on, Kieran—dish out some soup. It is a very good thing to do. And when you’re done, if you’re still walking around like a caged cat, Kevin has to learn some lines for a guest shot on a cop show. You can give your twin a hand!”

“Cool. Of course, I’ll run lines with my twin,” Kieran said.

“Ah, yes, poor lass!” Mary Kathleen said. “You do need to be occupied. You canna quit thinking about that poor murdered woman and the wee babe? I don’t blame you. So sad. And they still can’t find out who the woman was—and they have no idea as to where to find the babe’s mother?”

“No, not yet. Not that I’ve heard about,” Kieran said.

“They will,” Declan assured her.

“Of course,” Kieran said. She took the large dish from Mary Kathleen. “We’re out of here!” she told Declan.

“Go forth and be bountiful,” Declan said drily.

She made a face at him again.

But he was right, of course. She was very, very glad to have something to do.

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About the Author

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the RWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information on Heather and her work, check out her websites: TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, eHeatherGraham.com, and HeatherGraham.tv. You can also find Heather on Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube.

Spotlight: Seeking Mr. Wrong by Tamara Morgan

A fool-proof way to spice up any relationship:

1. Infiltrate a deadly ring of thieves, cons, and crooks.

2. Try to escape with your lives.

Penelope Blue used to be one of the best jewel thieves in New York City—but that was before falling in love with FBI poster boy Grant Emerson. Now she works at his side, helping her former enemy catch her past-life colleagues, and she couldn't be happier.

If only Grant would remember to play by the rules.

Now he's gone undercover on a cruise ship full of hardened criminals. To keep him safe, Penelope must pretend they're nothing but strangers…while searching for an information broker desperately wanted by the FBI. While doing her darndest not to backslide and steal 20 million dollars' worth of diamonds from beneath the noses of the criminal elite. It's all Penelope can do to keep this mission afloat…

Good thing this cat burglar has plenty of lives to spare.

Excerpt

Before my foot has a chance to touch the ground, my back comes into contact with a fleshy wall that I could swear wasn’t there a moment ago. A pair of strong hands grab me by the waist to ground me, the grip familiar for the fraction of a second it lingers. 

“Whoa, there,” says a low, rumbling male voice. “Take it easy. You don’t look too steady on your feet.” 

Even if I had been steady on my feet, I wouldn’t be now. I know those hands, and I know that voice—and more importantly, I know the body that houses them both. 

“She’s fine,” Hijack says for me, his hand once again taking a proprietary place on the small of my back. “She’s not used to the constant movement of the ship yet, that’s all.” 

I manage a feeble smile and look up into my husband’s face. It’s a testament to his skills as a federal agent and a man of steel that no signs of his emotions are apparent. At least, no signs of his emotions are apparent to anyone meeting him for the first time. As I know full well, that unreadable look in his eyes only appears when he’s hiding something. 

Amusement, if I’m lucky. Anger, if I’m not. At this point, it could go either way. I guess I’m not the only one who noticed Hijack’s hands in my hair. 

Grant lifts a brow. “Good thing she has you to take care of her. And to speak for her, it seems. Does she have a name?” 

“As it so happens, she does.” I offer him my hand. “Penelope. Penelope Blue. And you are?” 

“Kit O’Kelly, at your service.” 

I fully expect him to shake my hand or, given the formal way he introduced himself, bow at the waist, but he lifts my fingers to his lips and drops a light kiss on the surface instead. Between the tuxedo molded to his godlike form and the dark hair that gleams in the moonlight, it’s all I can do not to swoon at the contact. Especially since he lingers a moment longer than necessary, the touch of his mouth soft and warm against my skin. The whisper of his breath is a reminder of everything I want right now—and everything I can’t have. 

“Penelope Blue, Penelope Blue…” He says my name with the affectionate inflection he normally reserves for our private time together. “The name is familiar, but I can’t think why. Should I know you?” 

I struggle to keep a laugh from springing to my lips. The question is a ridiculous one. There’s no man on earth who knows me better than this one; even before we were married, he had an alarming amount of insight into my inner workings. 

“Probably not,” I say. “I’m a pretty small-time thief. But you might know my father, Warren Blue.” 

He pretends to think about it for a moment before shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. Were you in Prague last year?” 

“Uh, no. I’ve never been.” 

“Paris in the winter of ’14?” 

“I’m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else.” 

“Impossible. I never forget a face, especially one as beautiful as yours.” 

I can’t help it. I blush. It’s the cheesiest and most overused compliment in the world, but the way Grant’s eyes—no, the way Kit O’Kelly’s eyes—are devouring me makes me feel as if I’m standing on deck without a scrap of clothing on. It’s been less than two days since he and I parted ways, and already his absence has become a physical ache. 

This is a man I cannot live without, I think. And this is a man who’s never been in more danger than he is right now. 

Despite the balmy air of the Caribbean, I shiver. 

He sees it, of course. The stubborn idiot is unable to hide his concern over my well-being and starts to shrug out of his jacket. 

“You’re cold,” he says. “Let me.” 

I jump back, determined to put as much space between us as possible. If he touches me again, if he keeps being solicitous and caring to a perfect stranger, Hijack is going to notice. My ex-boyfriend is far too interested in my FBI husband for my comfort level. The last thing we need is him asking more questions. 

“I’m fine,” I state, even as goose bumps break out on my arms. “It was just a cold breeze.” 

Hijack clears his throat, and I turn to him with a smile, grateful for the distraction he offers. “This is Hijack,” I say, nudging him forward. “I don’t think you’ll have heard of him either—he’s even smaller time than I am.” 

Both men laugh obligingly. 

“Hijack?” Grant offers his hand. “That’s an interesting name. Am I to take it literally?” 

“Not while we’re on board the Shady Lady.” He shakes Grant’s hand, both their fingers gripped way too hard for a friendly greeting. “Except for the ship itself, there’s nothing here for me to hot-wire. We’re sorry to have interrupted your meal, but like I said, the lady needed some fresh air. She wasn’t feeling well.” 

The lady still isn’t feeling a hundred percent, but no way is she going to show it. If Grant thinks for one second that I’m not able to see my side of this job through, we’re both done for. I’m supposed to be the one worrying about him out here, not the other way around.

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Spotlight: Fatal Chaos by Marie Force

First the calm. Then the storm…

Escaping DC during the dog days of summer is one of the smartest moves Washington metro police lieutenant Samantha Holland ever made. Beach walks aren’t quite as romantic with the Secret Service in tow, but Sam and her husband, Vice President Nick Cappuano, cherish the chance to recharge and reconnect—especially with a scandal swirling around the administration.

No sooner are they back home than a fatal drive-by shooting sets the city on edge. The teenage victim is barely older than Sam and Nick’s son, Scotty. As more deaths follow, Sam and her team play beat the clock to stop the ruthless killers. With Nick facing his greatest challenge—one that could drastically change all their lives and even end Sam’s career—will the mounting pressure deepen or damage their bond?

Excerpt

Fatal Series, Book 12

Chapter 1

“‘WHAT DID THE president know and when did he know it? That will be the question Congress faces as members return to Washington from the summer recess. Hearings begin next week, investigating President David Nelson’s potential involvement in his son’s sinister scheme against Vice President Nick Cappuano and his family.’”

Listening to her brother-in-law Spencer read from the morning edition of the Washington Star, Sam looked across the breakfast table at her husband, Nick, and saw a flash of dismay cross his handsome face. He dreaded the hearings, the attention, the renewed interest in the scandal that had rocked the nation’s capital earlier in the summer. Sam and her Homicide squad had uncovered the nefarious plot hatched by Nelson’s son Christopher in a failed effort to discredit Nick, all because Christopher had presidential aspirations of his own.

The sitting president claimed to have no knowledge of what his son had been up to and continued to proclaim his innocence throughout the dog days of summer. In the meantime, Nick was left hanging, waiting to hear if Nelson would be impeached or forced to resign.

Sam knew exactly what Nick was thinking. As much as they wanted Christopher Nelson to fry for what he’d put them through, the last thing Nick wanted—the last thing they wanted—was to see the president forced from office. Because that would mean… No. It was too much to even think about, and Sam refused to allow that stress to creep into her relaxing vacation. Standing, she said, “I’m going to take a walk.”

Nick jumped up. “I’ll go with you.”

“Was it something I said?” Spencer asked.

“Duh,” his wife, Sam’s sister Angela, said as she fed their daughter, Ella, who was seated in a high chair at the end of the long picnic-style table. “You think they want to talk about that BS?”

“Sorry, guys,” Spencer said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No worries,” Nick said. “It’s not going away, as much as we wish it would.”

“But you don’t have to deal with it this week,” Spencer said. “My bad.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Nick held out a hand to Sam. “Let’s walk.”

She took his hand and followed him through the sliding glass doors to the deck, where several members of his Secret Service detail were gathered at a table, drinking coffee.

John “Brant” Brantly Jr., the lead agent on Nick’s detail, stood when he saw them coming. “Good morning, Mr. Vice President, Mrs. Cappuano.”

“Morning, Brant,” Nick said. “We’d like to take a walk on the beach.”

“Of course, sir. Give us a few minutes to make that happen.”

Sam watched Nick’s jaw tighten with frustration. He hated having to ask permission to do something as simple as take a walk with his wife. She dropped his hand, slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest, hoping to give him something else to think about.

He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, his body relaxing in stages as the agents conferred and planned for a simple walk on the beach. Except nothing was ever simple. Not anymore. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. When it was just the two of them, alone together, it was still as simple as it had ever been, even as the world went mad around them. As they did when the madness swirled, they closed ranks, spent as much time alone as they possibly could and weathered the storm the best way they knew how, by keeping their heads down, their mouths shut and their arms wrapped around each other.

The press was desperate for interviews from either, or preferably both, but other than a perfunctory statement issued from Nick’s office after Christopher Nelson’s arrest, they hadn’t said a word about the controversy swirling around the president and his son or how it affected them. Nor had they offered any speculation on what it could mean for them if Nelson was forced to resign.

They were taking it one day, one hour, one minute at a time.

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About the Author

Marie Force is the New York Times bestselling author of contemporary romance, including the indie-published Gansett Island Series and the Fatal Series from Harlequin Books. In addition, she is the author of the Butler, Vermont Series, the Green Mountain Series and the erotic romance Quantum Series. In 2019, her new historical Gilded series from Kensington Books will debut with Duchess By Deception. 

All together, her books have sold 6.5 million copies worldwide, have been translated into more than a dozen languages and have appeared on the New York Times bestseller list many times. She is also a USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestseller, a Speigel bestseller in Germany, a frequent speaker and publishing workshop presenter as well as a publisher through her Jack’s House Publishing romance imprint. She is a two-time nominee for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® award for romance fiction. 

Her goals in life are simple—to finish raising two happy, healthy, productive young adults, to keep writing books for as long as she possibly can and to never be on a flight that makes the news. 

Join Marie's mailing list for news about new books and upcoming appearances in your area. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter @marieforce and on Instagram. Join one of Marie's many reader groups. Contact Marie at marie@marieforce.com.

Cover Reveal: Never Touched by Laney Wylde

Never Touched
Laney Wylde
Published by: Crimson Tree Publishing
Publication date: November 12th 2018
Genres: Contemporary, New Adult, Romance

This isn’t your typical coming of age story. This is a story about a girl trying to survive. Some will call it dark, some may even say it’s twisted, everyone will agree that it’s f—ked up, but for Sawyer, this is life.

NEVER TOUCHED is a New Adult contemporary drama by breakout author Laney Wylde. It’s perfect for fans of Colleen Hoover’s HOPELESS, Rebecca Donovan’s REASON TO BREATHE, and Jessica Sorensen’s THE COINCIDENCE OF CALLIE & KAYDEN.

Sawyer’s abuser is in jail, but she’s still his captive. Even behind bars, the twisted and sorry excuse for a human keeps her enslaved, locked in fear, and forced to do the unthinkable to keep her past from being exposed. That is until a new guy walks into her life and tries to rescue her.

Jake is the first man Sawyer has ever opened herself up to. The good, the bad, and the unbelievably ugly. But when her abuser is released from jail and manages to turn her life upside down again, Sawyer realizes that happily ever afters aren’t made for her.

Jake wants nothing more than to protect Sawyer. As he gets to know her and her still-looming dark past, he finds that saving a girl so lost in the scars of her life is next to impossible. But he’s willing to try.

NEVER TOUCHED is a survival story about sexual abuse and the ripple effects it creates throughout a victim’s life. This novel does contain details of sexual abuse, sexuality, and explicit language. Details in this story are shared in a manner as to not glorify the crime, but to show the real and long-lasting impact that abuse can cause in a victim’s life.

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Spotlight: The History of Hilary Hambrushina by Marnie Lamb

The History of Hilary Hambrushina
Marnie Lamb
Publication date: May 31st 2017
Genres: Contemporary, Young Adult

Hilary has one goal for her first year in junior high: to become popular. But her plans are turned upside down when her best friend leaves for the summer and a quirky girl named Kallie moves in next door. Kallie paints constellations on her ceiling, sleeps in a hammock, and enacts fantastical plays in front of cute boys on the beach. Yet despite Kallie’s lack of interest in being -cool, – Hilary and Kallie find themselves becoming friends. That summer friendship, however, is put to the test when school begins, reigniting Hilary’s obsession with climbing the social ladder. As Hilary discovers the dark side to popularity, she must decide who she wants to be before she loses everything.

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—

EXCERPT:

I put on a sweatband and sneakers and brought down a water bottle. My plan was to pedal non-stop for an hour. I figured I could do it, since I was used to riding my own bike, and how different could this bike be? I should lose at least one pound that way, I told myself. So if I use the bike every day, in fifteen days I’ll have lost the weight I want to lose.

I stepped over boxes and piles of books to reach the bike, which sat in a dark corner. This corner had a musty smell, like an old church that hadn’t been dusted since Queen Victoria was my age. A fake raccoon-fur hat someone had given my dad as a joke hung on the wall nearby.

The bike seat was too high for me, but I couldn’t move it because it was screwed in place. Gripping the handlebars for support, I tried to heave my leg over the seat several times without success. I was becoming angry and sweaty, so I started breathing deeply, like I was having a baby, to calm myself down. “Hoo hoo hoo.”

“Hilary!” shouted my mom. “Why are you making monkey noises?”

I froze. I knew that if I said, “It’s nothing,” she’d come down, and I didn’t want her to think I needed help getting on a stationary bicycle. So I called, “I’m just playing a game.”

I managed to lift myself on to the bike. I had to stretch to reach the pedals, but I finally did and started pumping. It was O.K. at first, but soon, my muscles felt like some psycho was using them as rubber bands. And some people actually do this for fun! What’s wrong with them, I thought. I reached for the water bottle and tried to squirt some water in my mouth. Nothing but air came out. I’d forgotten to fill the bottle! I threw it away and continued to pump furiously. Objects on the wall began rattling, and I was making so many strange noises my mother must have thought a whole pack of monkeys was performing a conga line in the basement. I began to have visions of monkeys in spangly pink bikinis
kicking up their heels (did monkeys have heels, I wondered) on stage at the Princess of Wales Theatre.

Suddenly my sweatband fell over my eyes. I didn’t stop to fix it, though. You’re going to pump for the full hour, not for fifty-nine minutes, I ordered myself. Instead, I tried nodding vigorously to get the sweatband to fall under my chin. It fell over my nose and I couldn’t breathe. Then something dark and furry leapt on my head, covering my eyes and tickling my face like a bunch of feathers. I screamed, batting at the thing with one hand and pumping frantically, as if I could escape that way. I soon realized it was only my dad’s hat, but I still couldn’t get it off. Finally I stumbled off the bike and yanked the hat’s tail away from my eyes.

I had no energy left to remove the hat, so I left it on and trudged upstairs. I passed my mom, who took one look at me and started to snicker. Ignoring her, I went into the kitchen to check the clock. I’d been on the bike five minutes.

So that was the end of my experiment with exercising.

Author Bio:

A Journey Prize nominee, Marnie Lamb earned a master’s degree in creative writing from the University of Windsor. Her short stories have appeared in various Canadian literary journals. Her first novel, a YA book named The History of Hilary Hambrushina, is forthcoming from Iguana Books. When she is not writing fiction or running her freelance editing business, she can be found cooking recipes with eggplant or scouting out colourful fashions at the One of a Kind Show.

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