Sunday, 3 November 2013

Excerpt Tours! Dead Dreams - Emma Right

On Tour with Prism Book Tours...

The Excerpt Tour
Each day will reveal another piece of Dead Dreams...

10/29: Launch
10/30: My Seryniti - Excerpt #1
10/31: My Devotional Thoughts - Excerpt #2
11/1: Mel’s Shelves - Excerpt #3
11/4: The Bookish Fairy - Excerpt #5
11/5: My Love for Reading Keeps Growing - Excerpt #6
11/6: Tressa’s Wishful Endings - Excerpt #7
11/7: Nocturnal Predators Reviews - Excerpt #8
11/8: The Pensive Chronicler - Excerpt #9
11/10: kimberlyfaye reads - Excerpt #10
11/11: Min Reads and Reviews - Excerpt #11
11/13: Colorimetry - Excerpt #13
11/14: fundinmental - Excerpt #14
11/15: Bookworm Lisa - Excerpt #15
11/17: Sylv Jenkins Author - Excerpt #16
11/18: The Wonderings of One Person - Excerpt #17
11/19: Buried Under Books - Excerpt #18
11/20: Grand Finale

Emma Right

Emma Right is a happy wife and homeschool mother of five living in the Pacific West Coast. Besides running a busy home, and looking after too many pets, she also enjoys reading aloud to her children and often has her nose in a book. Right was a copywriter for a major advertising agency during her B.C. years. B.C.meaning “Before Children,” which may as well have been in the B.C.era, as she always says. Please feel free to contact Emma. She’s always happy to hear from her readers.

Dead Dreams (Dead Dreams, #1)Dead Dreams
by Emma Right
250 Pages

Eighteen-year-old Brie O’Mara has so much going for her: a loving family in the sidelines, an heiress for a roommate, and dreams that might just come true. Big dreams--of going to acting school, finishing college and making a name for herself. She is about to be the envy of everyone she knew. What more could she hope for? Except her dreams are about to lead her down the road to nightmares. Nightmares that could turn into a deadly reality.

Dead Dreams, Book 1, a young adult psychological thriller and mystery

Each Stop Reveals another section of Dead Dreams

Follow the tour and START READING NOW!! 

First up: 

* Prologue * 

They say each dead body, a human corpse, has a scent all of its own, a sweet-sour smell. A cadaver dog picks up the odor as clearly as a mother recognizes a photo of her child. Of course, I wouldn’t know, for I am no dog. I might as well have been, the way I’d stooped to yield to my basic instincts. My mind wandered to her, what her unique smell would be when, and if, they ever were to find her.


After what happened, I decided to write out the events that led to that day and details in case Id missed something, or might need it for defense, or in case they found me dead. My relatives might need to piece together the things that had spiraled out of control, if they wanted to put me to rest, to forget me altogether. That would bleast painful for them. I nodded to myself as I sat in the car. I thought of my most favorite girl in the world: Lilly. At least Lillyd have my dog, Holly, to remember me by.

My friends used to call me Brie, short for Brianna. But, I could hardly count anyone a friend any more. Id have to resort to back-watching if I wanted to survive.


Tour-Wide Giveaway:

Paperback Copy of Dead Dreams (US Only)
5 eCopies of Dead Dreams (Int'l)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Now what you waiting for the story continues....


(Chapter Two continued)

So, Sarah moved into that nine-hundred-square- foot, third-story apartment that very afternoon. She didn’t bring much furniture, just an antique-white twin bed with matching bedside table and dresser. She also had two hefty Louis Vuitton suitcases and two cartons, one measuring about four-by-four feet and another that was humongous and could have easily hidden a small elephant, especially the way it weighed. She refused my offers to help move it and struggled as she heaved and pushed it into her bedroom.
“Why not hire some professionals for this?” I asked as I got up to lend her a hand. What’s the point of having gobs of money?It was a good thing I had on my usual yoga pants—I vacillated between them and skinny jeans. Sarah, on the other hand, tottered on five-inch heels and wiggled in a super-tight miniskirt.
She shook her head as if I’d proposed something preposterous. How had she even gotten it into her Jaguar, or gotten it from there and onto the dolly I’d borrowed from Mrs. Mott, my then-next door neighbor?
“The Jag’s backseat folds down,” she explained when I asked, as if this were common knowledge. “Mine is a special order. Besides, have you ever been in one?”
I got the message.
Her other three pieces of furniture arrived late in the evening via a white-glove delivery service. She gave each delivery man a hundred-dollar bill each, gratuity, she’d said. I should have insisted on helping with removing the cardboard cartons and gotten a tip, too.
Later, I heard Sarah through her closed door, heaving and puffing over something in her room. I walked to it, and placed my ear by the door jamb, and wondered what secret she kept in that heavy carton.
Mother called that night to find out who I’d settled on for a new roommate. I never mentioned I’d only had one viable candidate, and I didn’t specify details, either— just that I’d found someone not on drugs. “Nor on pot.” Mother was specific about using the word “pot,” just in case some junkie, or worse, Libertarian, didn’t consider pot a type of drug.
“How can you decide so quickly to take her in?” Mother seemed disturbed and spoke with a shrill voice, as was her practice when she felt thus. “Did you even run a credit check?”
I gave her a brief history of the McIntyre fortune, and that pacified her for the moment.
The next few days, Mother called again and again, asking to meet Sarah, but Sarah kept making excuses. Once, she claimed she was late for a show, a matinee to a ballet in the city. Then, another day, she insisted the brakes on her brand-new, forest-green Jaguar XK coupe, no less, needed servicing. She even, by way of excuse, said her dry cleaning was messed up.
“But, can’t you even have coffee with her, once?” I asked Sarah one rare evening when I didn’t have work and we were watching an oldie movie and crunching on a microwaveable popcorn—the kind they’d recently confirmed could be carcinogenic.
With her mouth full she just waved at me as though I were a mosquito and pointed to the TV: her signal to shut up and watch the screen.
As the days passed, my ears should have perked up at the warning signs, the excuses that bordered on lies, but still, I could see why someone would be wary about meeting her roommate’s parents, especially if the parents were anything like mine and had their noses in places even a dog wouldn’t think of sniffing. I would have run away from them, given the chance.
Besides, I was juggling two jobs: a receptionist at Stay Fit in the wee hours of the morning, and a Starbucks barista in the afternoon. Thus my mind wasn’t always sharp, even with all the free caffeine. I never suspected Sarah wanted to avoid meeting my parents, my friends, co-workers, or, for that matter, Mrs. Mott, the only neighbor I was on talking terms with, for a reason.
“Mrs. Mott could really do with some help,” I said, one afternoon, while balancing a half-dozen cardboard cartons and heading toward the little old lady’s apartment next door. She seemed frail and had her doctor with her.
“I’m busy,” Sarah said, applying a deep copper hue to her French-tipped toenails.
“It’s too bad you won’t meet her. She used to be a concert pianist in her younger days. She’s a neat lady.”
“I have a doctor’s appointment,” she said without looking up.
“Are you sick?”
“Just routine stuff. Maybe I can meet her another day.”
I stared at Sarah. “She’s moving to a senior home.
She had a heart attack yesterday. There won’t be another day.” And I stalked out the door.

To be continued ....

No comments:

Post a Comment