Category Archives: Fiction

Why Do You Read?

I read because there are so many stories out there,
so many lives I’ll never be able to lead,

so many worlds in other peoples’ imaginations that I want to visit,
and my soul has a need to discover the words other people write.

Why do you read...titleI read for the same reason I write. I have to. My own imagination is vivid. I have worlds inside my head, and dreams that need to escape, and these are the very reasons I read. If I have these amazing visions in my head that need to breakout onto paper, then I want to read the imaginations of those around me, I want to know their stories too.

As a writer and author the reasons people read fascinate me, for several purposes: firstly, I’m curious, and perhaps a little nosy! Secondly, as an author, I want to write books people want to read; and thirdly, it’s a subject that seems to divide.

I belong to many communities: family, church, online, book-club, local, neighbourhood – and everyone has a different reason for reading…

I asked my family and got different responses. My son only used to read short fiction because it was easy and he struggled with a tendency towards dyspraxia and dyslexia. My husband reads about things he’s interested in, ‘both fact and fiction’, and both my daughters read ‘to escape reality’, and ‘to escape into another world that’s better than this one.’.

I’ve got friends who love biographies, but not fiction, others who want to read to learn, and some who read just for the sake of reading. Some readers want absorbing stories but shy away from horror or sorrow. There are others who yearn for an emotional response, who need to commit and feel the emotion; those who want to be scared by horror, or weep amidst a tragedy, and whoop with delight as characters rise and triumph, and some who just need to escape.

So, I thought I’d ask you, the reader – why do you read?

Lastly, why do you read the books you do, do you choose because you love a specific genre, or author, or do you love an eclectic mix?

Do you stick to traditionally published works, or love to discover more from up and coming indie authors?

(If you read my latest author interviews, you’ll discover some of my favourite books from the last year…)

What books sit side-by-side upon your bookshelf? Tell me the books that have affected you the most, and tell me why you love them!

Writerly friends and Wombat’s Writing Challenge…

dfq minion con UK,
DFQ Minion Con – Nottingham

I have amazing online writing communities – in several places – but the one that’s inspired me for years is #DFQ  and the lovely Anna, and we recently organised a meet up in Nottingham for its UK members. The Cross Keys was our meeting place and we loved the decoration! It was a scene of wonderful writerly delight, invention, and meeting of like-minded souls. We all ‘got’ each other and it was great! 

This is us: Nick, Angelica, Rayn, Lisa (Me), Becky, Miranda, Sorcha, Wombat, Jessica and Alex and during our wordy meet up Wombat issued us with a challenge… He gave us each a first line, picked at random, and to be woven into a story… Here’s my response with its first line italicised:

Genesis

Nick is an average young man, filled with aspirations, struggles, hopes and doubts. He has everything that gives a young man life and a hunger for more. In five minutes he will cease to exist.

Nick bends his neck and stares up into the canopy. Dappled light flickers across the leaves, and he flinches as a glancing beam temporarily blinds him. Blue lights dance in front of his eyes and he grins as his gaze flicks across the foliage in the arboretum. It’s quiet and except for the soft hum of bees his ears pick up no sound.

Goosebumps ripple across his skin as a draught rustles through the leaves. The change in temperature makes him clutch his arms to his chest and his muscles tense in answer to the chill that fills the air. The sun, the light above the woods, begins to dip, to lower beyond the horizon and a lazy orange haze, like fire, shimmers through the tall trunks. Nick’s forehead creases and an urgent thought in the back of his mind begins to stir.

Racing to the front of his head, come memories, flashes of colour, memories of sunsets on beaches, and kisses that taste of salt, and the grit of sand between his toes. Nick shakes his head. It takes only moments for the light to fade and with it the hum of bees retires, replaced with the hoot of an owl and a sliver of white glimmering high above the trees. Nick rubs his arms and he remembers more.

Night life, sitting in a restaurant opposite a chatty blonde, cars rushing by on fast roads, a multitude of lights, orange, red, yellow, neon blue and more. He grins as he remembers a hand holding his, as he stands on a pier watching waves crash across the dark ocean, the moon a twinkling river of diamonds on its surface.

The moon is gone before he has a chance to recall more and birds begin a dawn chorus as he stands on dew damp grass. His memory smiles and despite his boots he feels the wet grass beneath his feet, and daybreak evokes pictures of waking in a tent, of bacon crackling on the stove, and a girlish giggle as he strokes her hair in the new glinting sunlight of the day.

His earlier thought simmers, just beyond reach. Birds now twitter in the canopy and as warmth caresses his skin, Nick grabs at the distant notion.

The clack of a woodpecker tunes his thoughts to fingers on a keyboard, then to a jackhammer on the pavement, heat haze shimmering like dust. The haze clouds his mind, confuses his thought process and impinges his memories. The dazzling sunshine glints, and realisation floods his brain, and he flinches as fragments of glass cut through his mind.

Nothing is real.

Heat fizzes and pops and in a second his thoughts cease.

Nick stands, silent and immobile, and two caretakers trample through the simulated arena to collect his body.

Back at the computer the tech guys shake their heads and begin reprogramming.

Anna is an average young woman, filled with aspirations, struggles, hopes and doubts. She has everything that gives a young woman life and a hunger for more. In five minutes she will cease to exist.

DFQ Minion Con - Nottingham - FUN
DFQ Minion Con – Nottingham – FUN

Don’t Just Tell Me, Show Me – How to Write with Emotion

Make me feel your story, make me sense it and experience it.
Take me into your world, and let me live it with your protagonist.

how to write with emotion, don't show tell, show don't tell, the last krystallos, I’m an emotive writer, and my pieces concentrate much on the senses and the old adage: show, not tell. Not every writer swears by this approach, but my writing works more in this field than with explanatory description.

Emotions rule our world and fuel our stories, without emotion our stories become a boring and grim lists of actions. Stories begin with a dilemma and continue with the reactions to that impasse. All our reactions are emotional, we’re human beings, not robots, and even if you’re writing about robots, your story will need emotional content if it is to survive!

Showing emotion is vital to fire up your writing.

life and characters, charles dickens, lisa shambrook, the last krystallos,

Life and Characters © Lisa Shambrook

Don’t tell me your protagonist is angry, show me their fury, show me the whites of their eyes, that vein that throbs in their temple, the clenching of fists, and the heat flushing through their body… Don’t tell me your character is sad, show me them picking at their food, their trembling chin, glistening eyes, show me how their voice breaks as they utter words, and how their hopelessness demonstrates itself by listless expressions and hands hanging at their sides… Don’t just say they’re happy, let me see their mouth curl in delight, their laughter lines, how they dance as they walk, a lightness of being, their confidence and relaxed shoulders…

Writers can use speech to demonstrate emotions, but nonverbal cues are even more important. We are told that body language conveys more information than words ever can. Statistics say that: words (what is said) account for 7% of the overall message we hear, tone of voice (how it is said) accounts for 38% and body language accounts for 55%…so 93% of all communication is nonverbal.

Let’s look at an example, and because May was Mental Health Awareness Month, and I missed it due to chaotic family obligations, let’s look at anxiety:

In this chapter from ‘Beneath the Old Oak’ Meg’s mum is getting impatient, irritated and her anxiety manifests. First, a basic excerpt:

“Excuse me?” said Meg’s mum. “Could we please try these in a size four?”
The sales-boy nodded. As he disappeared Mum glared at the whining child as his mother took the football boots from him. Mum glanced at her watch and sighed.
Meg moved to her mother as the boy and his mum left. Mum ignored her daughter’s grin. “He’s going to be a real brat one day. Ah, here are yours.”
The sales-boy returned with one trainer. “I’m sorry,” he said, “only got these in a three and then a seven, sold out.”
“That’s a vast difference in sizes, no others in stock? This is a shoe shop isn’t it?” said Mum.

This paragraph works in that we can see Meg’s mum is trying to get trainers for her daughter and we can see she’s getting irritated, particularly by another customer and her son, but we can’t really feel the emotions surging within her. Let’s try the paragraph again with some small additions:

“Excuse me?” Meg’s mum waved the black trainer at the sales-boy over the child’s head. “Could we please try these in a four?”
He nodded, adding the trainer to his teetering pile of boxes. As he disappeared Mum glared at the whining child as his mother tried to prise the football boot from his grasp. Mum glanced at her watch and pulled an old receipt out of her pocket. She stared in the direction of the stockroom and began tearing the receipt into thin strips.
Meg sidled up to her mother as the boy’s mum finally wrested the boot from him, returned it to the shelf and dragged him away, his complaints still echoing. Mum ignored her daughter’s grin. “He’s going to be a real brat one day. Ah, here are yours.”
Meg noted the single trainer in the sales-boy’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, “only got these in a three and then a seven, sold out.”
“That’s a vast difference in sizes, no others in stock? This is a shoe shop isn’t it?” The receipt in Mum’s hand turned into confetti.

We immediately have more information about Mum’s impatience, as she waves the shoe over the other customer’s head. We see the sales-boy is busy, with teetering boxes. We also see the strain between the other customer and her son in two additional sentences. Meg notices only one trainer in the sales-boy’s hand, which adds to the tension. Finally we make an addition that shows the anxiety building inside Meg’s mother, and this is in an unconscious action displayed by her. Think about things you do when you’re anxious and include them in your writing.

Meg’s mum pulls an old receipt, a piece of paper, from her pocket. It’s irrelevant except for the action which will show you her state of mind. She begins to tear it into strips, and the final sentence shows you just how much her anxiety is rising, by the fact that she’s ripped the receipt up into tiny pieces, like confetti.

Meg’s mum’s anxiety grows as the chapter proceeds.

“Stupid boxes…” Mum groaned as she tried to fit the bulky shoes into the tight box.

“And it’s too hot! We come in wearing coats, because it’s winter. Why do they make it so hot?” Mum trembled, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

Meg’s sigh matched her mother’s as she pulled off the shoes. She left her mum to pack them away and moved, in her socked feet, back to the display. Not a moment later she heard a frustrated grunt and a trainer flew past her ear. It rebounded on the wall and knocked three shoes to the ground. Meg ducked and twirled round. Her mother stood, red-faced and furious.

See how the actions clue you up on Meg’s mother’s growing anxiety, irritation and irrational behaviour.

emotion thesaurus, angela ackerman and becca puglisi,

The Emotion Thesaurus – invaluable!

We’re often told to write what we know, and I’m lucky, or unlucky – your call, as I know what anxiety feels like. I’m able to write from experience and convey the very emotions I’ve undergone in my own life in my writing. But what happens if we’ve never experienced the things our characters do? After all, the average murder mystery wasn’t written by a killer! One of the most comprehensive resources I have is The Emotion Thesaurus, it’s invaluable! Written by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi, you won’t find a better guide to character expression out there*.

“As writers, we must take our innate skills of observation and transfer them to the page. Readers have high expectations. They don’t want to be told how a character feels; they want to experience the emotion for themselves. To make this happen, we must ensure that our characters express their emotions in ways that are both recognisable and compelling to read.”
(The Emotion Thesaurus Introduction)

So, fire up your writing, infuse your stories and take me on an adventure…
don’t just tell me, take me with you!

the emotion thesaurus, angela ackerman and becca puglisi,

From The Emotion Thesaurus

Note I have no arrangements or sponsorship through or with The Emotion Thesaurus or its authors, I just believe it’s a darn good book!

Beneath_the_Old_Oak_front_cover_finalTo read more of Meg and her mum’s battles, ‘Beneath the Old Oak’ is available in paperback and eBook on Amazon and Etsy.

‘Turn those dreams of escape into hope…’ Meg thinks her mother is broken. Is she broken too? Meg’s life spirals out of control, and when she mirrors her Mum’s erratic behaviour, she’s terrified she’ll inherit her mother’s sins. Seeking refuge and escape, she finds solace beneath a huge, old oak. A storm descends, and Meg needs to survive devastating losses.

Blues Buster: Eminence Front

© Lisa Shambrook

© Lisa Shambrook

The crowd’s roar and applause made her cringe, the noise, so loud, so big, and so cloying. Sarah gazed through the colours, through the bobbing heads, and saw only frontrunners sprinting across the finish line.

Silver foil flashed, the sun catching it and blinding Sarah momentarily. She blinked and eased back. Trumpets bugled and hooters hooted, cheers and cries of congratulations rose over the onlookers, and Sarah glanced up at the big screen on the building opposite. She squeezed herself into a small spot on the wall and pulled her legs in close.

The winners, the frontrunners, smiled on the screen. Teeth and twinkling eyes pixelated and jumped as the competitors caught their breath and accepted adulation. Sponsors raced forward to position themselves, banners rising with winners, and products placed in advantageous sites. Cameramen arced down to legs attached to pistons and blades, shiny carbon-fibre appendages in racing black decorated with beads of sweat.

The winners had the best equipment, the biggest sponsors, the most money, and Sarah sighed.

Even pixelated the racing blades, the prosthetics, and the artificial limbs shone as state of the art. Money bought winners, and winners bought sponsors, and from the crowd’s clamour about her, that bought adoration and fame. She bit her lip and climbed into a standing position to stare down the road, but only shiny blades continued to catch the light and glare back at her.

She steeled herself, pushed the encroaching crowd away, and settled back down on the wall.

For a couple of hours she listened as the crowds cheered the marathon runners, and watched as they dwindled as the prosthetic tech became less impressive, and the sponsors less memorable.

Finally, light faded, the tech reverted, and the hum of the crowd declined.

Sarah scrambled to her feet, and clung to the lamppost beside her. She stared down the road, but the low light made it difficult to see. Floodlights suddenly devoured the dusk and Sarah blinked again, shielding her eyes from the dazzling brilliance. Black spots danced before her vision, as the big screen suddenly snapped back on and focussed on the empty road.

Sarah’s stomach lurched, and her heart rose with hope and anticipation. She pushed through the muddle of people still left, those who’d lost interest hours ago, but hung around with the hope of a last minute story. And here it was.

Sarah’s eyes glazed as a dot on the horizon grew steadily bigger. She glanced up at the screen as it pixelated and focussed. Far down the road her son approached, a lone walker, a figure shuffling forward with determination and grit. Sarah didn’t even try to stop the tears that rolled down her face. Every fibre of her heart reached out to the boy, every ounce of strength, of resolve and stamina poured down the road to her boy.

The TV screen adjusted and the image sharpened, and the remaining crowd visibly held their breath.

Sarah’s heart swelled to proportions she’d never before encountered and she thought she’d burst. Tears glistened in every eye as her son limped, and dragged his foot, his leg-brace no longer holding him steady. The buckles broken, the metal, bent, but the lad still walked with his head led high, and his brow shimmering with diamonds of perspiration.

Gasps trickled through the audience as barriers broke, and suddenly athletes, runners and racers who’d finished the marathon hours before, surrounded the boy. Carbon fibre blades, and modern artificial appendages, accompanied the teenager with the broken brace and twisted leg, and silence suddenly blossomed into cheers.

Applause echoed throughout the darkening streets, and Sarah wept as her son’s smile filled the big screen, as his shuffle moved him forward and the pain on his face diminished with pride.

He crossed the line, with as many onlookers as the frontrunners, and Sarah caught him in her arms. They both knew you didn’t need money, or sponsors, or anything more than love and belief, to win.

(663 Words)
@LastKrystallos

My story for Jeff at The Tsuruoka Files Blues Buster. The song prompt is The Who’s Eminence Front. Check out the other stories!

You’re Not Alone: an Indie Author Anthology for Macmillan Cancer Support

When I was afforded the opportunity to contribute a short story to an indie anthology, in support of Macmillan Nurses, it was a pleasure to be involved. My own experience with cancer, as with many others, is varied. I know people who’ve suffered, those who’ve survived and those who didn’t, and my own children have two grandparents fighting the disease. I help my beloved father as he cares for my mother now suffering with secondary breast cancer within her bones and insidious dementia. I know the intrinsic value of Macmillan nurses, and the intensive support they offer.

If I can give something back, I will.

You;re not Alone an indie anthology, macmillan cancer support, book, charity book,

Ian D. Moore, author of ‘Salby Damned’ wrote about the beginning of this book: ‘This Anthology began with a single thought…You’re Not Alone. Faced with the realisation that I was witnessing the beginning of the end of a fight with cancer that had raged for eight years in someone very dear to me, I felt powerless to do anything to thwart the inevitable. It was in the final days of Pamela’s life that I realised the potential that myself, and my writer friends possessed, that would enable us to make a difference.’

He then proceeded to rally his friends and fellow authors and created something special, of which I am grateful to be part.

Please read his articles: You’re Not Alone – An Indie Author Anthology for Macmillan Cancer Support and Vision to Fruition – With A Little Help From My Friends to learn more of the process and read testimonials from each of the 27 authors as to why they became involved. It will touch you.

The front cover art work was created by the very talented artist Christine Southworth and Nico Laeser turned her sketch into a beautiful cover wrap.

You're Not Alone: an Indie Author Anthology for Macmillan Cancer Support

All net proceeds from this book will go to Macmillan Cancer Support via the Pamela Winton Fund (see below), and you can currently pre-order the eBook today: £1.99 UK or $3.11 US, this link will take you to your local Amazon site.

A paperback version will also be available once the anthology is released on 11th July 2015.

You can also donate directly to The Pamela Mary Winton Tribute fund. This fund is in Pamela’s name but all donations go to Macmillan Cancer Support. Any kind donations are gratefully received.

You're Not Alone: an Indie Author Anthology for Macmillan Cancer SupportIn this collection you’ll find short stories to thrill you, they’ll scare you and leave you looking over your shoulder as you head back from your lunch break. There are stories of hope, stories of courage and stories of sheer determination, much like the very story that created this work to begin with.

What can you do?

Be ready to buy or reblog/share what you’ve found, help us to help those in need.

And join our Facebook Page: You’re Not Alone: An Indie Anthology and help to spread the news!

If you or anyone you know has been touched by cancer,
help us to do something to give back to those who give all to help…

Visual Dare: Burden

Photo Source

Photo Source

It’s heavy, so heavy, a bone-crushing weight that sits squarely on his shoulders. It sleeps within his heart most days, but when it wakes – it screams at him in silence.

He works in the garden, tending, pruning and caring, the same as he does indoors. The wind whispers in the leaves and the soil warms his fingers as he works. He loses himself, out there beneath the sun, heat softly stroking his back.

Indoors, his heart threatens to explode within his ribs, his mind caught within the web of knowledge and his burden growing with every passing moment.

She smiles, and his heart swells and his eyes glisten. Today she knows who he is. Today, he grips her liver-spotted hand within his wrinkled fingers, and kisses her soft skin. He smiles back.

Tomorrow is another day, and he doesn’t know what it will hold. The weight sits heavy, and heart-breaking.

(150 words)

00. VisDare Badge

An entry for Visual Dare over at Angela Goff’s Anonymous Legacy…this picture spoke to me of my own father, and a burden of knowledge…

Check out the other stories

Blues Buster: Lost Weekend

alley, the last krystallos,

© Lisa Shambrook

She swam amid my dreams, peered through the sunlit ripples, and I drowned within the ocean she glided through…

I woke to that fog of confusion, you know the one that suggests you had a great night, but you truly can’t remember…

I rubbed my eyes, hooked the grit of sleep from the edges of remembrance, and let my hooded lids close again. Deep within my drowsy head, she still swam, smiling at me and beckoning me through those rays of white. I tried to wake, blinking as that sunshine ray dowsed me in sharp light from the crack in the dingy curtains.

“Too bright…” I muttered, and held up my hand in front of my face. I tried opening my eyes again. My hand, my palm, was smudged in black and I struggled to focus on the ink. The words were gone, words in untidy script which meant something precious last night, were now smeared across my sweaty palm and lost forever.

Something kindled inside my heart. A spark lit up and travelled all the way to my head, igniting a memory. I smiled and my eyelids dropped again, and lines of blue blinked across the orange vision behind them. The memory deepened and I saw her again, this time her blue eyes shone like crystal, like topaz, and she leaned in close to kiss me. The black of her eyes grew like saucers and I lost myself within their cauldron.

The sound of traffic outside roused me and my aching body twitched. Sleep finally slipped away and I lazily opened my eyes. The mound in the bed beside me made me grin and I shifted slightly towards her. My hand slid back beneath the sheets and my fingers traced her spine down to the swell of rumpled bedding. She gave no reaction and I rolled closer, keen to envelope her within my post sleep amorous embrace. My hand moved to her shoulder with the intention of inviting her into my fog of desire, but when her arm slipped awkwardly away, I noticed her icy skin and I lost myself in horror.

I leaped from the bed, goose-bumps clothing my nakedness, and stared at the prostrate form I’d shared the night with. My hands, and ink-stained sweaty palms, shook as I stared at her cold, blue eyes. She stared back, but with an expression void of life.

The body that flowed like molten glass last night now lay frozen and stiff on the dirty mattress, and ice ran through my veins.

I grabbed my shorts and pulled them on, hurrying to yank up my jeans and pull my sweater over my head. My wallet sat on the bedside table, open upon chipped Formica, and I seized it knocking a small, honeyed, silver spoon onto the floor. It rang like a bell and its chime echoed across the early morning. I thrust my wallet into my back pocket and didn’t touch any of the other paraphernalia on the small table.  I shoved memories of the night before from my mind and sneaked out of the open window. I landed in nettles, but nothing stung as much as the dawn of cold realisation.

I ran as the streetlights dimmed, as the sun rose over the dustbins at the end of the alley, and as my fear swelled into a great crescendo. I ran, and I left my love song, and all its smeared memories, behind in the chill of Amsterdam’s sunrise.

(580 Words)

A chilling piece for Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files…with Lloyd Cole and the Commotions song ‘Lost Weekend’ as prompt.

The Gift of a Review…

Reviews are the life blood of small businesses everywhere,
and invaluable to the indie author.

support indie, buy local, buy indie, support indie authors, buy indie music,

825cf254ddd2955f9d152c22527eefb5We struggle to be seen and heard amongst the flood of big business, so every review we receive is valued and necessary. You’ve probably seen the meme that tells you when you buy from small business you’re helping to feed a family…it’s true and we value you.

Patronage and reviews are two of the ways you can offer huge support to your local small business or Etsy craft shop, independent author or artist, and believe me, every sale counts, and every review helps. Reviews help to improve our visibility, increase our ratings and searchability online, they spread the word about our quality, and they show us that what we’re doing is important.

We don’t just churn out our craft, we spend hours finding the right words, musing over the perfect storyline, getting that very last brush stroke just right, working out what you want and we put everything into our work.

support indie authors, reviews, leave a review, indie author, lisa shambrook, the last krystallos, the gift of a review,

I write, it’s not just a hobby, or a compulsion, it’s my business – a business I love, nonetheless, but it’s a living and there’s no better way to show me how much you enjoyed or appreciated my work, my words, than leaving me a review and putting that warm fuzzy feeling in my heart!

calon interiors carmarthen, hot chocolate, the last krystallos, lisa shambrook,My eBooks will cost you the price of a cup of coffee, or almost the exact price of my most favourite hot chocolate, and I can give you just as much, if not more, satisfaction!

Reviews can be left on Amazon, Goodreads, or on your own blog or website. We don’t need lengthy essays if writing’s not your thing – just a few lines – just one line even, will do! Just take a few minutes, less than it’ll take to drink that hot chocolate…and let us know you loved what we did, and we’ll love you forever!

Go on, show an indie how much you love them…and write a review! 

 In fact, share some indie love and tell us all about the last indie book you read…and you can find some here and here!

Live Your Dream and follow that Rainbow…

Life is meant to be lived…with passion!

dreams, how to live your dreams, ways to live your dreams, goals, achieving goals, the last krystallos,

I write about dreams – those dreams people have that define who they are, and what they want to achieve – and that’s how we should live. We should have a bucket list, a heart and soul full of wild expectations, and a desire to achieve great things.

george burnard shaw, life isn't about finding yourself it's about creating yourself, blue harvest creative, bhc, meme, I know that most of us are ordinary, we live day-to-day, working to provide, but that doesn’t mean we have to be ordinary… So, do it – live your dreams!

Take time out to think about your dreams…

Yes, most of the time we have to let our heads lead us, but every now and then,
let your heart take over and lead you on an adventure!

Be observant; see what beauty thrives around you

Write down your goals, and do all you can to achieve them!

Reach for the stars

Make time to have fun, and to do the things you love!

Aim high, set your sights…if you have nothing in your viewfinder,
there’ll be nothing to see, nothing to spur you on

Believe in yourself; believe that you can do it…

Most of all – never give up – giving up is a waste,
a waste of all the precious potential that resides inside you!

And, lastly,
‘If you want to live a happy life, tie it to a goal, not to people or things.’
– Albert Einstein

beneath the rainbow, lisa shambrook, bluebells, the last krystallos,

Bluebells © Lisa Shambrook

TELL ME YOUR DREAMS…AND HOW DO YOU LIVE THEM?

Beneath the Rainbow, grief, belief, dreams, achieve your dreams, live your dreams, it's those silly dreams that keep us alive, lisa shambrook, the last krystallos,

“It’s those silly dreams that keep us alive…”

Old Thomas has a dream…one that seems way out of his reach. When he talks about it, it’s with a wry smile and a sigh. Others live his dream while he watches on the side-lines. Will he achieve his last dream, the one that keeps him alive?

Find out in ‘Beneath the Rainbow’

Available at Amazon in Paperback and eBook