I’m Kim Cormack, the author of The Children of Ankh series and I'll be your host for this stop in the tour. I am pleased to be hosting the amazing Author TAMARA WOODS, in her post you will find a number, not in written text, but as a numerical number. Write it down and collect them all as you visit every post along the way. Good Luck!
Tamara Woods writes, because she can’t imagine a life where she didn’t. She grew up in the poorest state in the United States, West Virginia, as a laid-off coal miner’s daughter. She learned from this that money isn’t the root of all happiness, but it sure makes it easier. One fateful summer at a youth workshop she learned both the art of stolen kisses and being open in her poetry: lessons she’s never forgotten.
She’s a natural born storyteller, who learned it honestly at her father’s knee, though his stories ran more toward his youthful…indiscretions. Tamara’s poetry is spoken word with a heavy emphasis on things that we all know and do. Her fiction hits on darker, uncomfortable subjects, because she’s a firm believer that stories can be beautiful without being pretty.
Check out one of her spoken words pieces here:
The Child Who Never Was https://youtu.be/vkvzY3_rcyY
2016 is going to be an interesting year for her. She’ll be publishing her first horror anthology in September that is as yet untitled. The second poetry anthology from The Reverie Journal will be published in the fall. She’ll also be publishing her first fiction novel titled Blood Roses and Honeysuckles. Here is an unedited scene from this contemporary fiction:
Addie woke up shivering and shaking. Her mouth was dry and her hand felt numb from laying on it.
“Hey, you alright?” Mike grunted and rolled over, opening an eye to look at her.
She rubbed her hand across her face like she was trying to smooth out her mind. Rub everything into the past. If she just rubbed on this damn spot hard enough…
He grabbed her hand and held onto it. She was forced to look into his eyes. His brows were furrowed in concern. “No seriously. What’s going on? What kind of nightmare was that?”
“It wasn’t just a nightmare,” she said, looking down at his hand holding hers. His thumb was rubbing against her knuckle. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Sometimes, if you talk about things, it can help. You keep so much bottled up inside Addie. Maybe you should let a little of it out.”
She nodded, pulling her hand away. She reached over to her nightstand and pulled out a pack of smokes. She grabbed one and offered him one. He shook his hand. She shrugged and lit hers. She gripped it between her teeth for a moment, holding it there. Inhaling those toxic fumes and wishing that she could exhale the poison inside of her.“She would’ve been five years old this week.”
“Who would’ve been?”
“It may have been a he. I don’t really know. When I think about it, it’s always a she…”
Mike kept quiet, his eyes trained on her face. She licked her lips and took another slow drag.
“When mama was alive, I had certain duties I had to fulfill as her daughter. It was part of my legacy as a Whitecotton,” her voice dripped with acid. And shame. “I did what she wanted me to, because I didn’t have any other choice. And I didn’t really know any other way. I didn’t realize the other girls in my class had really normally families and didn’t do those things until I talked to Bernie about it after mama died.”She started tapping her cigarette against her ashtray rhythmically. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
“You don’t have to-”
“I already started it,” she cut him off. “I might as well finish it.”
“Mama had brought over one of my uncles after school one day. He was a tall man, dirty red hair. He didn’t live in town, he might not even lived in the county. I don’t know where mama found them. But she always did. It’s like she had a gateway to the most disgusting core of the state.”
Mike shifted, he was laying on his side looking at her, His head propped up on his hand. She felt like she was separated from him by an ocean liner. Or a mountain range. It was just the differences in their lives. But still it felt the same.
“She directed him to her bedroom and told me that it was my time to shine. My time to take on the family tradition. She’d taught me that it would hurt a little bit. But then I’d like it.” She took a deep drag from her cigarette, blowing a 45 smoke ring out, watching the smoke dissipate. “I never liked it. It never became good for me, like she said it would. And he was the worse. A monstrous man who just wanted to hurt me as much as he could. My body was covered in bruises after he left me there, naked and torn. Bleeding through mama’s good comforter.”
Mike made a move to touch her, and she froze. He pulled his hand back.
“Mama came in after the money was exchanged and asked me why I hadn’t said anything and why I’d let him do that to me. I told her that she’d told me to be quiet. To take it. And so I did.” She cried when she held me and told me that the next time would be better, bBut it never was. But it never was. Not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault. She got lost in her thoughts remembering some of the people who followed suit. The man in the green van who’s smelled of urine and old cigars. The drunk who’d just wanted to cry on her chest and call her mama. The man who’d been outraged that a girl so young was already “so well used” and wanted his money back. The one-
She blinked a few times, ashing her cigarette again.“So, one of those real winners that mama picked out was the one who’d gotten me knocked up. Mama took me to that place down in Charleston and gotten it taken care of. She made sure that it was taken care of. She was very helpful that way.” She sat silent for a few more minutes, stabbing out the cigarette. Making sure to tap it perfectly out. Wanting the cherry burn. She set it aside.
Mr. Muffy jumped on the bed. He was allowed to touch her where Mike couldn’t. Where she couldn’t let him. She put him on her lap and petted him. He settled onto her stomach, his body warm and comforting. His purrs lulled her into a dreamless sleep.
When she woke up the next day, Mike was gone. He didn’t leave a note, call, or anything. Apparently that nightmare had been just too real for him.
You can find her YouTube videos where she posts a weekly writing vlog and geeks out about books.
Her author website is where you can find out big updates in her writing.
Her blog hosts her poetry, short stories, and indie author interviews.
She also has co-edits a poetry journal: The Reverie Journal
Follow her on Twitter: @penpaperpad
Scavenger Hunt Hint:
The number for your clue will not be written in text, but it will be numeral. Tally all the numbers you find during the hunt and tally them together. This final number will be an entry in the Rafflecopter on the ENTER HERE page on the official website
If you get stuck along the way because you of a broken link, please visit the
AUTHORS LINK page
Did you find the number? If you did, then click author Tamara Woods link to continue the Scavenger Hunt.
Happy Hunting :)