Sunday, February 17, 2019
Sunday's Safe Word Shelf: Damaged by Tricia Owens
Title: Damaged
Author: Tricia Owens
Genre: M/M Romance, BDSM
Release Date: Feberuary 12, 2019
Cover Design: Tricia Owens
After Detective Jack Beckam’s partner is killed during the line of duty, Jack retreats to a small Indian casino in the Colorado mountains to deal with his guilt. There, he encounters the mysteriously hostile casino manager, Taylor Brant.
Jack is on a downward spiral. Unfortunately for him, the strange forest surrounding the casino only increases his desire to do something reckless. Something desperate. Taylor Brant is not only dangerous, he’s damaged. He’s someone Jack should steer clear of. Yet Jack, hurting and needing to pay penance, tumbles into a series of dark, highly charged encounters with Brant which threaten to shatter them both.
Amusement briefly lit Brant's gray gaze. "You're an interesting man, Jack. Under other circumstances I'd enjoy feeling you out."
"I thought you hate cops. Sounds to me like you're flirting with one."
He was immediately embarrassed for having said it. Taylor Brant was one of the most attractive men he'd ever seen, much less had dinner with—but Jack recognized the nugget of fear rolling around in his own gut. He was in foreign territory, literally and figuratively. All his experience as a detective, all his street smarts, meant next to nothing when it came to his occasional and unwanted attraction to specific men. It was like a flare-up of a rash—unpredictable, unwelcome, and woefully incurable.
"I'd be reckless, wouldn't I," Brant said, "to flirt with a detective?" Brant's gaze grew intent. "I'm not reckless."
“Sounds to me like you’re a masochist.”
“Would it take one to know one?”
The restaurant was emptying out. Jack wished it were busier. Louder. He wished that the waiter was intrusive. He could feel himself sweating and felt ridiculous; he was only sitting there eating dinner.
Brant didn't appear to be all that relaxed, either. The casino manager was tense. Nervous. Jack was too experienced in studying people to miss the signs. Was Brant regretting his boldness? Maybe they were both stumbling around in the dark in their own ways. It was strange to look at Taylor Brant and consider him anything other than one hundred percent sure of himself.
Or was it? He was well groomed and sophisticated, yet the broken nose hinted at his past experience with abuse. The book, too, suggested deep waters and a hint of vulnerability.
But Jack wasn't completely sold on Brant being a man you could easily take advantage of. Maybe back then, back when Brant had dated those cops, he had been a man like that. But not any longer. The man sitting across from Jack had been honed by pain, anger, and disappointment. Brant had gone through hell and come out the other side as a more powerful man. It was there in those steely eyes, a hint of the danger he presented: he needed to control every situation he entered because he would never allow himself to be at anyone's mercy again. He was using his fear to become something—someone—unbreakable.
Jack's cock pulsed at the prospect of being under Brant's control, even for an hour. It wasn't something he'd ever experienced, and the fantasy of it was probably better than the reality. Hell, he didn't know how he'd react to someone attempting to take the upper hand with him. There was a good chance he'd throw a punch.
"I thought you hate cops. Sounds to me like you're flirting with one."
He was immediately embarrassed for having said it. Taylor Brant was one of the most attractive men he'd ever seen, much less had dinner with—but Jack recognized the nugget of fear rolling around in his own gut. He was in foreign territory, literally and figuratively. All his experience as a detective, all his street smarts, meant next to nothing when it came to his occasional and unwanted attraction to specific men. It was like a flare-up of a rash—unpredictable, unwelcome, and woefully incurable.
"I'd be reckless, wouldn't I," Brant said, "to flirt with a detective?" Brant's gaze grew intent. "I'm not reckless."
“Sounds to me like you’re a masochist.”
“Would it take one to know one?”
Brant didn't appear to be all that relaxed, either. The casino manager was tense. Nervous. Jack was too experienced in studying people to miss the signs. Was Brant regretting his boldness? Maybe they were both stumbling around in the dark in their own ways. It was strange to look at Taylor Brant and consider him anything other than one hundred percent sure of himself.
Or was it? He was well groomed and sophisticated, yet the broken nose hinted at his past experience with abuse. The book, too, suggested deep waters and a hint of vulnerability.
But Jack wasn't completely sold on Brant being a man you could easily take advantage of. Maybe back then, back when Brant had dated those cops, he had been a man like that. But not any longer. The man sitting across from Jack had been honed by pain, anger, and disappointment. Brant had gone through hell and come out the other side as a more powerful man. It was there in those steely eyes, a hint of the danger he presented: he needed to control every situation he entered because he would never allow himself to be at anyone's mercy again. He was using his fear to become something—someone—unbreakable.
Jack's cock pulsed at the prospect of being under Brant's control, even for an hour. It wasn't something he'd ever experienced, and the fantasy of it was probably better than the reality. Hell, he didn't know how he'd react to someone attempting to take the upper hand with him. There was a good chance he'd throw a punch.
Tricia Owens has been writing m/m fiction since 2000, after stumbling onto the term ‘slash’ and thinking it referred to horror stories. She is the author of the Sin City, A Pirate’s Life for Me, and Juxtapose City series, among several others. She lives in Las Vegas.
Saturday, February 16, 2019
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Rowan Harbor Cycle by Sam Burns Part 2 featuring Eagle in the Hawthorn #7
Title: Eagle in the Hawthorn
Author: Sam Burns
Series: Rowan Harbor Cycle
Genre: M/M Romance, Paranormal
Release Date: February 14, 2019
Cover Design: Melanie Harlow @ Clause & Effect
Summary:
Rowan Harbor has had a tough winter, and Devon Murphy wants nothing more than to make it better. When he proposes a solution to the town’s low morale, it creates a rift in his relationship with his boyfriend, Wade. They’ve hardly ever argued, and when things get tense, Devon has no idea how to handle it.
But an evil presence in his town targets the people Devon loves, he has to put his personal worries aside and face danger down again. Will he be able to protect his town, and if he can, will Wade be waiting for him when it’s done?
Summary:
Jesse Hunter is finally trying to be an adult, but it still feels like an act. His place on the town council is a sham. He’s rarely called on to do anything. His boyfriend is grieving the loss of his mother, and while everyone seems to think he’s doing a great job caring for Sean, Jesse feels like he’s more of a distraction than a real help.
March is shaping up to be a bad month. First, random chance leads him to the realization that the town’s recent trouble is his fault. Then new werewolves come into town, and it turns out they’re also Jesse’s responsibility. He feels like he may be at his breaking point, and he doesn’t want to drag his friends and loved ones down with him. But how will he handle it alone?
Summary:
Fletcher Lane has a problem. His boyfriend’s parents are coming for a visit, and they want to meet up. He’s ready to commit, so what happens if his prospective in-laws don’t like him? And how is he supposed to keep Rowan Harbor’s unique nature a secret when he might be the worst liar ever born?
To make matters worse, when he finds and helps two strangers stuck on the road, it leads him to a new threat: the man who’s been terrorizing the town has set events into motion that endanger more than just Rowan Harbor. Can Fletcher and his friends stop him before there’s nothing but a smoking crater where the Oregon coastline used to be?
Summary:
Isla MacKenzie is probably the strongest witch alive who can’t do magic. Her mentor died and left her with not one, but two jobs that would be difficult for any functional witch to fulfill, and she can’t manage so much as a simple cantrip to get started.
Add to that her growing feelings for Cassidy Simon, the town’s vampire bartender, and she feels like she’s on the precipice of something huge . . . she’s just not sure if it’s going to make her stronger, or kill her.
In Any Light is a PG-rated novelette that tells Isla's part of The Rowan Harbor Cycle. It can be skipped without missing anything vital in the overarching storyline of the series.
Author Bio:
Sam wrote her first fantasy epic with her best friend when she was ten. Like almost any epic fiction written by a ten year old, it was awful. She likes to think she’s improved since then, if only because she has better handwriting now.
Eagle in the Hawthorn #7
Stag and the Ash #5
Adder and Willow #6
In the Light #6.5
Release Blitz: Apple Boy by Isobel Starling
Title: Apple Boy
Author: Isobel Starling
Series: The Quiet Work #1
Genre: M/M Romance, Fantasy
Release Date: February 15, 2019
Publisher: Decent Fellows Press
Cover Design: Valentine Pascadian (Lennel)
After a traumatic event, Winter Aeling finds himself destitute and penniless in the backwater town of Mallowick. He needs to travel to the city of Serein and impart grave news that will bring war to the Empire, but without a horse, money, and with not a soul willing to help him, he has no choice but to line up with the common folk seeking paid work on the harvest.
As wagons roll into the market square and farmers choose day laborers, Winter is singled out for abuse by a brute of a farmer. The only man who stands up for him is the farmer's beguiling son, Adam, and on locking eyes with the swarthy young man Winter feels the immediate spark of attraction.
Winter soon realizes there is a reason he has been drawn to Blackdown Farm. The farmer possesses a precious item that was stolen long ago from Winter’s family, and he determines to retrieve it. He also cannot take his eyes off the farmer's son, and as the young man opens up Winter can’t help wondering if Adam is just kind or his kind!
CHAPTER 1
MARKET SQUARE
I shook my head. I would say, if anything, I was deeply traumatized by the unfortunate circumstance I’d found myself in, but no, I was certainly not a mute. I just wasn’t used to a lowly man speaking to me so roughly. Generally, men who dared to address me knew their betters and behaved appropriately. But here in Mallowick, in the province of Erias,I was no better than a beggar on the street. There was no one I could call on for favors, no one who, on hearing my family name, would loan me coinfor the stagecoach or a horse to ride to the city and send word to my father.
I dared to look up as the farmer scratched his grizzled chin and consider me. It was then I saw it. A chill iced my bones. On his chubby right index finger, he wore a gold ring set with a large red gemstone that I was aghast to see held the intaglio engraving of a rose thorn—my family’s seal. How had this disgusting Pasturelandsfarmer come upon my family’s ring? Anger curdled my gut, but I forced myself to focus and fixed my features so as not to alert the man to what I was looking at. That ring was more precious than I could say. It was not set with any common gemstone, oh no, the setting was Star-fall. The legend was that mortal tools could not cut the rich-red Star-fall stone. The gemstone was shaped by sorcery, and the power that carved into the gem was stored inside it as if the Star-fallwas a reservoir for the magic. It was illegal for any other than the Twin Kings of Osiato own Star-fall. The king’s men had scoured the Empire to remove all traces of the priceless gem from common and aristocratic hands and possessing it was a death sentence. Did this ruffian have any idea what he wore?
The farmers’ son met me by the wagon and offered to help me aboard. For a moment, from the look of consideration in his eyes, I thought he could see past the disheveled state of me to the gentleman I’d once been. But that was ridiculous. The farmers’ son hopped up onto the back of the wagon with dexterous athleticism, and then offered me his hands. I took them without a thought. His warm touch and the strength in those work-roughened fingers twisted my gut into uncomfortable knots. He fixed my gaze as he gripped both of my hands and tugged me up as easily as if he were lifting feather down. He pulled me closed and pressed me to his hard chest.
MARKET SQUARE
"You boy, aye, YOU. Ain’t never seen yeround ‘erebefore,”The farmer directed his bellow at me.
It was sunrise, and at last, I’d found the courage to step out of my hiding place and join the common laborers who gathered in Mallowickmarket square. We were waiting for the farmers’ carts to come by and choose their day workers. I’d watched this ritual each morning for the past three days, peeking out from shadowed doorways, or while crouching behind barrels.
It was harvest time, andit appeared to be routine for peasants to walk from the surrounding hamlets before dawn and assemble in the square to seek work on the farms. There was wheat, barley, root vegetables, and tree fruits to be gathered before the weather turned. I was informed by a ruddy looking fellow in the tavern that anyonecould get work on the harvest, and so, with my pride cut to ribbons and my pockets empty, I’d stepped out of the safety of my hiding place and joined the commoners.
“Does ye wants work or no’? Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ye. What’s yer name?” The burley farmer roared. I looked up, stunned to be singled out from among all of these strapping men and hardy looking women, for I felt invisible. Four carts had already passed and taken their pick of the young, strong peasants, but none of those farmers gave me a second glance. I should have known something was afoot, for when this particular wagon turned up the women in the square shrank back into doorways, and men sidled away to lean against buildings. On the side of the wagon, writ-large in bold off-white letters were the words BLACKDOWN FARM. There were around thirty of us left on view, like cattle.
I had never partaken in manual labor or any kind of work before. I was a gentleman and far more familiar with spending my days relaxing, reading, attending social events in the city, or taking a horse for a gallop in the country. But my life had changed since I’d become stranded here in the Pasturelandsprovincial town of Mallowicktwo weeks earlier. Now I was living on my wits. Each day was a fight for my life, and I’d sold all of my fine belongings, intending to pay for passage on the stagecoach from Mallowickto the city ofSerein. But I had not thought things through, and it did not happen that way. My body’s needs took precedent. I’d become so ravenous, and therefore the meager coin I’d gathered from selling my finery was spent on what I could afford—basic rough barley bread and ale, just enough to stave off the gnawing pangs of hunger in my belly each day. Now, I had no belongings, and the money was all but gone. I was no thief, and the only thing I had left to sell was my body. Looking like a wretch, I did not believe I could earn even a copper that way! Before I left on my travels, I was warned that the province of Eriashad strict rules about men bedding other men and I did not want to tempt fate. I was at a loss—hard labor or starvation were the only choices available to me. Gods, if my father could see how far I’d fallen in such a short time, he would be thoroughly ashamed. I was living hand-to-mouth, and if I dared to seek out my reflection and observe my disreputable state of dress, I was sure I would see I was no longer a gentleman at all.
I assured myself that all would be well as soon as I could get to the city of Serein. There I would attend my father’s depository and obtain funds from his account—as had been arranged, and then, I could find my way to my uncle’s residence and attend to a much grimmer business.
So, with no other choice, I was here, standing in Mallowickmarket square with a bunch of rough-looking fellows and ruddy-faced women with just the ragged clothes I stood in to my name. I wondered if my visage had taken on the same gaunt, starved, haunted look some of them wore.
“WELL?” The farmer roared.
“Leave him be Pa; I think he’s a mute. P… p... pleasedon’t—” A swarthy young man urged, stepping to the farmers’ side. The man appeared to be in his early twenties, with broad angular shoulders, slim hips, and wavy jaw-length hair that longingly reminded me of Montesteintea. When the morning sunlight broke through the clouds and caressed him, the strands of his hair revealed all the shades of autumn. It was beautiful. His eyes were bright emerald green, and his skin bore the wind-burned tan of a man who spent his days working the land. I met his gaze for a second that seemed to stop time, and I felt a flutter of longing erupt in my gut. I found myself mesmerized by him. He appeared a little embarrassed, for himself or for me, I wasn’t quite sure. The farmer turned to his son.
“Shut that filthy moutho’yours, apple boy!” he spat. His large meaty hands twitched. He sneered and glared at his son in such a wicked way I knew it should have been followed up by a sharp slap. I worried that the young man would endure further public humiliation at the hands of his father, but the farmer moved his disdainful glare back to me. I shuddered with fear. I had a feeling that he was saving his son’s punishment for later—away from the prying eyes of the townsfolk. I did not like that thought, not one bit. I did not know why the farmer was drawn to me, but he sized me up with a sweeping glance of consideration, then wrinkled his nose as if he’d sniffed a revolting stench—I hadn’t bathed in two weeks, so maybe I didsmell a tad ripe!
“Is ye a mute?”
I shook my head. I would say, if anything, I was deeply traumatized by the unfortunate circumstance I’d found myself in, but no, I was certainly not a mute. I just wasn’t used to a lowly man speaking to me so roughly. Generally, men who dared to address me knew their betters and behaved appropriately. But here in Mallowick, in the province of Erias,I was no better than a beggar on the street. There was no one I could call on for favors, no one who, on hearing my family name, would loan me coinfor the stagecoach or a horse to ride to the city and send word to my father.
When I’d first arrived in Mallowick,telling the truth of my station had gotten me dragged down an alley where my finger and earrings were stolen, and I’d received a beating. This farmer from Blackdown Farm had no idea who I was, and I would not make the same mistake again.
I took a breath and stepped out of line. “Master Irwin Harding, sir. You may call me Win.” I winced at hearing my own soft, well-spoken voice, with my accent, the clipped tongue of Thorn. I had not used my real name and wished I had not used my true voice either. The fact that I was the son of the Duke of Thornmeant nothing here. Thornwas west of Erias, on the other side of the Silua MontisMountain range, and I doubted any of these illiterate souls in Mallowickknew anything other than that folklore passed around by storytellers.
The farmer stepped to stand in front of me. He was a big, bulky bastard of a man and stank of stale sweat and baccy. He had a grizzled podgy face and thick dark hair shot with strands of silver pulled into an untidy tail. The tension grew between us, and I worried I’d spoken out of turn. I looked down and watched my bare, filthy feet as if they held endless fascination. I’d seen men like him before. He had hands like shovels, and I’m sure they’d done damage in their time. My father would have used a man like him well, probably as muscle to intimidate the city folk while the Royal Chancellor did the rounds collecting taxes.
Afraid and sweating with anxiety, I glanced up and away, unable to look at the farmer directly and meet his fierce piggy eyes. Instead, I looked left and caught the eye of his son. I felt another flutter of attraction. I was grateful for it because it dampened my fear a little. The glance the farmers’ son sent me back was sheepish, apologetic. He shrugged and put a finger to his lips, signaling for me to hush. I’m sure now he knew what was coming.
“Master, is it?” The farmer gave a raspy malevolent chuckle. “Well, well, well aren’t ye an uppity little scrote. Such a pretty voice an’ all. Have your balls dropped yet, lad?”
The townsmen men standing around me shuffled on their feet and snickered uncomfortably. I could tell from the tentative laughter they were afraid of this man too. My chest tightened with fury, and I felt the flare of heat rush to color my cheeks. If in ThornI would have put this fellow in his place, but as directed by the farmers’ handsome son, I held my tongue.
I dared to look up as the farmer scratched his grizzled chin and consider me. It was then I saw it. A chill iced my bones. On his chubby right index finger, he wore a gold ring set with a large red gemstone that I was aghast to see held the intaglio engraving of a rose thorn—my family’s seal. How had this disgusting Pasturelandsfarmer come upon my family’s ring? Anger curdled my gut, but I forced myself to focus and fixed my features so as not to alert the man to what I was looking at. That ring was more precious than I could say. It was not set with any common gemstone, oh no, the setting was Star-fall. The legend was that mortal tools could not cut the rich-red Star-fall stone. The gemstone was shaped by sorcery, and the power that carved into the gem was stored inside it as if the Star-fallwas a reservoir for the magic. It was illegal for any other than the Twin Kings of Osiato own Star-fall. The king’s men had scoured the Empire to remove all traces of the priceless gem from common and aristocratic hands and possessing it was a death sentence. Did this ruffian have any idea what he wore?
Not getting a rise from me, the farmer stepped yet closer and found out for himself if my balls had dropped. He reached for my privates and squeezed.
“Ahh, ye got some big stones de’re al’right,boy,” he said with a filthy sneer.
“Done any labourin’before, lad?” My eyes watered. I shook my head and winced as the pressure on my most sensitive parts rose. I wanted to shout and push him away, punch him in that bristly pug face. I’d trained in hand-to-hand combat and swordplay, but that was of little use to me now that I had no sword and was cast as naught but a commoner myself. I stood frozen to the spot with fear, my cock, and balls in the hand of this brutish man. I was sure that clutching mynetherswas not the best way to test if I would be a good apple picker.
The farmer let go, stepped back, and looked me over again like he was sizing up a prize pig. I wanted to keel over, hold my sensitive parts and howl, but, with my eyes watering, I kept my back ramrod straight and looked past the farmer, using his son’s regretful, pretty green eyes as my focus.
I appeared to be a boy, but I am nineteen and about to make my majority. I have a tall, willowy frame, and little muscle to show for my near twenty summers. Weeks before, I was clothed in the silken garb of a lordling, but all I wore now were my stinky silk britches and a once-white linen shirt. I’d even had to sell my fine leather boots. My flaxen hair hung loosely to my shoulders and was bedraggled. My mother had always told me my hair shone like a golden halo. I guessed that was no longer the case. I had not seen my reflection in two weeks so I could only imagine how frightful I appeared to onlookers. My circumstance was terrible, but I refused to let it defeat me. I was a son of Thorn, I wasa gentleman, damn it, and I was prepared to do whatever it took to do to find my way to my destination and seek justice for all the ill-luck that had befallen me.
“Right, scrote, up on the wagon,” the farmer declared. “We can always do wit a few extra scurrier’sfer the windfalls.”
I had no idea what that actually meant, but strangely relieved to be selected, I nodded subserviently and then, ducking my head to avoid the farmers’ glare, I scurried to the wagon where I surreptitiously gave my aching intimate parts a gentle rub.
I’d heard from a fellow in the tavern that harvesting wheat at Robinswood Farmwas backbreaking, as was digging root vegetables at Windy Oakes Farm. He advised that apple picking was easy workand if I could get employment at Weatherby’sor Blackdown Farm, they paid good coin. He said the mistress at Blackdownwas particularly well-liked and always gave laborers a bread and cheese luncheon with last season’s cider. I was so hungry that bread and cheese sounded like a banquet. The fellow had neglected to tell me that the farmer was a brute!
“Don’t back chat him or it’ll be the worst fer you,” he whispered the warning to my ear. Alarmed, I eased back from him and cautiously met his eye for a split second. In the look he gave me I saw that the warning was well-meant. Bewildered, I nodded in thanks and understanding. I had no idea why this stranger was looking out for me, but the fact he was warmed my heart. I choked back a tear. No one had looked out for me over these past weeks, and I had been so terribly lonely. I’d learned some hard life lessons on this leg of my journey, and I’d come to understand that here my title was irrelevant, and without money I was suddenly invisible; therefore small kindnesses meant more than I could say.
My adventure into the provinces had been made to appease my father for my supposed ‘lack of direction.’ I’d become bored with my easy life in Thorn, andnot intending to marry; I’d told my father that in-light of my upcoming twentieth Bloomsday I wanted to tourthe Empire. If I were to one-day become Duke of Thorn,I needed to know a little of the politics of each province and so, pleased with my initiative and happy to be rid of me for a while, he’d set me on my way. I’d toured the provinces of Terria, Corvay,and Reussand then continued to the province ofOsia, spending time in the capital city Altea,at the court of the Twin Kings, Kristoff, and Fabian Von Harte. With this journey to Erias,I was to have the full set of provinces under my belt. But fate was not on my side.
On benches affixed to either side of the farmers’ wagon sat fourteen men morosely staring at their bare, filthy feet, not a word of chatter between them. They each owned a small pack of belongings and a wrapped blanket that each had stowed beneath the bench. At this moment they were better-off than me, for I did not even have a blanket to my name. There was space for me and five more, totaling twenty men. The farmer chose from the remaining laborers with less consideration than I had been afforded.
“Right… I’ll take Allin, Jed, Arthur, Bartram, and Matty, that’ll do me fer the week,” he hollered decisively.
The week? I thought I’d promised myself for a hard day’s labor? But then again, I considered the harvesters who were sitting in the wagon, and yes, they appeared to have prepared for an overnight stay. Confused, I sat down as the other laborers were pulled up onto the wagon by their comrades, and then we shuffled along the benches until we were all seated. I noticed the shoulders of the remaining men in the market square sag a little in apparent relief as if some mighty weight had lifted from them. I didn’t understand it. I thought they’d wanted to work?
The farmers’ son clambered over into the front of the wagon. His father climbed on, the man’s bulk shaking the timbers of the rickety wagon as he settled on the bench beside him. The son handed his father the ribbons, which the farmer greedily snatched up, and then with a fearsome bellow of “Geddup”and a thunderous whip crack, the large mottledgreyworkhorse began its cumbersome trot down the main street and onto the dusty road to Blackdown Farm.
Isobel Starling spent most of her twenty-year professional career making art in Ireland. She relocated to the UK and, faced with the dreaded artist’s creative block, Isobel started to write and found she loved writing more than making art.
Isobel is currently working on her nineteenth book.
"As You Wish" (Shatterproof Bond#1) narrated by Gary Furlong won the Audiobook Reviewer Award for Romance 2018. It is the first M/M Romance audiobook to win a mainstream audiobook award.
Friday, February 15, 2019
📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCollough
The Thorn Birds is a robust, romantic saga of a singular family, the Clearys. It begins in the early part of this century, when Paddy Cleary moves his wife, Fiona, and their seven children to Drogheda, the vast Australian sheep station owned by his autocratic and childless older sister; and it ends more than half a century later, when the only survivor of the third generation, the brilliant actress Justine O'Neill, sets a course of life and love halfway around the world from her roots.
The central figures in this enthralling story are the indomitable Meggie, the only Cleary daughter, and the one man she truly loves, the stunningly handsome and ambitious priest Ralph de Bricassart. Ralph's course moves him a long way indeed, from a remote Outback parish to the halls of the Vatican; and Meggie's except for a brief and miserable marriage elsewhere, is fixed to the Drogheda that is part of her bones - but distance does not dim their feelings though it shapes their lives.
Wonderful characters people this book; strong and gentle, Paddy, hiding a private memory; dutiful Fiona, holding back love because it once betrayed her, violent, tormented Frank, and the other hardworking Cleary sons who give the boundless lands of Drogheda the energy and devotion most men save for women; Meggie; Ralph; and Meggie's children, Justine and Dane. And the land itself; stark, relentless in its demands, brilliant in its flowering, prey to gigantic cycles of drought and flood, rich when nature is bountiful, surreal like no other place on earth.
“Beautiful….Compelling entertainment.” --New York Times
“A heart-rending epic…truly marvelous.” --Chicago Tribune
Chapter One
On December 8th, 1915, Meggie Cleary had her fourth birthday. After the breakfast dishes were put away her mother silently thrust a brown paper parcel into her arms and ordered her outside. So Meggie squatted down behind the gorse bush next to the front gate and tugged impatiently. Her fingers were clumsy, the wrapping heavy; it smelled faintly of the Wahine general store, which told her that whatever lay inside the parcel had miraculously been bought, not homemade or donated.
Something fine and mistily gold began to poke through a corner; she attacked the paper faster, peeling it away in long, ragged strips."Agnes! Oh, Agnes!" she said lovingly, blinking at the doll lying there in a tattered nest.
A miracle indeed. Only once in her life had Meggie been into Wahine; all the way back in May, because she had been a very good girl. So perched in the buggy beside her mother, on her best behavior, she had been too excited to see or remember much. Except for Agnes, the beautiful 'doll sitting on the store counter, dressed in a crinoline of pink satin with cream lace frills all over it. Right then and there in her mind she had christened it Agnes, the only name she knew elegant enough for such a peerless creature.
Yet over the ensuing months her yearning after Agnes contained nothing of hope; Meggie didn't own a doll and had no idea little girls and dolls belonged together. She played happily with the whistles and slingshots and battered soldiers her brothers discarded, got her hands dirty and her boots muddy to play with. Stroking the bright pink folds of the dress, grander than any she had ever seen on a human woman, she picked Agnes uptenderly. The doll had jointed arms and legs which could be moved anywhere; even her neck and tiny, shapely waist were jointed. Her golden hair was exquisitely dressed in a high pompadour studded with pearls, her pale bosom peeped out of a foaming fichu. of cream lace fastened with a pearl pin. The finely painted bone china face was beautiful, left unglazed to give the delicately tinted skin a natural matte texture. Astonishingly lifelike blue eyes shone between lashes of real hair, their irises streaked and circled with a darker blue; fascinated, Meggie discovered that when Agnes lay back far enough, her eyes closed. High on one faintly Bushed cheek she had a black beauty mark, and her dusky mouth was parted slightly to show tiny white teeth. Meggie put the doll gently on her lap, crossed her feet under her comfortably, and sat just looking.
She was still sitting behind the gorse bush when Jack and Hughie came rustling through the grass where it was too close to the fence to feel a scythe. Her hair was the typical Cleary beacon, all the Cleary children save Frank being martyred by a thatch some shade of red; Jack nudged his brother and pointed gleefully. They separated, grinning at each other, and pretended they were troopers after a Maori renegade. Meggie would not have heard them anyway, so engrossed was she in Agnes, humming softly to herself.
"What's that you've got, Meggie?" Jack shouted, pouncing. "Show us!"
"Yes, show us!" Hughie giggled, outflanking her.
She clasped the doll against her chest and shook her head. "No, she's mine! I got her for my birthday!"
"Show us, go on! We just want to have a look."
Pride and joy won out. She held the doll so her brothers could see. "Look, isn't she beautiful? Her name is Agnes."
"Agnes? Agnes?" Jack gagged realistically. "What a soppy name! Why don't you call her Margaret or Betty?"
"Because she's Agnes!"
Hughie noticed the joint in the doll's wrist, and whistled. "Hey, Jack, look! It can move its hand!"
"Where? Let's see."
"No!" Meggie hugged the doll close again, tears forming. "No, you'll break herl Oh, Jack, don't take her away-you'll break her!"
"Pooh!" His dirty brown hands locked about her wrists, closing tightly. "Want a Chinese bum? And don't be such a crybaby, or I'll tell Bob." He squeezed her skin in opposite directions until it stretched whitely, as Hughie got hold of the doll's skirts and pulled. "Gimme, or I'll do it really hard!"
"Nol Don't, Jack, please don'tl You'll break her, I know you will! Oh, please leave her alone! Don't take her, please!" In spite of the cruel grip on her wrists she clung to the doll, sobbing and kicking.
"Got it" Hughie whooped, as the doll slid under Meggie's crossed forearms.
Jack and Hughie found her just as fascinating as Meggie had; off came the dress, the petticoats and long, frilly drawers. Agnes lay naked while the boys pushed and pulled at her, forcing one foot round the back of her head, making her look down her spine, every possible contortion they could think of. They took no notice of Meggie as she stood crying; it did not occur to her to seek help, for in the Cleary family those who could not fight their own battles got scant aid or sympathy, and that went for girls, too.
She clasped the doll against her chest and shook her head. "No, she's mine! I got her for my birthday!"
"Show us, go on! We just want to have a look."
Pride and joy won out. She held the doll so her brothers could see. "Look, isn't she beautiful? Her name is Agnes."
"Agnes? Agnes?" Jack gagged realistically. "What a soppy name! Why don't you call her Margaret or Betty?"
"Because she's Agnes!"
Hughie noticed the joint in the doll's wrist, and whistled. "Hey, Jack, look! It can move its hand!"
"Where? Let's see."
On December 8th, 1915, Meggie Cleary had her fourth birthday. After the breakfast dishes were put away her mother silently thrust a brown paper parcel into her arms and ordered her outside. So Meggie squatted down behind the gorse bush next to the front gate and tugged impatiently. Her fingers were clumsy, the wrapping heavy; it smelled faintly of the Wahine general store, which told her that whatever lay inside the parcel had miraculously been bought, not homemade or donated.
Something fine and mistily gold began to poke through a corner; she attacked the paper faster, peeling it away in long, ragged strips."Agnes! Oh, Agnes!" she said lovingly, blinking at the doll lying there in a tattered nest.
A miracle indeed. Only once in her life had Meggie been into Wahine; all the way back in May, because she had been a very good girl. So perched in the buggy beside her mother, on her best behavior, she had been too excited to see or remember much. Except for Agnes, the beautiful 'doll sitting on the store counter, dressed in a crinoline of pink satin with cream lace frills all over it. Right then and there in her mind she had christened it Agnes, the only name she knew elegant enough for such a peerless creature.
Yet over the ensuing months her yearning after Agnes contained nothing of hope; Meggie didn't own a doll and had no idea little girls and dolls belonged together. She played happily with the whistles and slingshots and battered soldiers her brothers discarded, got her hands dirty and her boots muddy to play with. Stroking the bright pink folds of the dress, grander than any she had ever seen on a human woman, she picked Agnes uptenderly. The doll had jointed arms and legs which could be moved anywhere; even her neck and tiny, shapely waist were jointed. Her golden hair was exquisitely dressed in a high pompadour studded with pearls, her pale bosom peeped out of a foaming fichu. of cream lace fastened with a pearl pin. The finely painted bone china face was beautiful, left unglazed to give the delicately tinted skin a natural matte texture. Astonishingly lifelike blue eyes shone between lashes of real hair, their irises streaked and circled with a darker blue; fascinated, Meggie discovered that when Agnes lay back far enough, her eyes closed. High on one faintly Bushed cheek she had a black beauty mark, and her dusky mouth was parted slightly to show tiny white teeth. Meggie put the doll gently on her lap, crossed her feet under her comfortably, and sat just looking.
She was still sitting behind the gorse bush when Jack and Hughie came rustling through the grass where it was too close to the fence to feel a scythe. Her hair was the typical Cleary beacon, all the Cleary children save Frank being martyred by a thatch some shade of red; Jack nudged his brother and pointed gleefully. They separated, grinning at each other, and pretended they were troopers after a Maori renegade. Meggie would not have heard them anyway, so engrossed was she in Agnes, humming softly to herself.
"What's that you've got, Meggie?" Jack shouted, pouncing. "Show us!"
"Yes, show us!" Hughie giggled, outflanking her.
She clasped the doll against her chest and shook her head. "No, she's mine! I got her for my birthday!"
"Show us, go on! We just want to have a look."
Pride and joy won out. She held the doll so her brothers could see. "Look, isn't she beautiful? Her name is Agnes."
"Agnes? Agnes?" Jack gagged realistically. "What a soppy name! Why don't you call her Margaret or Betty?"
"Because she's Agnes!"
Hughie noticed the joint in the doll's wrist, and whistled. "Hey, Jack, look! It can move its hand!"
"Where? Let's see."
"No!" Meggie hugged the doll close again, tears forming. "No, you'll break herl Oh, Jack, don't take her away-you'll break her!"
"Pooh!" His dirty brown hands locked about her wrists, closing tightly. "Want a Chinese bum? And don't be such a crybaby, or I'll tell Bob." He squeezed her skin in opposite directions until it stretched whitely, as Hughie got hold of the doll's skirts and pulled. "Gimme, or I'll do it really hard!"
"Nol Don't, Jack, please don'tl You'll break her, I know you will! Oh, please leave her alone! Don't take her, please!" In spite of the cruel grip on her wrists she clung to the doll, sobbing and kicking.
"Got it" Hughie whooped, as the doll slid under Meggie's crossed forearms.
Jack and Hughie found her just as fascinating as Meggie had; off came the dress, the petticoats and long, frilly drawers. Agnes lay naked while the boys pushed and pulled at her, forcing one foot round the back of her head, making her look down her spine, every possible contortion they could think of. They took no notice of Meggie as she stood crying; it did not occur to her to seek help, for in the Cleary family those who could not fight their own battles got scant aid or sympathy, and that went for girls, too.
She clasped the doll against her chest and shook her head. "No, she's mine! I got her for my birthday!"
"Show us, go on! We just want to have a look."
Pride and joy won out. She held the doll so her brothers could see. "Look, isn't she beautiful? Her name is Agnes."
"Agnes? Agnes?" Jack gagged realistically. "What a soppy name! Why don't you call her Margaret or Betty?"
"Because she's Agnes!"
Hughie noticed the joint in the doll's wrist, and whistled. "Hey, Jack, look! It can move its hand!"
"Where? Let's see."
Release Date: March 27-30, 1983(Television Mini-Series)
Release Time: 467 minutes
Cast:
Richard Chamberlain as Ralph de Bricassart
Rachel Ward as Meggie Cleary (as an adult)
Sydney Penny as Meggie Cleary (as a child)
Barbara Stanwyck as Mary Carson
Richard Kiley as Paddy Cleary
Jean Simmons as Fee Cleary
Bryan Brown as Luke O'Neill
Mare Winningham as Justine O'Neill
Philip Anglim as Dane O'Neill
Ken Howard as Rainer Hartheim
John Friedrich as Frank Cleary
Dwier Brown as Stuart Cleary (as an adult)
Vidal Peterson as Stuart Cleary (as a child)
Piper Laurie as Anne Mueller
Earl Holliman as Luddie Mueller
Christopher Plummer as Archbishop Vittorio di Contini-Verchese
Brett Cullen as Bob Cleary
Stephen W. Burns as Jack Cleary
Barry Corbin as Pete
Holly Palance as Miss Carmichael
John de Lancie as Alastair MacQueen
Allyn Ann McLerie as Mrs. Smith
Richard Venture as Harry Gough
Stephanie Faracy as Judy
Antoinette Bower as Sarah MacQueen
Awards:
1983 Primetime Emmy Awards
Outstanding Achievement in Makeup - Del Acevedo - Won
Outstanding Art Direction for a Miniseries or a Movie - Robert MacKichan, Jerry Adams - Won
Outstanding Film Editing for a Miniseries or a Movie - Carroll Timothy O'Meara - Won
Outstanding Lead Actor in a Miniseries or a Movie - Richard Chamberlain - Nominated
Outstanding Lead Actress in a Miniseries or a Movie - Barbara Stanwyck - Won
Outstanding Miniseries or Movie - The Thorn Birds - Nominated
Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Miniseries or a Movie - Bryan Brown - Nominated
Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Miniseries or a Movie - Richard Kiley - Won
Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Miniseries or a Movie - Christopher Plummer - Nominated
Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Miniseries or a Movie - Piper Laurie - Nominated
Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Miniseries or a Movie - Jean Simmons - Won
1984 Golden Globes
Best Actor – Miniseries or Television Film - Richard Chamberlain - Won
Best Actress – Miniseries or Television Film - Rachel Ward - Nominated
Best Miniseries or Television Film - The Thorn Birds - Won
Best Supporting Actor – Series, Miniseries or Television Film - Bryan Brown - Nominated
Best Supporting Actor – Series, Miniseries or Television Film - Richard Kiley - Won
Best Supporting Actress – Series, Miniseries or Television Film - Piper Laurie - Nominated
Best Supporting Actress – Series, Miniseries or Television Film - Jean Simmons - Nominated
Best Supporting Actress – Series, Miniseries or Television - Barbara Stanwyck - Won
1984 People's Choice
Best TV Miniseries - The Thorn Birds - Won
1984 Young Artist Awards
Best Young Actress in a Miniseries or Television Movie - Sydney Penny - Won
Colleen McCullough was born in Australia. A neuropathologist, she established the department of neurophysiology at the Royal North Shore Hospital in Sydney before working as a researcher and teacher at Yale Medical School for ten years. Her writing career began with the publication of Tim, followed by The Thorn Birds, a record-breaking international bestseller. She lives on Norfolk Island in the South Pacific with her husband, Ric Robinson.
Click to read Colleen McCollough's obituary in the New York Times from January 30, 2015.
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