Life as Amber knows it

"An adventure in the making…"

Monthly Archives: October 2014

Never Again, by Rosa Storm ~~~ Get Yours Today!!!

white_never_again copyNever Again, by Rosa Storm

Publication date: October 13th 2014

Genres: Horror, Psychological, Violence



Life can get difficult, but we always have the chance to change it. Jen decided she had enough and chose to do something to change her situation. Relationships can be hard to keep if you don’t take care of the other person. Never Again is a short story that explores the human mind and actions when we feel desperate, and the chilling consequences that some behaviours can provoke.

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CintaBlogRosa Storm is a Spanish writer who has loved the written word since she discovered she was able to read books at age 5. Since then, she has become a bookworm and reads around 100 books every year. She also writes, every day, compulsively, even in the middle of the night. You cannot control when inspiration hits you, can you? She writes in English because she is convinced that in a previous life she was British, so writing in English feels more natural to her than writing in her native language. Yes, she is crazy like that. She now spends her time with her amazing husband, author Mark Stone, between Spain and Phoenix, Arizona, which is great because the long flights let her catch up with her long list of books to read.

Rosa Storm is the author of “Never Again”, a chilling short story included in the anthology of scary tales titled “Satan’s Holiday”, and “Deadly Company”, a horrifying short story included in the anthology of urban legends “Don’t Look Back”. She also writes award-winning collections of short stories for children under her real name, Cinta Garcia de la Rosa.

Where to find Cinta:


IndieVengeance Day 2014

The Midnight Writer

Two weeks ago I had the pleasure of meeting my friends in Dallas for a book signing. I hit the open road with a pocketful of dreams and enough Diet Coke to kill a rhinoceros. Stacey Roberts and I carpooled from Kentucky. We soon found ourselves in Memphis, Tennessee.

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We followed the red brick road… which isn’t really brick.

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Soon, our eyes beheld the Mighty Mississippi.


And I saw these restrooms in Texas.

Cheddars1 Scott Morgan, Stacey Roberts, James Peercy, me.

Later that night we arrived in Dallas and met up at Cheddar’s.

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The next day everyone signed books at Cafe Brazil and read from their respective works. This is Stacey Roberts reading from his book: Trailer Trash, With a Girl’s Name.

Photograph courtesy of Jacqueline E. Smith

Me reading from my book, Inhale the Night.


More books!


Jacqueline E. Smith had one of the coolest tables. The flowers were a nice…

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Frankly, I feel like shit…

You know, I was planning on writing a post about the awesome trip I recently took to the Four Corners region to take part in the wedding of Cinta Garcia de la Rosa and Mark Stone. And I was gonna write about IndieVengeance Day 2014 and the awesome that went on while hanging with my friends for a full weekend of book signings and wine drinking and general merriment. And then I was going to write something poetic and lovely about my trip to game two of the world series.

Ain’t happening though. Frankly? I feel like shit.

We finished clearing out my dad’s house yesterday. For those of you who have lost a parent (or parents), you know where I’m coming from, especially if you were close with your parent(s). For those of you who are lucky enough to still have one or both, enjoy them, even at their most annoying. Because the past three months have taught me that grief is a process, and one that just loves to kick you in the crotch at any moment, generally at the worst possible moment.

Not long after Dad passed, a friend of mine asked me if I’d hit the point where I wanted to just crawl into the furniture. And then told me when I hit that point, I’d start feeling better. Then I’d feel like shit again. Then I’d feel better. He was right.

Helllllloooooooo bi-polarville! I’ll be moving in until further notice.

It’s the little things that are what drag me back into it: how I’ll never again give my father shit over his compulsion towards never throwing away expired food (oldest expired item? a jar of cumin from the 1970’s), never argue with him over our differing religious beliefs, never be annoyed by his opinions on how I should be living my life according to what worked for him versus what works for me.

The last dump truck full of items we threw away drove away yesterday at 3:30 p.m. And what was in there? That’s not what’s important. What’s important are the memories we built together as a father and daughter: him teaching me how to type, our weekly dinners when I was a teenager so he could get one on one time, my picking up lunch and us debating (for fun) some hot button issue, the way he loved my children, his grandchildren. On Friday evening, my Uncle Tom and my cousin Diana asked if I wanted them to stay while I went through some of the items that were piled up to be discarded or donated. And I answered honestly that no, I was just stalling. Me grabbing another nick-nack or photo was my way of fighting the inevitable: the reality that my father is no longer with us. He’s not in those things I boxed up to save and hold onto.

We close on the house tomorrow, a house I’ve always felt 50/50 about: on the one hand, it was where we lived since 1989, and I could at any moment walk in and just sit down at the kitchen table. After tomorrow, it will belong to another family. On the other hand, so much bad happened in that house: my mother’s abusive side, my parents divorce, my recovery and shelter from the end of my first marriage. Yet it was still home, as painful as certain aspects of it were. And after tomorrow, its gone.

So I feel like shit. And I’m certainly not the only person to have ever been right where I’m at right now.

But it certainly feels that way.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

The Reading

I recently planned and hosted “IndieVengeance Day 2014, Revenge of the Indies” and had the massive blessing and joy of several days with some of my favorite people on this planet. To call them friends would be an understatement: they truly are my family, and I’m missing them terribly now that the weekend is over. I’ll be posting a blog detailing the event more fully at a later date (my lucky self gets to go to the World Series, so I’ll be off the grid for the rest of the week), but I’d like to write about our first night’s event.

Simple idea really, IVD. Get a bunch of Indie Authors together, find a spot to host a signing, and off we go. This year, we added readings into the mix to give those attending the event as guests a preview of our work. Since my short story fiction really isn’t all-age friendly, I spent several days over the summer combing through my work to find the poems that would be age friendly for those at the event that are too young to hear my harsher work. And then I put it together in a single run print on demand book to be used at signings when I’d need to read my work out loud.

The book was printed and delivered by the end of June.

At the start of the first event, which was Friday night, I really had no idea of what to read. So I asked my friend Jackie Smith how many poems she thought I should read. She told me seven. I jokingly grumbled about it, but went with the number since it seemed like a good length of reading material. I flipped through my book of poems, found one that was good to start with, and when the time came for me to read, I nervously stood up, trying to fight down the anxiety I always get when I need to speak publicly. Leading up to the time I was scheduled to read, several of the other signing authors were ribbing me, asking me to read a poem that’s on what we’ll politely call the adult side of things. And I’ll admit, I got a kick out of having to repeatedly say no, and them laughing and urging me to read the most graphic of the few like that.

I stood up, and read two poems, and when I got to the third, I stopped, and said, “I’m not reading that…” Considering the back and forth goofing off that had taken place in the last hour, it was understandable that everyone in the room started laughing, assuming it was a more adult poem than I’d intended to read. But it wasn’t. And for some reason, I felt the need to explain. So, in the presence of my friends, and a few guests who had shown up for the event, I explained that I would go ahead and read the poem, but that for those who didn’t know, I had lost my father over the summer, and the poem was about him.

At The Window Again

I want to wait for you at the window again
Wait to see your headlights turn
And flicker against
The path to our front door
I want to spring out
And have you pretend
To be surprised I was kneeling
At the window again
I want to see your joy
At the very fact of my life
Want to see your pride
That I’m there to draw breath
I want to wait for you at the window again
When tomorrow was thirty years away
And I only bore a single name

You see, I’ve had a very hard time dealing with the death of my father. And I hadn’t remembered placing that poem within the selection of poetry I’d made for the book. Coming across it like I did was very much a gut-punch, because I’ve been missing him terribly the closer we get to finalizing his estate. And seeing that poem, those words that I wrote to my father before a particularly dangerous surgery well over a year ago hit me very hard. There I was, standing up in front of a small crowd, reading my work. And he was not there to witness his daughter doing what she had long dreamed of: becoming an author and being an author. My mind flashed back to when I was seventeen and the Plano Star Courier published an essay I wrote about my grandmother. The day the essay was printed, Dad rushed around getting as many copies of the paper as he could out of pride in his daughter’s gift of the written word. He beamed for weeks after that essay was printed, and bragged about it for years after. A copy of the clipping from the paper sat on his bookshelf in a frame until the day we took it down and boxed it up a few weeks ago.

And despite how badly it hurt to read that poem, still, I read it, to honor my father. And though I had to pause a few times to take deep breaths and fight back tears so I could continue reading, and though I stumbled over the words several times, when I finished the poem, the room erupted in applause. And it truly touched me to know that everyone in there understood how hard it was for me to do that, to read those words.

I wish my father would have had the chance to hear my read that poem aloud, that he’d of gotten the opportunity to see what I put together for IVD this year.

My father won’t get to see what I put together for IVD next year, or the year after that. He won’t get excited phone calls from me when one of my books hits the bestseller’s list. He’s gone, and nothing will change that. And while I aggravated him during his life time here on this earth, still, he was proud of me just for the simple fact I existed, that I was alive and his daughter. The best I can do from now on, and what I have been trying to do since he passed away is life my life to honor him, to experience life fully as he was unable to. He always pushed me to be courageous and put my fears on the back burner to experience life as much as possible. And when my friends and the guests at the event applauded at his poem being read, I’d done just that. I shucked my fears of crying in front of crowd of people, let myself feel everything, and read from my heart. And even though it hurt to do so, still, there was a healing in knowing that I was able to honor him with my words, that I was able to share what he meant to me.

Much Love,

Amber Jerome~Norrgard

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