NEW~Autobiography by Steve Foreman

NEW RELEASE MAY 1, 20141!

The Number One Best-Selling Autobiography of Someone You've Never Heard of by Steve Foreman

#gypsyshadow #nonfiction #autobiography

http://www.amazon.com/Number-Best-Selling-Autobiography-Someone-Youve-ebook/dp/B00K2GU8XQ

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-number-one-best-selling-autobiography-of-someone-youve-never-heard-of-steve-foreman/1119395622

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/434203

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/SteveForeman.html#Autobiography

One man’s journey from the innocence of childhood in rural England to a life of adventure in the heart of Africa. A killer Autobiography by Steve Foreman. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/SteveForeman.html#Autobiography

An ordinary man on an extraordinary journey.

When he was only nine years old, Steve Foreman spent almost one year confined to an intensive care ward suffering with life-threatening acute renal failure. Even at that young age he was dreaming of going to Africa to work with endangered wildlife.

In 1992, more than thirty years later, that dream came true.

In the interim, Steve followed careers as a soldier, prison officer, private investigator and a security operative with a few odd jobs thrown in along the way. In his sixty-odd years on this planet he has taken part in many adventurous activities, including motorcycling, caving, rock climbing, foreign expeditions, mountain climbing, SCUBA diving, parachuting, anti-poaching, gun running, drug smuggling and undercover surveillance. As a published freelance writer and magazine editor, his work has appeared in many magazines and journals. Over the past twenty years, Steve has had many adventures and misadventures in the wild places of Africa, including working as a safari guide & mountain leader and as a security operative. Steve has led an incredibly diverse life, full of polar extremes that have ranged from the heights of serving his Queen and Country, philanthropic acts and saving endangered wildlife—down to the depths of criminality.

Woven through this ever-changing life is such a gamut of mistakes and mishaps, triumphs and tragedies, bizarre incidents, ridiculous situations and myriad sexual exploits—and so many pivotal moments—that it leaves one wondering how one could cram so much into a single life. The story is at turns humorous, tragic, ridiculous, exciting and sad; but above all it is honest.

Word Count: 138000

Pages to Print: 367  /414 in print

Price: $5.99   /$18.99 in print

EXCERPT:
My memories of those days are like the pieces of a recently broken church window; all are there, but cast about in a profusion of jagged shards—some big, some small, some glinting brightly in the sunbeams now entering unhindered through the cold stone arch, others partially hidden in the shadows, only to be seen when the flickering light of recall passes by, illuminating them, briefly, as if in a dream.

The fondest and most easily recalled scenes from the stage play of my childhood are those where I am the sole human actor. I was often alone; lying in a field, my eyes squeezed shut against the unbearably blue sky with the smell of lush green grass all around and the piping, high-altitude song of a lark, invisible against the cloudless expanse above me; alone; sitting on the edge of a secluded pond, while around me the insects buzz and chirr their meaningless symphonies in a harmony of noise that enhances rather than disturbs the peace; alone; pushing my way along a tangled pathway following an unfamiliar stream—jam jar and fishing nets my explorer’s only weapons; alone . . . yet seeking companionship.

There is a magic world to which only children have the key. As we grow older, that world does not cease to exist; it just fades away, and, if we are not careful and we lose sight of the key, it becomes completely lost to us. The Key is the innocence of childhood; the open minded acceptance of all one sees, even without knowledge, which is the break in the veil that shrouds the ever-present magic; a magic that is almost tangible in the world of the child.

Did I really believe that I was a naturalist, with my fishing nets and butterfly nets; made from Mum’s old stockings and coat-hanger wire (only the bits of smelly pondweed stuck in the seams of one net identified its individual use)? Did I really believe that I would see a hoopoe, a crested newt or a golden eagle? Were Camberwell Beauties and green lizards really within my grasp? In that part of England? Probably not. However, to me as a child they were all there, having just taken flight, or dived into a pond, or crawled under the bark of a fallen tree, just seconds before I arrived on the scene. Even the russet flanks of the red deer were imagined, being just errant rays of sunlight falling upon some brown leaves and glimpsed fleetingly through a gap in the tangled undergrowth. I was happy in the warm embrace of ignorance. Yet it was not all a dream: the world was real and I was content with my tadpoles, cabbage whites and hedge sparrows. I was happy with such exciting finds as the blue feather that had fallen from a noisy jay and had settled on the mossy bank of the secret stream.

Like an intrepid explorer of the African bush, I would struggle through undergrowth so thick it was impossible to pass without snagging my fishing net on some clutching bramble and leaving my legs covered in scratches and tiny beads of blood. With nets held high and the old jam-jar bouncing against my thigh on its string handle, I would push my way deeper into my secret wood, passing familiar oaks and other trees whose name I did not know, coming at last to my secret stream, where the crested newts hid from my view and the kingfishers stayed huddled deep in their tunnelled nests until I departed once more. I knew they were there of course, just as I knew that behind my back swallowtails flitted by and golden orioles peered at me from high branches.

This wonderful feeling of being at one with nature never left me . . . in fact; years later as a mature adult, I was still experiencing the same thrills as when I was a child . . .

My Journey by Jim Woods

NEW RELEASE MAY 1, 2014!

My Journey by Jim Woods

#gypsyshadow #autobiography #hunting

http://www.amazon.com/My-Journey-Jim-Woods-ebook/dp/B00K2EV8VE

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/my-journey-jim-woods/1119395013

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/434196

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/JimWoods.html#MyJourney

Born by the side of the road, Jim Woods went on to be a writer and an adventurous big game hunter. My Journey by Jim Woods. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/JimWoods.html#MyJourney

Jim Woods was a sports hunter writer, outdoorsman and game hunter. Follow his journey from his early beginnings in the Navy through many hunting adventures, both in the Eastern and Western hemispheres as he searches for and bags trophy game.

Word Count: 98600

Pages to Print: 272

Price: $5.99

EXCERPT:

A Long Walk Home

This account of my birth is enhanced family verbal history—enhanced because I don’t know precisely what dialogue was spoken, although the gist of it is faithful to what I’ve been told. I’m not certain that my mother remembered exactly either, and quite likely recalled and told it a bit differently each time I heard it from her. However, the story is as I remember it being told to me, and of course I have no personal memory of the events.

“Virgull! [My father, Virgil Neff Woods] Ah kain’t go no futher!”

Already some fifteen steps ahead of her, he deliberately took two more as though he didn’t hear, and then disgustedly set down the two battered and mismatched suitcases. He unslung the water jug hanging by the rope loop from his shoulder, and turned to face her.

Her streaked, blonde, straight, sweat-matted hair clung to her colorless features. She hadn’t put on lipstick in four days. Even her normally blue eyes were dusky gray.

The tattered sweater, once blue like her eyes, now faded by the years and grayed by the dust filtering upward from her every step, hung limply on her shoulders. The stretched sleeves covered half of her hands so that only her fingers were exposed below the frayed cuffs. She had needed the wrap in the coolness of the morning when they started out just after first light. Now at midday in mid-September, the Arkansas weather was steamy. Still, it was easier to wear the sweater than to carry it and the sniffling boy too.

Her dress once had been a bright flowered print. She traded and coaxed cloth from neighbors until she had enough of the multicolored flour sacks in the same pattern to make the only maternity dress she had ever owned. She had worn it while pregnant with the boy, now in her arms, two years ago. Threadbare and almost bleached out, once again it stretched taut across her swollen stomach. The soles of her flimsy sandals gave way to the piercing of every pebble in the road, and her feet were bruised and dirty.

“We can make six more miles today,” he objected gruffly, then relented to the persuasion of her silent tears.

Under the refuge of a hickory tree just turning to yellow alongside the grassy roadside ditch, he fished cigarette makings from the bib pocket of his overalls. To conserve tobacco, he packed the paper loosely from the Prince Albert can, twisted the ends to keep the cherished narcotic in place, and then popped a wooden match into flame under his grimy thumbnail. When the paper flared and the tobacco glowed, he stuck the half-burned match to the grass and twigs she had gathered for a cook-fire.

He appreciated the tree that sheltered them, but cursed the forest around Hardy [Arkansas] that finally had run out, causing the mill to shut down. It had been degrading for him to go hat-in-hand to her sister’s family in Fort Smith, and beg to stay on with them until he found another job. There should be jobs. It was 1934; the Depression was turning around, the nation’s economy on the way to recovery—Mister Roosevelt said so. Then came the letter from his own sister Catherine [Pierce] in Paducah [Kentucky] telling him that the Illinois Central Shop was hiring—and paying forty cents an hour!

Paducah was three hundred miles away. Train fare was impossible for them, so they set out afoot, and had been lucky with rides while they walked along the main roads. They crossed the Ozark Plateau in three days, sometimes hitching a ride on a wagon or truck. They even slept under a roof every night; on the ground huddled in their coats in abandoned or dilapidated barns, but at least not out in the open. Now at Marked Tree, they turned northeast through the Mississippi Valley to cut across the corner of Missouri into western Kentucky. The main flow of commerce moved in the tug-towed barges on the river, so the surface roads through the region were lightly traveled. The single car going in their direction passed with a blaring horn and a flurry of dust. They had walked nine miles.

She untied the rope from around the heavier suitcase, and removed the cast iron skillet and the battered aluminum pan that long ago had lost its handle. Then she dug out the bag of flour and measured a couple of handfuls into the pan. From the Clabber Girl can, she added a pinch of baking powder, and lastly, a sprinkle from the saltbox. She twirled the ingredients briefly with her single tablespoon, and formed a depression in the center of the mixture.

He pulled the cork from the jug of tepid, cloudy water reclaimed from a farm pond back down the road, washed the dust from his mouth with a swig, and handed her the bottle. She poured some into a tin cup to give the fretful boy a drink, and then clucked soothing endearments to quiet him, while she splashed more water into the flour mixture. When it was stirred into a thin batter, she used the same spoon to measure lard from the tin to the hot skillet where it sizzled and smoked, and spooned three pools of the batter into the skillet. She then retrieved the spatula he had shaped and thinned from a broken board with his clasp knife on their first night’s stopover.

After the batter was covered in bubbles over the entire top surface, and the bubbles broke, she flipped the hoecakes over to cook them through. The edges of the bread were burnt and crisp, while the centers were plump and soft. When the first one was done, she passed it to her husband. She turned her attention to the boy, crumbling the next hoecake in a tin plate and pouring syrup over the pieces from the almost empty Log Cabin can. Then she mashed the bread into a gooey mixture and spoon-fed the boy.

She was snatching a bite of her own bread in between feeding the boy when He demanded, “Don’t we have some of that baloney left?” Setting her lunch aside, she probed once again into the kitchen suitcase and produced a greasy paper package, and remembered the meager feast of last night.

They agonized over the decision, but had spent a precious dime for their first meat in three days. It was hard to wait as the butcher sliced a few pieces from the cloth-wrapped sandwich loaf. When the man realized how desperate was their hunger, he rolled another sheet of butcher paper into a cone and filled it with crackers from the barrel out in front of the counter. They protested that they didn’t have money for crackers, too, but he insisted that crackers were free with the purchase of bologna. They carefully divided the meat and crackers into two portions and put half away for the next day, even though what they acquired was barely enough for one meal.

She unwrapped the package and gagged at the odor, and her eyes brimmed at seeing the formerly fresh pink bologna now slimy and tinged with green. The crackers, also closed up in the hot and airless suitcase, had gone stale and soft. Her weeping turned to near hysterics at the waste, and he stoically resolved not to add to her misery. He wouldn’t voice the deserved accusation that she should have known this would happen when he insisted they not eat it all at one time. Besides, she cried at everything these days.

She separated the crackers on the butcher paper in the forlorn hope that they would dry in the air and perhaps serve as an acceptable snack to pacify Bobby [My brother, Bobby Gordon Woods] before the next meal, then solemnly fried the last of the batter.

After another sip all around of the just barely drinkable water, she started to repack the suitcase, because she knew that he wouldn’t allow them to rest here for very long. As she twisted around in her sitting position to stretch for the fry pan, she felt a sharp, penetrating pain and screamed him out of his musings of the good life to come. “Virgil! The baby’s coming!”

“Don’t be silly, Ethel Marie! [My mother, Ethel Marie (Burns)Woods] You’re just upset over that damned baloney. You’re not due for two weeks and we’ll be at Cat’s way ‘fore then.”

“No! It’s coming. I know it is and it hurts! You’ve got to help me!” Her panic was real and contagious.

“What can I do?” Now, scared at his inadequacy, he was yelling at her. She had no right to involve him in this business that was her doing.

“Get the coats . . . and the boy’s diapers!”

GSP's Book of the Day June 13

Guns Over Africa by Jamel DuBois

Guns Over Africa is an affirmation of sport hunting, and in this context, hunting that contributes to the economy of developing countries within the rules of international wildlife conservation and preservation.  This does not mean that the hunter cannot enjoy the sport; it’s not all high-minded and only for these obvious commercial and conservation benefits for other than the hunter himself (or herself). For the hunter, trophy mounts and memories resulting from such experiences flash back the challenge, the competition, the failures, the successes, the remorse, and the elation of the hunt.  And they make last year, or before, when the animals were taken, seem not so long ago, and make the next hunt seem not so far away. Settings for these safari accounts are Zimbabwe and South Africa.

Word Count: 42800
Pages to Print: 130
Price: $3.99

http://www.amazon.com/Guns-Over-Africa-ebook/dp/B005D1C87O
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/guns-over-africa-jamel-dubois/1104301335
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/73614
http://www.gypsyshadow.com/JamelDuBois.html#Guns

Author/world traveler/big game hunter, Jamel DuBois, shares his safari experiences in southern Africa. Guns Over Africa by Jamel DuBois. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/JamelDuBois.html#Guns

Book of the Day May 11

Calamity Jan and the Russian by Jan Pierson

When a 61-year-old woman marries a darkly handsome Russian physicist nine years her junior, East and West collide. This multicultural love affair brings it all together with some earthy explosions of humor when this ex-communist lands in her empty nest and makes menopause feel like the measles and “starting over,” close to facing Siberia with candle in one hand and Preparation H in the other. This true story of one woman’s journey into primitive Russia with a charismatic Russian lays the Orthodox groundwork for their return to America where he begins to set up his fiefdom in her house and her life. The May-December, intercultural challenges launch two lovers on a spirited dance (not Swan Lake), a dance familiar to men and women of every age and culture who struggle against obstacles and iron curtains because they still believe in Destiny, and dare to risk everything in order to find it.

Word Count: 60000
Pages to Print: 201/196 in Print 
Price: $4.99/ Also available in print for $13.99

http://www.amazon.com/Calamity-Jan-Russian-ebook/dp/B0090R3ATC
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/calamity-jan-and-the-russian-jan-pierson/1112582096
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/217414
http://www.gypsyshadow.com/JanPierson.html

This May-December, Russian-American love story launches two people on a spirited dance–not Swan Lake–because they still believe in Destiny, and dare to risk everything in order to find it. Calamity Jan and the Russian by Jan Pierson. Available from Amazon, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/CalamityPierson

Book of the Day March 5

Calamity Jan and the Russian by Jan Pierson

When a 61-year-old woman marries a darkly handsome Russian physicist nine years her junior, East and West collide. This multicultural love affair brings it all together with some earthy explosions of humor when this ex-communist lands in her empty nest and makes menopause feel like the measles and “starting over,” close to facing Siberia with candle in one hand and Preparation H in the other. This true story of one woman’s journey into primitive Russia with a charismatic Russian lays the Orthodox groundwork for their return to America where he begins to set up his fiefdom in her house and her life. The May-December, intercultural challenges launch two lovers on a spirited dance (not Swan Lake), a dance familiar to men and women of every age and culture who struggle against obstacles and iron curtains because they still believe in Destiny, and dare to risk everything in order to find it.

Word Count: 60000
Pages to Print: 201/196 
Price: $4.99/ Also available in print for $13.99

Here's what we need you to do (Thanks in Advance!):

1. Login to Amazon
2. Click the link (under the picture)
3. By the title on Amazon there is a "like" button, click it. if you wish you can stop there, but if you want to help even more . . .
4. When you click and hover over the like button it says "share this link: via Email, Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest." Click one (two or all) of them and hit share, it should only take a couple of minutes.
5. Page down to the visible tags (Tags Customers Associate with This Product) and either click on the tags you agree with, agree with all the tags or, if you've read the book, add some tags of your own. The fastest way, of course is to click on the link that says "Agree with these tags?"
6. If you have read the book, please leave a brief review!

Amazon, for some unknown reason, keeps dropping the like button and has seemingly permanently deleted product tags, so unless you care to leave a review, there is no longer any way to help us get the word out about this book on Amazon. We encourage you to search for and buy it at Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, or on our Gypsy Shadow website and help our authors succeed, despite Amazon's bizarre treatment of authors and Indie publishers!

Book of the Day Ocrober 19

Guns Over Africa by Jamel DuBois

Guns Over Africa is an affirmation of sport hunting, and in this context, hunting that contributes to the economy of developing countries within the rules of international wildlife conservation and preservation.  This does not mean that the hunter cannot enjoy the sport; it’s not all high-minded and only for these obvious commercial and conservation benefits for other than the hunter himself (or herself). For the hunter, trophy mounts and memories resulting from such experiences flash back the challenge, the competition, the failures, the successes, the remorse, and the elation of the hunt.  And they make last year, or before, when the animals were taken, seem not so long ago, and make the next hunt seem not so far away. Settings for these safari accounts are Zimbabwe and South Africa.

 

Here's what we need you to do (Thanks in Advance!):
 
1. Login to Amazon
2. Click the link (under the picture)
3. By the title on Amazon there is a "like" button, click it. if you wish you can stop there, but if you want to help even more . . .
4. When you click and hover over the like button it says "share this link: via Email, Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest." Click one (two or all) of them and hit share, it should only take a couple of minutes.
5. Page down to the visible tags (Tags Customers Associate with This Product) and either click on the tags you agree with, agree with all the tags or, if you've read the book, add some tags of your own. The fastest way, of course is to click on the link that says "Agree with these tags?"
6. If you have read the book, please leave a brief review!
 

Book of the Day September 17

Born in Sarejevo by Snjezana Marinkovic

When first barricades and first gun shots occurred in the capitol of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Sarajevo, I was seventeen years old. It was the year 1992, and one of the worst mass killings in the history of mankind began. At that time, my family, my friends, my neighbors, and I were still unaware that we will lose all privileges related to peace. People of this country, which was called Yugoslavia, proudly holding the title of the biggest and the wealthiest Balkan country, started losing their freedom, their homes and their lives. I, as any other teen, knew about war only from movies and video games until my first encounter with those whose intention was not to act or play but to overpower, destroy and kill.

 

Here's what we need you to do (Thanks in Advance!):

1. Login to Amazon
2. Click the link (under the picture)
3. By the title on Amazon there is a "like" button, click it. if you wish you can stop there, if you want to help even more.....
4. When you click and hover over the like button it says "share this link: via email, facebook, twitter or pinterest." Click one (two or all) of them and hit share, it should only take a couple seconds.
5. Page down to the visible tags (Tags Customers Associate with This Product) and either click on the tags you agree with, agree with all the tags or, if you've read the book, add some tags of your own. The fastest way, of course is to click on the link that says "Agree with these tags?"
6. If you have read the book, please leave a brief review!