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Patricia Crossley

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Member Since: Before 2003


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My occasional newsletter will be full of snippets:News about new books and stories, information on free downloads from my web site, announcements of contests and profiles of the winners. Each month I feature an author so you can find more great books, and I publish a 'postcard' short story. You could send me a tip or a short article and see your name in the next issue.

Click on to see a sample letter.
Newsletter Dated: 9/12/2003 6:17:47 AM

Subject: Greetings from Patricia Crossley (second part)

This month I am introducing you to three writers: Alex Domokos, who has written an account of his life under the Nazi occupation; PhyllisAnn Welsh who writes romance and fantasy, and

Alex Domokos ( says:
The release of my future fiction novel - Prometheus - went very well. It was on the McNally Robinson Bookstore best seller list for two weeks in a row. Please visit my site for a sample chapter.

Here's the 500 word extract from Alex's biography - The Price of Freedom.

Buying information:

e-book - Hard Shell Word Factory
price - $6.00
author website-

During the siege of Buda, circumstances forced me to fight on two fronts. It was a no-win situation. The men of my unit felt no desire to be heroes, only to remain decent men. But to remain decent we must stand between two evils, the Nazis on one hand and the advancing Communists on the other. It was a
dangerous position to be in.

While on patrol in our district, I heard unconfirmed rumors of sporadic typhoid outbreaks. My panic was understandable then, when I realized my wife, Mimi, had developed symptoms of that illness. Frantic, I searched the neighborhood for a doctor.

I knew of a Jewish doctor who had changed his name, Bergmann, to the Hungarian sounding, Banfalvi. He had lived nearby, but I feared he might have fled the Capital before the Nazis took over. To my surprise, I found him in his old location, operating a makeshift aid station in his basement.

When I arrived I saw a motorcycle engine running in the yard generating electricity, while a light bulb at the end of an extension cord provided light to the shelter where Dr. Banfalvi's improvised operating theater functioned. After he finished dressing the wound of a soldier he secured the door, decorated with a huge "Red Cross" sign, and was ready to follow me to examine Mimi.

The distance between the two buildings was no more than two blocks, but to negotiate that distance in February of 1945 in Buda was like running a gauntlet. The Russian pilots were able to fly low, since our anti-aircraft guns lay silent for lack of ammunition. They could hunt down anybody stupid enough to move among the rubble. We were forced, therefore, to hide in the ruins and wait impatiently until the pilots became bored with the game of hide and seek. To make a run for it was impossible. Shattered glass, twisted streetcar rails, loose electrical wires entangled with bricks, concrete chunks and collapsed walls were dangerous obstacles.

As I knew the doctor's true identity I asked him how he could be so nonchalant when Nazi headhunters were roaming the city? He pulled out one of the Swedish passports issued by the Wallenberg mission, a document that was supposed to be respected by everyone. The Hungarian authorities of the former regime honored it, but the Nazis, who had taken over the government on October 15, 1944, did not. I had been informed that the Hungarian Nazi Party, called the Arrow-Cross, had issued instructions to the goon squads to shoot anybody who showed such a passport. They considered it direct proof of
Jewish origin.

"Uncle Joseph," I addressed him, as I used to do in the past, "Please, never ever show that paper to anyone. I'll issue a document for you that identifies you as the doctor for my unit in the field. And wear your Red Cross armband at all times, that's better protection than any paper."

Luckily, Mimi did not have typhoid fever, and from that day until the fall of Buda, one of my soldiers stood guard in front of Dr. Banfalvi's operating room.

Next is PhyllisAnn Welsh
Titles: THE BINDING, Book I of The Silvan Wars Saga
THE CHOOSING, Book II of The Silvan Wars Saga
Elf lord, Rendolin has done the unspeakable. At the direction of his god, he stole a human woman from Earth. How could he guess she would steal his heart in return? Now he must convince the sea elves that Kory is vital to their survival. Will his people ever accept her? If they don’t, can they
ever survive without her? THE BINDING, Book I of The Silvan Wars Saga ~fantasy/romance for all your senses.

Headstrong warrior, Captain Feenix is in the tightest spot of her long and checkered career. Naked, her sword and dagger gone, she’s at the mercy of the elements and a half-elf with ice-blue eyes. How dare he capture her and carry her off into the home of the enemy, the night elves? However, a bad situation can be turned to advantage. All she has to do is lose the chains, discover the elves’ plans, find some decent clothes, and make good her escape. But she forgot to include in her reckoning a mischievous god and the entrancing charm of her sexy captor. THE CHOOSING, Book II of The Silvan Wars Saga ~ fantasy/romance for all your senses.

You can read excerpts on the website.


Come to The Romance Club's BOOK FAIRE!

Here's some of what you'll find at the BOOK FAIRE!

~ Participating authors... Viriginia Henley... Edith Layton... Claire Delacroix... Linda O'Brien... May McGoldrick... Nancy Gideon... Rebecca Brandewyne... Stephanie Mittman... Barbara Bretton... Dolly Parton...and many more!

~ Purchase AUTOGRAPHED books from participating BOOK FAIRE authors

~ Special discounts on FEATURED SELECTIONS

~ CHARITY: help us raise money for children's literacy!

~ SILENT AUCTIONS! autographed items from authors and celebrities!

~ Interactive loops hosted by BOOK FAIRE authors



To enter the BOOK FAIRE, go to



a Kart for Lindy:

Decelerating into the pits at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway during the “500” is a very tricky thing. You’d really rather pit under yellow when everyone is bunched up behind the pace car motoring along at a lumbering ninety mph or so. You lose much less time that way. But sometimes it’s just not to be. Sometimes the race is running green flag and gangbusters when your radio crackles, “Fuel and tires!” and you just don’t have any choice.
“Rats!” yelled Lindy O’Brian. Her own expletive disappeared in the wind blast without her hearing it. She was bound to lose a couple of positions at least. As she roared past the pits at nearly two hundred and thirty mph she pressed the mike button on the wheel, “Okay fuel.”
The BMW was handling well and she barely let off the throttle at all in turn one. As she dove into the apex the centrifugal force tried to shove her through the right side of the car: one-point-five gees, two-point-five, a hair over three lateral gees. Without the tether strap connecting her helmet to her left underarm, her neck muscles would wear out after a couple of laps. She accelerated slightly through the short chute then dove low into turn two. Exiting the turn she followed the groove close to the wall to keep her speed up--so close she could see the reflection of her chrome wheel in the white-painted cement.
She immediately checked her mirrors and began to move toward the bottom of the track. The pit entrance was still a mile away but her Beemer was gobbling up that distance every seventeen seconds. She decelerated down the backstretch then really hit the binders in the short chute between turn three and four and dropped into the pit entrance lane. By the time she passed the entrance the BMW was down to “only” freeway speed. She spotted the long-handled sign extended out in her pit space by a crew member and cranked the wheel left, then right, stopping the BMW’s winged snout within inches of the sign. The crew worked the jacks and she felt the car lift. Impact wrenches rattled and crew members yanked off the two front wheels, shoved on two new ones. Lindy accepted a squirt bottle from Burt, took a long drag of water, handed it back, all the while blipping the throttle to make absolutely sure the eight hundred horsepower German engine didn’t stall. The wrenches rattled again and crew members tossed them toward the pit wall as she felt the car drop. She snicked the gearbox into first. When the sign disappeared back over the wall, she pressed the throttle and rode the clutch out. The engine screamed momentarily, caught, and she launched out of her pit space, fishtailing slightly. Even through her nomex face protection and helmet she could smell burning rubber. She grinned to herself. Pedal to the metal. She held to the pit speed limit in second until she passed the exit, checked her mirrors, and ran rapidly through the gears allowing the Teutonic watch behind her to run up nearly twelve thousand revs in each one…
“Waaaaaaaaaaaaah *snick* waaaaa-aaaaaaaaah *snick* waaaaaaaaaah…”
~ * ~
“Mmmmf.” Lindy reached for the clock and killed the blaring alarm, which a moment ago (or an hour?) had been the sound of an Indy car. Her Indy car. She flopped back on the pillow and rubbed her eyes. “Now that was totally weird.” She smiled just the same.

\Wings Press\A Kart for Lindy

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