Hiya guys we have Cheryl Headford popping in with her brand new release Ari, to help show off her new book Cheryl is letting us have a peek at an excerpt, so check out this book! <3 ~Pixie~
After having known each other online for some time, writers, Benji and Ari meet at a convention.
Their attraction is both immediate and mutual.
But all is not straightforward—Ari is intersex and Benji transgender.
Together they embark on a journey.
A journey that unites families, and heals old wounds.
But not everyone is happy with the blossoming love between these two unique and special individuals.
Will an act of aggression crush the flower before it can bloom?
MY EYES slammed open to a world gone mad. Bella barked as an enormous flash of light was followed immediately by a god-awful bang and rumble that shook the house on its foundations. Before I quite got my bearings, another brilliant flash of lightning blinded me and thunder cracked and rolled down the valley. I yelled at Bella for howling, cursed her for waking me—then I checked the clock.
“Jesus. Marc, it’s ten past five. We slept in. We have to get up. Now.”
“Benji?” Marc’s sleepy voice was sharp with alarm. He cried out with terror when another flash of lightning was followed by a deep boom and the lights flickered.
“It’s okay. I’m here. It’s just a thunderstorm. We need to get going. We slept late.”
Marc jumped up and scampered around the bed to hug me tight. The dog was still whining and yipping, clearly unhappy, and the rain absolutely hammered.
“Typical,” I grumbled as I pried my little brother off me and headed for the bathroom. Marc followed, so close he tripped me.
“Whoa. You can’t go in the bathroom with me.”
“But I’m scared.” He underlined his words with a yelp when another round of thunder and lightning rolled over us.
“You can’t come in the shower, so don’t be silly. I’ll leave the door open, okay? You can sit on the stairs, or in your room.”
Marc was unhappy, but I managed to take a quick shower. As soon as he was able he came in, sat on the closed toilet, and watched me do my hair.
“You have very pretty hair.”
“What’s brought this on? You’re usually criticizing.”
“You shouldn’t complain. You should take compliments where you can get them, at your age.”
“Cheeky bugger. I’m not old.”
“You are, compared to me.”
“Only by seven years. I’m still a teenager.”
“Only for four weeks.”
“Then I’ll have to make the most of it while I can.”
CHERYL HEADFORD was born into a poor mining family in the South Wales Valleys. Until she was 16, the toilet was at the bottom of the garden and the bath hung on the wall. Her refrigerator was a stone slab in the pantry and there was a black lead fireplace in the kitchen. They look lovely in a museum but aren’t so much fun to clean.
Cheryl has always been a storyteller. As a child, she’d make up stories for her nieces, nephews and cousin and they’d explore the imaginary worlds she created, in play.
Later in life, Cheryl became the storyteller for a re-enactment group who traveled widely, giving a taste of life in the Iron Age. As well as having an opportunity to run around hitting people with a sword, she had an opportunity to tell stories of all kinds, sometimes of her own making, to all kinds of people. The criticism was sometimes harsh, especially from the children, but the reward enormous.
It was here she began to appreciate the power of stories and the primal need to hear them. In ancient times, the wandering bard was the only source of news, and the storyteller the heart of the village, keeping the lore and the magic alive. Although much of the magic has been lost, the stories still provide a link to the part of us that still wants to believe that it’s still there, somewhere.
In present times, Cheryl lives in a terraced house in the valleys with her son and her two cats. Her daughter has deserted her for the big city, but they’re still close. The part of her that needs to earn money is a lawyer, but the deepest, and most important part of her is a storyteller and artist, and always will be.