Author: Sandra Hurst

Here is my interview with Sandra Hurst

/ Sandra Hurst / Leave a comment

Fiona, thank you so much for interviewing me for your blog! It’s so exciting to see the book babies expanding into the great big world!

authorsinterviews

Hello and welcome to my blog, Author Interviews. My name is Fiona Mcvie. 

Let’s get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age? 

Hi Fiona, my name is Sandra Hurst and I’m a Sci/fi – Fantasy author, thank you for the opportunity to talk to you and your readers today! I’m 31 years old with 25 years of experience (okay I’m 56).

Fiona: Where are you from? 

I was born in Nottingham England and moved to northern Canada when I was 8 years old.

Fiona: Tell us a little about yourself.

I live in Calgary, Alberta with my husband and son, both of whom I love dearly, and have put up for sale on e-bay when their behaviour demanded it.  My day to day life is a balance between my outside life as a paralegal counsellor and my inner life as an author/poet. In…

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Cyn’s First Halloween.

/ Sandra Hurst / Leave a comment

When Cyn Redman moved to Peace as a pre-teen she was sure that she would never fit in. Small town life was just not for her.  Enjoy this short story based in the world of  The Peace Novella Series.  For more of Cyn's 'grownup' life, click on the image below. Cyn's First Halloween “Mom, why … Continue reading Cyn’s First Halloween.

#Friday Fiction 100-Word Challenge / “The Girl Who Takes Pictures of Locks”

/ Sandra Hurst / 1 Comment

I really liked this blog post by Jimmie Bise. Locks have such strong symbolism and what they keep out, or even more importantly – what they keep in, sometimes means the difference between life and death to the soul.

Jimmie Writes

The Girl Who Takes Pictures of Locks

Fiction Friday Some Locks Maybe.jpg

Charly took pictures of locks, any lock she saw. She kept them on her smartphone and scrolled through them every night before she went to bed. She called each of them by name and whispered words of strength over each one. She knew where they were, what they held.

And who they protected.

She always finished with the same picture — five battered padlocks on a rusted orphanage gate. These were the oldest, brave locks and true, the ones she knew best. Her heroes. They had held out the horrors. They had saved her life.

And she would never fail them.

This story is based, very loosely, on a dear friend whose pictures of locks have become a particular delight of mine. No even bother trying to sort out why — my delights are often completely inexplicable to anyone who isn’t actually me…

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