Broken Branches

Description

During Gran's funeral, Megan is informed that her grandmothers' death might not have been an accident. Are there ghosts moving things in the house? Her Gran thought maybe or it could be just old age. Do ghosts kill people?
In her grandmother's will, Megan receives a valuable Irish Claddagh ring and her grandmother's house. Megan starts to have visions of past events. Did she live in another time?
Rescued by a stranger from a speeding car, Megan feels a timeless connection to her rescuer she can't explain. Together, they try to solve the mysteries that surround her Gran's death. Gran's friend, Clarissa, is also murdered. Did she have answers someone didn't want Megan to find out? Who can she trust?
Working with curious riddles left by Megan's ancestors over one hundred and fifty years before, they follow clues leading to the discovery of a lost family treasure and a future they never dreamed of

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About the Author

Author Name : Brenda M. Spalding

     Author Brenda Spalding was brought up in Newton, Massachusetts and now lives in Bradenton Florida. She is an active member of the community. Brenda recently retired from Art Center Sarasota and has devoted her time to writing and helping other authors. She is a founding member of ABCBooks4Children&adults, Inc. a networking 501c3 organization helping other authors and illustrators in her area. She is a member of the National League of American Pen Women, The Florida authors Connection, Gulf Coast Sisters in Crime and the Florida Writers Association. Brenda is a prolific writer with six children's books and three adult novels to her credit In her role of helping other authors she has started her own micro-publishing company Heritage Publishing. Us.

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My great grandfather was a Slave

My grandfather was a Native

My grandmother was a Bantu

My mother was a kaffir, Nigga, Negro

Names imposed by shackles

But an Afrakan I am

An identity my forefathers were deprived of

 

An identity I am now polluting with the fumes of cigarettes

In dope I am giving it another face

In ecstasy I am giving it a comical image

My drunken stupor gives it an unstable belonging

My borrowed accent contradicts what it represents

My imitated dress code conceals its beauty

My adopted religion undermines my intellectual prowess

My language deafens my ancestors

My values are valueless

My mind is discriminatory

It repels anything indigenous

Whilst absorbing all that is alien

None can identify with me

Even those I am emulating

Patriotism I reserve for my kind

I look down at my patriots

If I were xenophobic

I could have been my own victim

I pride myself in my slanted inferior education

An education promptly deleting my true history

Ignorance is my custom

I am dreaming dreams my forefathers cannot interpret

I am singing praise songs for my dying culture

I am branding a heritage

I cannot inherit

Knowledge of freedom is embedded in my subconscious

But suppressed by fear

Fear to develop my culture and identity

Fear to be rejected by the world

Fear to be different and still love myself

Yet with no identity I remain

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