Hello Readers! Today I’m happy to shine spotlight on Relatively Strange, first in paranormal series by Marilyn Messik. Check out more details of this relatively but wonderfully strange fascinating story in this post.
Relatively Strange (Strange Series Book 1) by Marilyn Messik
Genre: Paranormal / Psychological Thriller
Forced to call on resources she didn’t know she possessed and thrust headlong into the violence of a situation for which nothing could have prepared her, Stella’s suddenly face to face with the stark reality of medical experimentation and its horrifying consequences.
But in a world of uncertainties, she’s sure of one thing – this hero stuff really isn’t her. Normal, or as near as damn it is what she wants, and if that means smothering her instincts and adjusting her expectations well so be it. At least she’ll know should she slip off the wagon occasionally, it’ll be choice not chance, and to suit herself.
Isn’t it a fact though, just when you think you’ve got yourself on track, events can overtake and derail you?
Relatively Strange, the first in the Strange Series introduces Stella; her irreverent sense of humour, the conviction she always knows best and an overdeveloped sense of justice. Throw into the mix a complete inability to keep her nose out of other people’s business and some serious psi abilities, and results are as unpredictably uncomfortable as you might expect.
Add to Goodreads
For a short while, we sat and munched our crustless sandwiches in ladylike silence, but clearly it was going to be the usual boring afternoon unless a livelier note was introduced. Luckily, I knew just the person.
“I brought Beady to see you today,” I announced cheerfully “We can play fairies and witches if you like.” My mother paled.
“Who’s Beady then?” asked Stephanie without much interest.
“My invisible friend, haven’t you got one?” Stephanie chewed for a moment or two while she thought.
“No.” she said finally. And there the subject might well have safely languished and died, had it not been for Aunt Cynthia, sticking her oar in. With a light laugh she pointed out that Steph had so many real friends she’d never felt the need to make one up. Well, I’m sorry, but I took umbrage, so would you, so certainly, did Beady.
The little bronze bell next to Auntie Cynthia’s plate suddenly jerked up and swung irritably from side to side. Long and loud it rang – once, twice and then, just as it was sinking slowly down, a third time, for good measure.
“That’ll be Beady.” I said helpfully. Two pairs of horrified eyes fastened on the bell, a third pair, equally horrified, on me. Two mouths fell unattractively open on half-chewed egg and cress, another pursed into an unmistakeable and familiar wait-till-I-get-you-home shape.
And into the following, heavily pregnant pause, strode an irate Irene. A satisfyingly swift response, I felt. Flushed-faced, breathing hard and divesting herself fiercely of her apron, she was not best pleased and proceeded to put forward a couple of startlingly frank and interesting suggestions as to exactly where Auntie Cynthia could stick her bleeding bell. She went on to suggest that room might also be made there for her frigging airs and graces, her shitty wages, her stinking stew and last but certainly not least, her sodding silver candlesticks, the polishing of which apparently fell into Irene’s regular sphere of activities. Having thus made her feelings abundantly clear and giving a good trample to the abandoned apron for final emphasis, Irene swung neatly on her heel and exited, slamming the dining room door behind her. On an adjacent shelf, one of Aunt Cyn’s precious Capo di Monte pieces teetered. We all watched. I could, of course, have stopped it falling. I chose not to.
“No,” my mother muttered tersely as we made our way briskly home, “An imaginary friend wasn’t a bad thing as such. However, it was precisely because she was imaginary that people such as Auntie Cynthia,” last seen pouring herself a recuperative glass of sherry with a shaking hand, “Were entitled to be somewhat startled if she suddenly started doing things.”
“But,” I protested, trotting to keep up with her agitated stride and grasping at last with relief exactly wherein lay the problem, “It wasn’t really Beady, it was me.”
“Oh sweetheart, I know.” she said. And she sighed heavily and then, unexpectedly she gave a little snort.
“It’s wasn’t funny..” she said, “And I’m certainly not laughing, young lady.” but inside her head, she kept seeing the gob-smacked faces on Aunt C and Steph and her mouth twitched all the way home, whenever she thought I wasn’t looking. I don’t remember going round there for tea again.
About Marilyn Messik
Marilyn was a regular feature and fiction writer for national magazines when her children were small. She set up her first business from home, selling toys, books and party goods, before opening first one shop then another. When she sold both shops, she moved into the world of travel, focusing on B & B’s and Country Inns in New England, USA. Her advisory, planning and booking service flourished and she concurrently launched a publishing company, producing annual, full-colour accommodation guides to the areas.
In 2007 she set up a copywriting consultancy, to help businesses shape their messages to optimum effect. She’s blogged for The Telegraph online; published the Vintage Ladies Collection; written four Business Books and four Paranormal Thrillers. She’s been married to her very patient husband for more years than he deserves, and they have two children, five grandchildren and, somewhat to their surprise, several granddogs.
What do you think about the book? Have you read this book already or any book in this series? Are you going to add it to TBR? Share your thoughts in the comment-box below.
Follow me on–