Apr 22, 2016

Blog Blast w/ Giveaway!: The Pigeon's Tale by S.A. Mahan

Hello Readers! Another fun day of Book Content for You!
Today I have the pleasure of sharing an excerpt from a fantasy/ quasi sci-fi book for all ages

I hope you enjoy the excerpt and have a chance to check out the book. 

  The Pigeon's Tale by S.A. Mahan

About the Book
An extraordinary young pigeon.  An epic mission to save the world.
Young Walter is a pigeon living a simple life in a rancher's coop when an attack sees him barely escape with his life to the big city.  When he heads south for the winter, he's adopted by a family of ranchers...and his life is never the same.
Walter bonds especially well with the scientist grandfather who begins working with the pigeon on a secret project in which nothing is as it seems.  As a pending catastrophe looms, Walter learns all about the ancient history and hidden abilities of his kind - and comes face to face with his own destiny.
Surrounded by forces beyond his understanding, the fate of the earth hangs in the balance as Walter faces a struggle that challenges everything he knows.

Excerpt from A Pigeon’s Tale by S. A. Mahan 
Chapter Eight – The Eatin’ Place
“Well, Squeaker, first things first,” Old Dude hollered at me above the air noise. We were flying at treetop level along the road, back the way I had come earlier.
“I’m goin’ ‘ta learn ya’,” he continued, “the fine art of scroungin’ the best grub in town, while it’s still warm-like and fresh!”
He flew closer to me, his frayed feathers fluttering in the wind, and talked lower.
“Now Squeaker, don’t go a tellin’ nobody ‘bout this place. This is our private secret!”
“I won’t tell anybody,” I promised.
“See them human folks getting out’a that little Subaru?” Old Dude asked.
I was not sure what a Subaru was, but I did see two people opening the doors of a small car and climbing out.
“Them?” I asked.
“Yep,” Old Dude nodded, “don’t you pay no ‘tention to them big-uns! We won’t git even a morsel out’a them! Bigun’s don’t drop hardly nothin’. Look how big they are, they eat every bite of their grub! We’re awaitin’ on the little-uns to show up. That’s our real grub-ticket!”
Old Dude and I perched on top of a big red and yellow sign that shined in the sun. Old Dude called the big, shiny building below us the ‘eatin’ place’. It was a building with a lot of giant windows and I could see humans perching and eating inside. Cars were driving around the outside of the place, and somebody inside was handing out bags through a side window. The whole place had such a heavenly smell to it.
As the sun climbed higher up into the sky, Old Dude cued me in on the fact that people with little-uns would soon start showing up. And they did, a steady stream of them. As soon as the little-uns were freed from their cars, they screamed and starting running around and around like a bunch of crazy little hatchlings.
“Git yerself ready, Prince Squeaker,” Old Dude whispered to me with a serious sideways glance, “see that big glass coop out front?”
I did. It looked to be about half the size of old Rancher George’s barn, taller than the rest of the building, and filled with all kinds of weird looking contraptions.

“That there’s called the children’s play area,” Old Dude pointed out, “and I am the only pigeon this side of Detroit that knows how to git in there. Purty soon, the little-uns will all go out there to that play area. An’ they’ll be a droppin’ grub left and right. If we’re lucky, one of ‘em will drop a sandwich. If we’re real lucky, one of ‘em will drop a whole ice cream!”
I bobbed my head up and down in partial understanding.
“Now, when we git in,” Old Dude warned quietly, “make sure you stick right with me. An’ watch out fer that mean googly eyed boy that shows up with that there broom. He’ll try to hit ya with that broom sure as The Great White Stork makes the sun rise up in the mornin’. Almost nailed me yesterday!”
Sure enough, the little-uns started to flood into the play area, juggling their food in both hands.
“Now, pay special close ‘tention, Squeaker,” Old Dude said, “them little-uns ain’t really all that hungry. Their big folks think they are and they give them tons of grub! Them little-uns is gonna set their grub down on them little tables, but don’t you get near a table. That’ll rouse ole broom boy fer sure. Stay low, crawl in, and get the grub that hits the ground! Plenty’ll be a hittin’ the ground, I promise. It’s usually them french fries first.”
I had no idea what french fries were, but I was hungry enough to eat anything.
“Let’s fly!” Old Dude squawked, and took off ahead of me. I was amazed at him. He flew strongly, like a bird half his age.
The play area reminded me of my coop, only made of glass and metal bars and hatches so the little-uns couldn’t make any escape. It reminded me of home. I realized that no matter the species, bird or man, somebody always found a way to cage you up.
The little-uns did not seem to mind, though. They were running and climbing onto the play contraptions, making all kinds of happy screams and squeaks.
Old Dude led me to a small gap at the top of the building, where one metal edge had pulled away from another beneath the roof. With pigeon-like stealth, we squeezed in.
“Now jest drop on down the ground,” he whispered to me, “there’s already a whole bunch of them french fries layin’ there on the ground. You don’t even have to peck at ‘em, Squeaker. You can swaller ‘em whole in one gulp!”
I followed Old Dude down into the little-uns sanctuary, and immediately had to start hopping around to avoid getting smashed by the little-uns running feet. They were everywhere!
“Keep your sights on me at all times,” Old Dude warned, “eat all ya can, an’ we fly out first sign a’ trouble!”
I agreed, and gobbled up a whole french fry. It was a little salty, but downright tasty. I looked for more. One little-un was running along, dropping french fries like he was leaving a trail, so Old Dude and I followed him.
The little-uns really did have trouble holding on to their food. It was hitting the ground everywhere. I looked up inside the other part of the building, where the big humans were eating. They were not dropping anything. They were eating every bite of their food while they watched the little-uns.
Something big hit the ground and Old Dude rushed me over to it.
“Cheeseburger!” He exclaimed, “Dee-light-ful!”
We pecked at it and I have to admit that it was downright wonderful. I was starting to get half-way gorged, but Old Dude acted like he was just getting started.
We polished off most of the cheeseburger when something caught Old Dude’s eye.
“Hey, Squeaker,” he said, catching my attention, “looky at that little-un over there.”
I spotted what he was looking at. It was an extra small little-un with long, curly hair, carrying something big with both of her hands. She was having trouble walking and balancing the thing at the same time.
“That there’s a big ‘ole ice cream cone,” Old Dude cackled as he explained, “vaniller, looks like to me. Now just keep on a-watchin’ while this plays out, Squeaker.”
Halfway across the play area, the little-un stumbled, and the ice cream started to tumble. It all unfolded before me in slow-motion. The ice cream hit the ground and the little-un went running back out to the big people, screaming and crying.
“Jackpot!” Old Dude yelled, “This is your lucky day, Squeaker! Let’s grab us some dee-sert!”
The ice cream was better than mother’s pigeon milk. I could have stayed all day slurping up that delicious vanilla delight. Before we were half done, though, my neck feathers prickled and I jumped, just in time to dodge the slap of a broom.
“Broom boy!” Old Dude screamed, “Watch out, Squeaker!”
Everywhere I hopped, the broom followed, swishing and slapping like the sweep of a terrible night owl’s wings. I danced and dodged all over the play area, hearing the laughter of the little-uns and catching glimpses of the evil face of the broom boy. He definitely had pigeon murder on his mind.
In a daring act of bravery, Old Dude flew right into the boy’s face, distracting him, and giving me my chance to get away. We met up at the gap under the roof and flew back to the red and yellow sign.
“Not bad, Squeaker,” Old Dude rasped, breathing heavily, “yer showed some good solid moves down there.”
“Thanks, Old Dude,” I managed to gasp. I could not have escaped without him.


The Rules
US only
Must be 13 with permission or an old person like me :P
Enter via the Rafflecopter below :)

The Prize
1 Signed Paperback of The Pigeon's Tale

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About the Author
S. A. Mahan lives in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado with her husband and yellow lab. She enjoys hiking, and often is able to conceive of difficult plot solutions while climbing through the hills.  S. A. Mahan is also a fiber artist who loves to knit, spin wool, and weave fabrics the way she intertwines her story plots. She loves to travel to far off places and to hear from her readers.

Mahan is the author of CHRISSIE’S RUN, a young adult dystopian thriller and finalist in the 2015 Dante Rosetti Young Adult Fiction Awards, and THE BABY SEA TURTLE, a young children’s book that was a finalist in the Colorado Book Awards for 2015, and received a bronze medal in the Reader's Favorite Book Awards in 2015. A PIGEON'S TALE is her third novel.

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