The House on Cliff Street

Cliff Street runs east west on the palisade on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. The east end faces New York City where the cliff drops off to the Hudson right after a chain link fence. The west looks out over the meadowlands of the Hackensack  and Passaic Rivers, flat and watery until reaches the hills going northwest. I understand that my paternal  grandfather and his friends built the four-family apartment house after living in a Hell’s Kitchen tenement. I lived in the House on Cliff Street until I graduated college and married. I was the first to graduate college in my father’s family. During my childhood the apartments were usually filled with family.

My grandparents, Rocco and Sarina Adamo, came from Sicily. They left the island together without two children, grandfather’s son and grandmother’s daughter to follow later. I assume they left for a better life. However, lurking in my mind is the thought that they ran from something sinister that my writer’s imagine concocts and does not really know. They had two more children together in the United States. My father, Liborio and his sister, Camella.

My grandmother worked as a seamstress of children’s coats in the garment district in New York. I must have been about four when she made my sister and me  green wool winter coats with leopard collars and cuffs and matching Dutch girl hats. My grandfather was a mason in his young life and later made a cleaning fluid which he sold up from a red wagon walking up and down the neighborhood. Both were great gardeners. In the small backyard and the fabulous in soil on the cliff, they grew tomatoes, peaches, cherries, figs, fragrant roses, peppermint, and a cacophony of chickens. At one time, they had a goat who lived in the empty lot of a few doors away. I don’t know if we eventually ate it.

My father lived in the house on Cliff Street until he passed away at 72 years old. He graduated from high school and became a barber. He was lucky enough to be classified 4F after drafted by the Army during World War II. He was honorably discharged due to flat feet which became life long discomfort while standing on his feet all day cutting hair. Lebo, my father was a community treasure. He was a volunteer fireman, a member of the Lions Club and an usher at St. John’s Catholic Church which sits catty-corner to his barber shop. I heard he never needed a car. All he had to do was start walking down Anderson Avenue and someone would offer him a ride. He was popular in our small town. He became Fire Chief and president of the Lions Club. He gave free haircuts and shaves to the GI’s.  He took pictures of toddlers having their first haircuts. His barber shop thrived enough to pay for college for my sister and me. The house on Cliff Street was his stronghold. He never left. He held onto it like a tiger holds its prey. In her later years my mother did too.

We lived in the upstairs from apartment. My father’s widowed brother-in-law and his three sons lived upstairs in the back apartment. Our grandparents lived downstairs in the back looking over their garden, and after a friend moved out, my father’s cousins, Aunt Fanny and Uncle Tony moved in the front downstairs which they say was originally a dry goods store. Aunt Fanny, also a seamstress, fashioned baby hats. Mothers and godmothers, aunts, and friends of little girls begged her for hats.  She always came through. Uncle Tony had a laundry delivery service for bars and restaurants. On New Year’s Eve they would come upstairs and play Bingo with us until midnight. They spoke Italian and English. Sometime when I was kissing my boyfriend goodnight in the vestibule, Uncle Tony would light his cigar in the hallway, I am sure he intended to signal us to cease and desist before he opened the door. I love that thought. I was charmed and really adored them both. I was fortunate enough to have them at my wedding and see some of my children.

Holidays in the House on Cliff Street were big and joyous with my father’s family. My mother would cook a huge family dinner. My uncles and cousins who lived in the back apartment and other cousins from Staten Island happily shared the meal of antipasto, lasagna with meat gravy, roasted turkey or breaded chicken parts, salad, vegetables, Italian bread fresh from Pedota’s bakery, and pastries and coffee for dessert.

The apartments were four rooms square, each only twelve by twelve feet. When company came we often set up tables  from the kitchen into the living room  or took down the bed and set up tables from the living room into the bedroom in our apartment or in the dining room in the back apartment. The cousins from Staten Island were a gregarious family of parents, two boys and two girls. My father enjoyed a close relationship with Uncle Lou and Aunt Mary were close. Uncle Lee as my father was called, was godfather to the oldest boy. I sometimes spent summer days in South Beach, Staten Island with them going to the beach in the daytime and amusement park in the evening. My favorite ride was the carousel and I loved trying to catch the brass ring. The swings that reach out over the sea were not. The youngest cousin was a girl and she was  closest to my age We enjoyed sleepovers together either on Cliff Street or in South Beach. We slept in my parents’ bed. It’s odd, but I don’t remember where my sister and parents slept during those nights..

In my younger years my mother, uncle and cousin would have dinner with my grandparents in the basement of the apartment house. The big coal fired furnace warmed the place in the winter and the breeze from open windows and doors cooled the damp air. My cousin would carry me on his shoulder down to dinner.  After my grandmother passed away, my mother cooked for my grandfather, uncle and the one son who stilled lived there. They ate with us every night until they moved to their own house. The youngest son married and moved to another town. Both these guys were my favorites. I often think they were like my big brothers. Sadly over the years we lost contract. A family dispute sharply cut the ties I thought would last forever.

My mother’s family is another story.

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Three Wise Women

The came to me via Facebook. I just had to add a thought in favor of

Three Wise Men.

Image may contain: text that says 'Three Wise Women Would have asked directions Arrived on time Helped deliver the baby Brought practical gifts Cleaned the stable Made a casserole and there would be Peace on earth!'



went to the mall


brought the most precious gifts

to adorn the Child


Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice,

Happy Chanukah, Blessed Kwanzaa



Sarina Rose




Christmas Thoughts from Thomas Merton



Thomas Merton is one of my favorite spiritual writers and I  want to introduce you to him. Enjoy!

Monday, December 03 – Monday, January 07

Christmas is a sacred holiday and a transformation with plenty to offer to Christians and non-Christians alike. It comes during the gap between darkness and sunlight — the perfect time, traditionally, to stop being normal and to begin experimenting with alternative ways.

No one should feel shut out from Christmas. It gives ritual to the awareness that all creatures and the things of the world are worthy of our love and respect. Essentially it reminds us — one of the purposes of ritual — that a new kind of being is possible. We can help create a new world of peace and good will. The familiar picture of the divine child surround by light in the realm of darkness gives an image of this newly born way of being in the world.

Join us this December to take delight in the deeper meanings and wonders of Christmas. In eleven emails, sent to you on Mondays and Thursdays, you will receive:

  • Thomas Moore’s reflections on Christmas from an inclusive and soulful point of view.
  • Ideas for discussion and practice.
  • Access to a Practice Circle, a forum open 24/7 for you to share with and learn from our worldwide e-course community.

This e-course will be guided by Thomas Moore, a psychotherapist, former monk, and bestselling author who writes and lectures in the fields of archetypal psychology, mythology, care of the soul, and creating a religion of your own. His classic Care of the Soul and the books that have followed demonstrate his ability to reinvigorate and inhabit old concepts. He is also a master of everyday spirituality, a lifestyle nurtured during the 12 years he spent as a monk in a Catholic religious order before he became a psychotherapist. He has long been a student of the wisdom to be gleaned from different religious traditions, describing himself as a “Zen Catholic whose spirituality is so baked into life that it is nearly invisible.”


Please share your thoughts. Thank you.

Sarina Rose, author of vintage romances. For more info click here:

Molly’s 8 Reasons not to become a Writer!

woman wearing grey long sleeved top photography
Photo by Artem Bali on

  1. You still have to do the housework. Unless you sell millions of book and can hire someone to do it.
  2. You become addicted to your computer, worse than getting hooked on opioids.
  3. You can’t sleep comfortably every night because your characters don’t sleep. They just keep making chatter while waiting for the next scene.
  4. You never can predict your paycheck. It’s a given, you cannot predict how much it will be whether you are self-published or not.
  5. Number 6 is actually not correct. Amazon and Smashwords keep a running number of sales and royalties. It is my understanding that with traditional publishers, you will not know until the check actually appears.
  6. You become obsessed with marketing giving it more time than your writing.
  7. You cannot live in your pajamas all day. You still have to go out for groceries.
  8. You cannot go without a shower. You will still reek after a few days, So will the garbage pail.

Sarina doesn’t really care about any of this stuff. She just keep writing because I love it.

AND she would love you to add to my list or write a more positive one?

By the way, do you like my picture. Cool, right!


Loving Nick Book Trailer

Great Reviews for Loving Nick

Loving Nick has been hailed as “life changing” by #amauthor on tweeter.

Here are two from Amazon. Go to to read more and leave your own.

September 22, 2018

Format: Kindle Edition
The first book in the Chance Encounters series is a well-written story of a second chance between Nick and his ex-wife Karen. This is a new Author for me, I enjoyed reading this book and hope there is more to come in this series. I received a copy of this book via Booksprout and am voluntarily leaving a review.
Not Helpful

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Pat W
4.0 out of 5 stars fantastic read!

September 20, 2018

Format: Kindle Edition
I was totally hooked with the storyline that was well written and characters that were strongly written from the very first page! I couldn’t put this book down until I finished reading the very last page! This was the first book that I have read from this author and it definitely will not be the last!


Love you to join my email list. It’s easy. Just fill-in and submit the for below. I will never give it to anyone else.


Loving Nick

sarinarostek-72dpi-1500x2000(11)Hi you,
A chance to preorder my newest book at a reduced cost. Click the link now. Save $2.00
Loving Nick will be released in late September, 2018. It will automatically go to your Kindle at the very minute it goes live on Amazon. You’re going to love this story about a second chance for a disabled veteran.

Nicolo Vitale’s wedding to Karen Dombrowski quickly turns into divorce when he deploys to Vietnam, and she travels around Europe on business and has a one night fling with a Scotsman. She flees the marriage like a sinner out of church when she realizes she is pregnant and never tells either man about the child. Fearful, ashamed, guilty, embarrassed and invincible, she makes a life for the child and herself with the help of her parents away from both men for five years until she, by chance, meets Nick again. Will overcoming the past be enough to bring these two back together?


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The Relentless Brit – Review $.99 at


Good Sunday morning. Looking for a good romance of spies, espionage, and romance?

The Relentless Brit is for you.

“Sarina Rose had woven a beautiful tale of self-sacrifice and triumph with a focus on the unspoken portion of World War II that helped the Allies win. Espionage made the difference in many instances between life and death…. Images of stoic, brave individuals come to mind when you think of the young men and women who dedicated so much to this war….Maire collapsing on several occasions took away from her strength and bravery….
That being said, this was a great read with an air of respect and pride for all that served.” –
Amy Willis, InD’tal Magazine

A special thank to Amy Willis for this review and to

The Relentless Brit book cover won second place in InD’tale RONE  book cover contest.

A special thank to Amy Willis for this review and to Available to buy with this click as ebook, print, or audio.

Please leave an  honest review at Amazon and Goodreads after reading my favorite

book The Relentess Brit.

Sarina Rose


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Who is Molly?

Five years ago a muse nibbled on my brain and created a neat nest for herself. She built herself a comfy homestead. No matter how many times I advised her to move along, she blatantly refused and entrenched herself deeper. Molly is her name. She is my alter ego who encourages me to do better, learn more, and leave my hermit writing cave to buy groceries. She could very possibly be the warden at the station of the obsessive-compulsive disorder of my writer self.

Molly is self-employed, an entrepreneur so to speak. Her business includes the tasks already mentioned in addition to suggesting better vocabulary, plots, characters, She often reminds me to be careful with character motivation and hooks. She will encourage me to rewrite narrative as dialogue and remembers to advise me to create a balance between description and conversations. She insists on character and plot arcs, on black moments, on the heroine’s journey. She likes strong women with self-determined lives. She leans towards love stories during or in the aftermath of war.

Imagine brain synapses as bridges and highways and Molly proposes stopping along the way to think deeper by asking What if…? While I develop my work in progress, she races around my synapses causing major traffic disruptions and delays halting the traffic of plotting to force me to think,, think, think deeper and deeper one level at a time.

I have to say Molly’s adrenaline is high with imagination and low on physical activity in the real world. She often proposes in the middle of the night that we go to yoga class or the beach the instead of writing. In the morning she forgets about yoga or the beach and leads me directly to the keyboard with the cola in hand. Right, a cola. I’m not a coffee drinker but need the caffeine and cola does quiet well so I can keep up with Molly.

I love Molly, but I have to say her sense of time is off. She has none. No sense of balance between the fantasy world of writing and the reality of my physical world. No sense of day and night. Minutes and hours are all the same to her. Never mention a calendar to her. She has never heard of one. She is a muse for independent authors. The word deadline means nothing to Molly. She will interrupt a line of thinking for a work in progress to put forward another plot or character. She will have two works in progress at a time.  There are times I want to slow her down, but no, I really wouldn’t do that. After all, she is a muse, my muse and I couldn’t live being an author without her no matter what my opinion thinks of her faults.

The Relentless Brit Review


Bored with your usual reading choices. Need something new..

The Relentless Brit is for you.

“Sarina Rose had woven a beautiful tale of self-sacrifice and triumph with a focus on the unspoken portion of World War II that helped the Allies win. Espionage made the difference in many instances between life and death…. Images of stoic, brave individuals come to mind when you think of the young men and women who dedicated so much to this war….Maire collapsing on several occasions took away from her strength and bravery….
That being said, this was a great read with an air of respect and pride for all that served.” –
Amy Willis, InD’tal Magazine

A special thank to Amy Willis for this review and to

The Relentless Brit book cover won second place in InD’tale RONE  book cover contest.

A special thank to Amy Willis for this review and to Available to buy with this click as ebook, print, or audio.

Please leave an  honest review at Amazon and Goodreads after reading my favorite

book The Relentess Brit.

Sarina Rose


Sign up for my  newsletter list complete the form below. Thank you.





The Girl in the Park

The Girl in the Park is purely fiction written for your enjoyment. At the end is a form to fill out with a comment if you like. Leave your email for a free newsletter updates, an opportunity to join her review team, and a free ebook. Thank you mucho,

The Girl in the Park

Detective Kate Spenser reached for her cell on her nightstand. By the ringtone, she knew it was her Captain calling with an assignment.

“Female found in Greenview Park, east of the circle. Park Police on the scene now.”

“On my way, sir.” Why today? Why first thing Sunday morning?

Kate hit the speed dial for Ben Goldstein, her partner. “Morning Ben. East of Greenview Park circle.”

Kate slipped out from under Alex’s legs, and meandered to the coffee maker, pushed the button, and watched the brown liquid fill her cup. She twisted her wet long copper hair with a white scrungie and dressed in work clothes: black pants, white blouse, black jacket, black socks, and black  shoes. A homicide detective’s uniform was a simple suit respectful of the dead.

The morning was grey and damp. Mist hung still over the Greenview  River when she arrived at the crime scene. A chill worked its way through her jacket as it always did when she first arrived on the scene. She surveyed the area before she approached the body. Four officers interviewed bystanders and collected evidence.

An old man off to the side talked to one of the officers. He pointed with his cane to the victim covered by a tarp, then, to the steps leading to Boulevard East. Kate passed them when the man pointed to the red high-heeled woman’s shoe on the slope of boulders a few feet from the victim.

“Geraldine Armstrong, according to the work ID from Frazer and Company, a New York City law firm. No driver’s license. No home address.”

“Thanks, Ben. Don’t forget to pick-up that shoe.”

Kate was a veteran cop, but she wrenched whenever she met her victim for the first time. She lifted the tarp covering the victim’s face and said a prayer. Geraldine Armstrong’s hair was bleached blonde. She wore a grey wool suit with a sky blue blouse. She had applied her make-up with a heavy hand. She was beautiful except for the blood running from her temple down her face to her neck where it flared out on her throat.

Doc Williams, the coroner, was with the body. His sandy hair was short and spiked out from his head like a brush. “Time of death around 7 AM this morning. See, blood’s beginning to congeal on her hair. She fell and hit her head, but that didn’t kill her. A dull blade cut her carotid. Maybe a small knife or razor. She bled out.”

“Thanks doc.” Kate approached the bystanders. “A man walked past her down the steps to the bus stop before she fell,” said a young fellow dressed in running clothes.

“I saw her put her hand on her collar,” said a girl in jeans and jacket with a cheerleader’s emblem.

“She tumbled down a few steps. I saw the old man over there bend down to help her,” said the cheerleader’s companion.

“Okay, give your names and addresses to the officers. I may have more questions for you, but you can go for now.”

Kate walked over to Ben and the old man.

“Did you know Geraldine, Mr. er…?” Kate asked.

“Acevedo, Orlando Acevedo.” He was obviously upset. Sweating and wiping his eyes with a big white handkerchief. “She lives in my apartment building. Can I go home now? I don’t feel so good.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Sure. I see her here, almost every day. But not last week. Last week. I didn’t see. Maybe she goes vacation. She walks down the steps for the bus and falls. That’s all I know,  just like I said. Can I go now? I feel sick. All that blood, all over her hair. Oh, My God, and her jacket. All the blood makes me sick to my stomach. You know, I wanted to climb down there to help her, but these crooked legs hurt too much. Maybe I’d fall too and have blood in my hair.”

“One more question. Someone said a man past her. Did you see him? Did you know him?” Ben asked taking out his notepad.

“No, no. Too far away. Bad legs. Bad eyes. He just walked past her fast like. He didn’t look back or anything. He probably not even know she falls. The bus already there, and he hurry down to it. She was quiet, didn’t cry out or anything, you know. Must have been a point on some rock or other.”

“Thank you, Mr. Acevedo. Nothing more for now.” Kate gave him her business card. His hand was shaking, and he dropped the card on the damp pavement. “Oh, just a minute, please. How do you know the victim?”

“Like I say. She live in my apartment building on County Line Avenue, 2309 County Line. On the first floor, in the back., Number five. I live number 305. Upstairs.”

Kate bent down to pick up her card. The grey morning had changed into a sunny one, and she saw something glitter on the steps.

“Alone?” Ben continued with Mr. Acevedo. Kate gave Ben a nod, she went to pick up the knife, and back to Acevedo.

“Yes, I live alone.”

“What about Geraldine?

“I don’t know. I hear many people. I see many people. I look out my window. I sit outside. I know she have a little dog. One night I saw a man take the dog outside. Must have been her brother or cousin or something.” Acevedo took a moment. “Maybe it was her. Maybe not. She maybe looked like a man in jeans and sweatshirt,” Acevedo paused and wiped his face again. “Not like a twin or anything like that, but still look like her face.”

“Ben, will you give Mr. Acevedo a ride home? While you’re there consider everyone a suspect. Find out what you can about Armstrong from other residents.”

Mr. Acevedo left leaning on Ben’s arm and his cane as they walked to the car. The old guy was pretty shaken up for someone who didn’t know the victim well. Was he the old man checking the victim the bystander saw? Did Acevedo lie? Was there another witness? Was another old man the killer?

Kate’s cell rang, and she turned away.  It was the best possible ring.

“Hello, Alex.”

“Kate? Where are you? Sorry I missed breakfast.”

“Oh, good morning to you too. Breakfast? What’s that? Meet you for lunch in a half hour. I’m almost done here.”

“Sure. Greenview?”


Kate was at the diner before Alex and took a booth in the back corner. It had a 180-degree view. The torn pleather seat poked the back of her leg. Damn! She sat at an angle where she has a view across the street to the park and south to the apartment building. Ben had parked his car at the curb and he was talking to a group of senior citizens sitting outside on weathered green benches.

Kate looked up as Mildred; the waitress, placed a glass of ice water on the paper placemat. She said, “Tough morning?”

“I hate meeting the dead. It does something to my sense of immortality. Know what I mean?”

“No. Too highbrow for me. Try not thinking so much. You’ll feel better. Will it be the early lunch special: Grilled Cheese and Cream of Tomato soup?”

“Sounds good.”

“What’s happening in the Park?”

“Homicide.” Kate pulled out the victim’s work ID and showed Mildred. “Do you recognize this woman?”

“Could be… Maybe it’s um… er.  No, Not sure. Hmm, Could be Gerry Armstrong.  Gerry Armstrong sort of. Sorry, not much help, am I?”

“Isn’t Gerry Armstrong a man? My victim’s a woman. Thanks, anyway.”

Alex pulled into the rear parking lot of the diner, and walked around to the front door. He wore a tan suit, lighter shirt, solid brown tie, and loafers. His straight dark hair set off his light brown eyes just right. Just right for Kate, anyway. Alex sat next to her and pecked her cheek with his lips before he brought the menu up in front of their faces. He whispered, “I’ve been assigned to your case.”

“Really? What does drug enforcement have to do with this?”

“The coroner called us. Our victim was high before he bled out. He was dying anyway.”

“You mean she, don’t you? She overdosed. We are talking about the same victim, aren’t we? The one in the Park on the rocks next to the steps?”

“Here’s the thing,” Alex continued as if he didn’t understand me. “He had smoked oxycontin. An empty prescription bottle filled by a pharmacy in Denver was in his pocket with a baggie of twenty more. Doc says he had surgery two weeks ago and ended up with bad pelvic infection causing a lot of pain.”

“Wait a minute. Why would she go to Denver? We have good hospitals here.”

“Let me finish. This morning about six o’clock Armstrong not only smoked but ingested a good dose of the oxy. Anyway, when Armstrong approached the steps this morning in the park, it was barely daylight. He must have become disoriented and fell, cracking his head.”

“What about the knife wound? Doc said that was the cause of death. Oh, my God. Alex. The cause of death was not the fall or the blade. Do you think it was suicide and why do you keep saying he?

Kate’s cell rang. Alex stood. He’s leaving already?

“Gotta go,” he said pecking her on the cheek again.

She scowled at him. Pecking was nice, but she adored more body heat.

“I promise. We’ll go out for dinner tonight. Romeros? Wear something hot.”

Kate’s cell rang again. “Hey, Ben.” Kate  listened as she nodded and blew Alex a kiss. She glanced towards the apartment building. Ben was not outside, but his car was still there.

“I’m with Acevedo.”

“Yes, stay put. I’m coming. His story doesn’t add up.”

“You’re telling me? Right now he’s looking for his penknife.”

Kate left the diner after finishing her soup and sandwich and walked to Armstrong’s apartment house. She took her cell and hit his speed dial to find precisely where Ben was. As it turned out, she needn’t have bothered. The after lunch old-timers crowd taking up the benches on either side of the walkway informed her Ben was on the third floor. Friends inside the building kept the outside group up to date.

“He’s on the third floor, next to the elevator.”

“Is something wrong?” asked a woman with red blotches covering her swollen legs.

“Must be something bad,” moaned a man connected to a portable oxygen tank.

“Somebody must have died,” whimpered another lady.

“He cried when he came back from his morning walk with that young fellow. I never saw Orlando cry and I’m his brother. I should know.”

“Once, last year when his wife died, he cried when they closed the coffin,” lamented the lady with the snug fleece cap cuddling her head down to her ears.

“What would make him cry today? Kate asked.

“Maybe the guy who brings the oxy hurt him,” sniffed the lady with the bottle bottom eyeglasses.

Kate stopped short, “What did you say?”

“About the oxy guy?”

“Yes, You know oxy’s a controlled substance, right? You could die using too much. If you don’t die, you might end up in jail.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. We are all about to go anyway. Jail cell or wooden box. What’s the difference?”

“You know, I may have to arrest you,” Kate sputtered in disbelief. “Don’t anybody go anywhere?” She laughed to herself because this crowd couldn’t get to the end of the walkway without help.

“Go ahead. Do your job and take care of Orlando. We’ll wait here.”

The door to the Acevedo’s apartment was open. He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He was hyperventilating. Ben was applying a wet cloth to Acevedo’s neck. Kate nodded to Ben and spoke to Mr. Acevedo.

“Hey, what’s going on Mr. Acevedo? Are you still feeling sick?”

Kate knelt in front of him and tilted his chin upwards. Tears streamed from his rheumy eyes.

“I called for an ambulance,” Ben said as he lifted the cloth.

Kate picked up the bottle of Tequila. Did you drink with Gerry Armstrong last night?”

“Sure. We drink every night. Is that what killed him, bad Tequila or was it the pills?”

“Wait a minute. You mean it killed her, don’t you?”

“I knew he was sick. I wanted to help him feel like his old self.”

“Pills? What kind of pills did you give to Gerry?”

“The ones left from my shoulder surgery. I wanted to talk him into forgetting about more  operations. He wouldn’t listen. He said October would be the last.”

Mr. Acevedo remained quiet. Kate allowed him to take his time. Then he said, “Gerry suffered a lot.  Pain across his stomach and between his legs since the last operation. He told me the pain was unbearable. Even with the pain, he had to work. No more sick days. I gave him my bottle of oxycontin and came up to bed.”

“Then what?”

“In the morning, I woke him like I always do to make sure he was on time for work. I took care of him. I made him eat before he left. He swallowed a couple of pills. He dressed in the ladies’ suit I bought him last at Klein’s on the Square…no Macy’s. Yes, it was Macy’s Misses department. Size 12.”

Kate patted Mr. Acevedo’s hand, and he said, “Imagine going to Macy’s to buy ladies’ clothes for your boy. Macy’s Missies department for your boy? Mierda. (Shit).

He reached for the Tequila, but Kate  took it away from him and turned his hand over to get a better look. “You did this morning, didn’t you?”


“How did it happen?”

“I sliced it with my penknife when Gerry lost his balance on the step. It was my chance. I didn’t want my boy to live like a girl. I nipped his neck to scare him. I went too deep. My Gerald would go to heaven. I sliced my thumb and rubbed my blood on his neck. Gerald, my only son. Since he was a little boy, he wants to be a girl.” Acevedo put his head down and wept. “I shouldn’t have cut her. I should have loved him more. I should have loved Geraldine, too. I don’t understand. I struggle with this word trans.




Loving Nick

sarinarostek-72dpi-1500x2000(11)Hi you,
Wishing you the happiest summer ever and a chance to preorder my newest book at a reduced cost.
Loving Nick will be released in late September, 2018. It will automatically go to your Kindle at the very minute it goes live on Amazon. You’re going to love this story about a second chance for a disabled veteran.

Nicolo Vitale’s wedding to Karen Dombrowski quickly turns into divorce when he deploys to Vietnam, and she travels around Europe on business and has a one night fling with a Scotsman. She flees the marriage like a sinner out of church when she realizes she is pregnant and never tells either man about the child. Fearful, ashamed, guilty, embarrassed and invincible, she makes a life for the child and herself with the help of her parents away from both men for five years until she, by chance, meets Nick again. Will overcoming the past be enough to bring these two back together?


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Sal’s Home

A short story for you. Sal was a real person, but I never met him. The house described is where I lived. My sister and I were scared to go to the cellar, but we did and we never saw Sal there.

Sal’s Home

The last thing Grace Farrentino and I expected was to meet with a ghost. As it turned out, that is exactly what we did. There remains the question whether Grace chose the ghost or the ghost chose her.

I met Grace in 1947 in kindergarten at Number 3 public school on Cliff St in a little town near the Hudson River. Grace lived around the corner. We would meet at the red fire hydrant and walk together to school. The school was not very far away, maybe only fifty yards, but for little girls it was far enough to warrant company. We played together and share secrets in the moldy depths of the cellars of our multifamily apartment houses where we lived.

On the last day of school before the long hot summer New Jersey summer arrived, we combed the cellar of my grandfather’s house. The air down there smelled of old cooking and wet stone walls. The main area of the cellar was a kitchen. A big round wooden table opposite the furnace, stove was cover with red and white print oil cloth. The white parceling sink and icebox occupied the wall with the high window to the airshaft. One coal bin occupied the wall that faced the street. Another bin occupied the adjacent wall. Part of that bin was for coal. The rest stored my father’s fishing gear… muddy-green bib waders, thin poles, and light reels for the fresh water Ramapo River. Thicker polls and heavier reels were for the ocean.

“Look here.” I opened the doors of the dilapidated cupboard. These were my grandparents things, but they were dead and wouldn’t mind.

“Oh, wow, red carnival glass and rusty flatware. Exciting.” Grace said sourly. She picked up a green pitcher and the bottom fell out onto the wood plank floor.


“No.” We swept up the broken glass.

Beyond the kitchen leading towards the back of the house and the yard were more bins. One held wine barrels. Later my parents stored Christmas decorations there and my father hid his tip money in one of the empty barrels. Another bin held jars of crushed tomatoes my grandparents had bottled. Grace and I counted ninety-seven jars. My father used the last bin as a dark room for developing film. He and his nephew would work together developing family photos.

Grace reached for the slide lock on the dark room door. Our basement dog, Whitie, who was tied by a thick rope to a pipe, opened a sleepy eye, sat on his hind legs at attention, and barked.

I put my hand on top of Grace’s.

Don’t!” I said. My eyes widened. Grace’s lit with fire. I imagined what might be behind the door, or even who might be behind the door. My father had warned me never to open that door.

“He might be there.”

“I should be so lucky,” Grace quibbled with a sly smile and dancing eyes.

“My father gave strict orders,” I added hoping to assert his authority. I could feel my heart pounding from my temples to my toes. “You don’t want to see him. He doesn’t look so good.

“But he IS friendly. The other day you said in class that he IS friendly.” She challenged me to stop her as she slid the lock to the right and released the door a crack. The sound of metal on metal and the mishung wood door scraping along the concrete floor was enough to wake the dead and it did.

A horse thick voice said, “Girls? What are you doing here? Uncle Lee told you to stay away, didn’t he?”

“Grace wanted to meet you,” I boldly offered the reason we were intruding.

“Well, now that you’re here, come in, but don’t touch anything. The developing chemicals are dangerous and will burn your skin,” Sal said and coughed out a thin brown fog.

The light in the room was red. His skin was purple. One eye was just a black hole. His left sleeve was tucked into his belt. The dim light did not hide that his arm was missing altogether.

“Andrea, please close the door,” he quietly asked me.

I touched Grace’s bare arm to pull her out the door. She was cold as a block of ice in the old wooden icebox. She did not move towards me, but she did move that is until she glided further into the darkroom like she was on ice skates.

“Sit down, back there.” He nodded towards the overstuffed down sofa in the back of the room ten feet behind his work station and next to a book cased harboringonly two dusty albums.

Sal continued lifting photos from their baths and hanging them with clothespins on a line above his head. “You can look through those albums.”

Grace and I each hefted an album and sat with them on our laps. The light in the room changed. The air became misty like the air at the ocean. The light darkened and my eyes lids grew heavy. I head someone say, “Go ahead, close your eyes.” A blue mist filled the room as I fell asleep like Dorothy and her friends in the poppy field.

I stirred to the sound of the hourly bells from Holy Family Church. They rang six o’clock and I futtered my eyes open. The blue mist had been replaced by the yellow light from the single bulb above the work station. I was alone in the darkroom. Where was Grace? I looked at my Mickey Mouse watch and held it to my ear. It was still ticking , but Mickey’s hands were set at 4:05. The time we entered the dark room.

New photographs were drying over the work station where Sal had been working. I took a closer look. I saw Sal looking healthy and strong in his dress uniform kneeling in the first row of a group of soldiers in front of Lorraine Cemetery in St. Avold. Grace sat on his knee. I bolted out the door, up the cellar steps, around the corner. I found Grace sitting on her front steps reading a book. She didn’t say anything, just gave me a sly smile letting  me know I shouldn’t ask.

“You know,” I ventured to speak, “Sal is dead and buried. Killed April 24, 1945.”

“I know.”


Well now. What do you think of this story? Please feel free to  use the contact  form here to tell me your thoughts on this story? For example: Would you like to read more about these characters? Did you like or not like them? Is the story confusing? Is the story fun?

Copyright ©2018 Sarina Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher, Rostek Publishing at


















Romance & More

Loving Nick is a story of second chance love during the Vietnam War. Nick falls in love with Karen at first sight at college. She is different from the women he usually dates. She wears business suits, just a hint of make-up, and doesn’t smoke. Karen loved Nick’s raw edges and his wild spirit. They become partners in a secret messenger operation delivering information about the war to other government operatives. They married right after graduation against her parents’ wishes. She was eager to marry him, but on their honeymoon, she had second thoughts. She wondered aloud if they had made a mistake being so young. Nick is confident they had not. She secured employment with a magazine to begin a career. Nick volunteered for Vietnam without discussing it with Karen. Hurt feelings and difficult times follow.

Loving Nick will be available this coming summer. Does this cover and paragraph entice you? I would love to hear from you. Send me a comment.

Best Wishes from me to you!

Sarina Rose

My books on Amazon:





What the heck am I talking about?

I have a few favorite pastimes when I am not writing a new book or imagining that I am rewriting someone else’s story in my head.  I  like to do needlework. Work with needles. No, I am not a philbotomist or a nurse or a heroin addict. I like to knit. So you ask, what the heck does this have to do with a writer’s blog.

Actually, kniters probably use first language shorthand language long before texting and twittering were born. For instance, a typical instructions would include something like; ssk, dyo, k3 p3 short hand for slip, slip, knit, double yarn over,  knit three, purl three. I love that stuff. I get the hang of it. I used it muchas veces (many times).  It is very cool. However, I need an urban dictionary to decipher lol, lmo, btw and mucho mas (much more).

Example of knitting pattern directions written by the designer.
. Work k2tog BO loosely as foll:
Sl 1 pwise wyf, bring yarn to back, return
slipped st to left needle, k2tog (2nd st tog
with slipped st), *

See what I mean?

All this brings me to what sent me the word of the day. Although I do not think I have seen or heard it before. I knew the meaning immediately. What is up with that? What makes my brain work like that? Amazing. I love this word more than btw or ssk. Well, maybe just as much. I want to share it with you today.

esemplastic [es-em-plas-tik, –uh m-]


having the ability to shape diverse elements or concepts into a unified whole:

the esemplastic power of a great mind to simplify the difficult
Origin of esemplastic
1810-20; < Greek es-, dialectal variant of eis- into + ( h) én, neuter of heîs one + plastic; irregular coinage by S.T. Coleridge; compare German Ineinsbildung, term used by Schelling Unabridged
Based on the Random House Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2016.
Cite This Source
British Dictionary definitions for esemplastic
(literature) making into one; unifying
Word Origin
C19 (first used by Samuel Taylor Coleridge): from Greek es, eis into + em, from hen, neuter of heis one + -plastic
Collins English Dictionary – Complete & Unabridged 2012 Digital Edition
© William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. 1979, 1986 © HarperCollins
Publishers 1998, 2000, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009, 201esemplastic


(literature) making into one; unifying
Word Origin
C19 (first used by Samuel Taylor Coleridge): from Greek es, eis into + em, from hen, neuter of heis one + -plastic
Collins English Dictionary – Complete & Unabridged 2012 Digital Edition
© William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. 1979, 1986 © HarperCollins
Publishers 1998, 2000, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009, 2012
Writers are intrinsically emplastic. We take many words and unify them into a story, or a memoir, or a movie. Another writer might take the exact same words. but write a different story. Writers transform the complexity of humanity and the world in which it function into an understandable form, a simplicity that makes sense of the complexity.
Does this make sense? Are you emplastic?  Do you want to be? What are your thought on writers being emplastic? Please share your comments. I love to read  them. BTW LOL
Sarina Rose on Amazon:

A New Romance from Sarina Rose

The Relentless Italian

An awesome vintage romance will captivate your heart and soul from beginning to end. Set during the late 1960’s the emotional rollercoaster of love takes Sophie and Tony from New Jersey, to Rome, to New York State and back again. Will two continents, an ocean and three mothers sent them in different directions? Will friendships dissolve? Will wedding bells ring?

This is a must read for all romance lovers.

Click here and buy now –

The Fourth of July

The Fourth of July

Come with me and Celebrate

Celebrate Deliverance from Evil

Celebrate Forgiveness

Celebrate love for all, the cripple, the maimed and the insane

Celebrate love and romance

Celebrate war and hate, too, for how can we know who we are if not to see ourselves in others or to learn a lesson or to say

But for the Grace of God there go I

The Relentless Brit :


Copyright © Sarina Rose 2015

Not to be Missed

Who: Me

What: Don’t miss my answers to Richard Schiver’s Friday 5’s on the his website.  AND you may find some other interesting authors and books to appease your appetite to good books.

When: Friday, June 5th, 2015.


How: Click the link

Why: Richard Schiver will feature me in his Friday 5’s tomorrow June 5th.

I would love you to click the link and see what’s we have cooked up.
Click and Buy Now:The Relentless Britsarinarostek-72dpi-1500x2000(25)

Bumbershoots Books

Mandalla maids

I have just open a site where you can easily find some of my favorite books ever. I will be adding to it from time to time and maybe even deleting some here and there.

So you like what I write. Now like what I read. Just click below to find what I’ve read and buy on the same click.


AH, wonderful excitement. The Relentless Italian manuscript is back from my editor. Just a few corrections and it will be off to be formatted.

I hope to have it to you by mid-summer. Now I have to get to work. Have a wonderful weekend.

Come back to visit with me soon to see the cover reveal update.


Hi there and Welcome to the very first post on my new site.

My name is Sarina Rose and I am a writer. My favorite genre at the moment is Historical Romance of Mid-20th Century. I  am guessing for most of you that would be the era of your grandparents or great grandparents. Maybe it is the era of your parents. You may meet them in my books if they had chosen a different life path. In any event you will have the opportunity to travel back in place and time. My books are time machines that take you on a journey to other continents and countries.

Revisiting an old Term Paper

I have a new project underway. I am re-researching Anne Bradstreet about whom I wrote some nonsense in 10th grade, over fifty years ago. Did I know what I was doing? Heck no. No term paper this time. Just learning for the joy of it and sharing a few notes here.

Who is willing to do a similar project? Re-research a literary figure about whom you had to write a paper 25 or more years ago.  We will read and share our thoughts during the long winter months from January through March 2019. Will you commit to:

1. Sharing your choice of literary figure

2. Reading at least two books by or about her/him

3. Sharing your thoughts at least once a month (that’s a total of three posts)  with me by way of the contact form here on my blog and on any other place you desire.

Who will come aboard with me?


Love to hear from you.

Sarina Rose,





Molly Muse Came to Visit Me

Do you ever struggle with your characters because you can’t see them or talk to them? Molly says it is because you have not met them yet. You have not yet come face to face with your protagonists. You can’t see them, because so far they are not real to you.

That is the space where I had been since I started my newest manuscript. I had the idea for the internal conflict, but not the external. I knew how old each character would be and the decade in which they lived. I even wrote and revised the first three chapters several times trying to find them and my voice for the book. Molly came to visit me yesterday. She tapped me on the shoulder and said what I said to another writer. She said, “Sweetie, you have no idea who these people are. You never met them and you have to meet them to understand them.

Molly, in a secret method I will never understand, she instantly introduced them to me. All I will tell you is that their names are Mary and Dante and as I reread what I had already written and tweaked it a bit, they came to life. My voice came out of the shadows as clear and bright as the morning breeze on the beach. What a surprise! They are perfect for my new story.

Now to get down to business..

Molly says to tell you, she work very hard on The Relentless American, so you should trust her judgement that enjoy meeting Hannah, Sal and Daniel in The Relentless American. They lived through the Vietnam war and its aftermath to discover there really is such a thing as second chance love.
Click the link for a perfect week-end book.


Fill lin the form below to tell Sarina what you think of her books, website, or blog. She loves to hear  from you.

Eleanor Roosevelt

I have finished reading a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt as eye-opening for me as she grew in independence and became a person in her own right against the odds of being raised in a society that relegated women to the home. Now I am reading an autobiography and am astonished at how intelligent she was and yet she notes often about not knowing how to be a wife and mother. Yet, I admire her sense of public service in the face of marital circumstances and unfortunate. Two books worth reading for enjoyment and knowledge.

Eleanor Roosevelt - Unleashed: A Life of Soul Searching and Self Discovery by [Atkins, Ann]
Biography: Eleanor Roosevelt-Unleashed by Ann Atkins

The Autobiography of Eleanor Roosevelt by [Roosevelt, Eleanor]
The Autobiography of Eleanor Roosevelt

Nina Crespo

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