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Timeless Beginnings (Book I of ‘Time Flies’ Series) by Jill Wallace is a Wintertime Reading Event pick #psychicmystery #romanticmystery #foundfamily #wintertime #giveaway

N. N. Light


Title: Timeless Beginnings (Book I of ‘Time Flies’ Series)

 

Author: Jill Wallace

 

Genre:

Psychic Mystery/Soulmates/Found Family

 

Book Blurb:

 

Avid dog lover, law enforcement psychic and former Air Baobab air hostess Lucky van Niekerk has a gift for sniffing out answers. From helping to solve cold cases to reliving past lives, she’s torn between worlds—the past and the present; the dead and the living.

She’s helping agents track a dangerous killer. But there are some things she can’t find. Her soulmate, for instance.


Determined to solve her own mystery, Lucky learns she must first help others to help herself. She’s sure she isn’t the only one whose life has been touched by the past, so she sends out a call to her former colleagues.

 

Four other air hostesses answer—and they’ve all experienced past-life dreams in the crew rest aboard the same 747 jumbo jet at 36,000 feet. Can Lucky help them solve the mysteries locked in their dreams, or will they be destined to make the same mistakes they made in a previous life?


Discover the power of uncorking past lives and start the journey with Lucky in this first book in the Time Flies women’s fiction series, as five virtual strangers are drawn together in their quest for fulfilment and love.

 

Excerpt:

 

Timeless Beginnings Part of Chapter 5

 

High in the navy sky stars winked as I opened the bathroom window.


October’s autumn breeze pulled at my hair in passing. 

 

To my left, shafts of brightness shot up from well-angled ground lights, catching the trunk of a lanky paper birch tree in a midnight pose. She swayed gently, rehearsing for winter’s wild dance in a month or two. Then, exhausted, she will sleep and awake in April, rejuvenated. 

 

Lucky paper birch. 

 

My eyes settled on the image of curling paper where reams of thin white bark threatened to peel o! her trunk. 

 

Paper. Here. There. Everywhere. 

 

How many letters had Roy and I written to each other? Two, sometimes three a day. Being apart after we’d found each other again was torturous. In the eighties, overseas phone calls cost as much as a week’s stay at the Sheridan, so we perfected the art of letter writing. It’s really a glorious way to get intellectually acquainted, or in our case, reacquainted. There was little time for philosophy and debate during our physical time together. Our bodies did all the communicating. 

 

The essence of Roy filled my senses, and I inhaled him deep into my chest. I held him there until I felt my lungs burn. But I felt. Then, with a mammoth exhalation, I released him into the night, so he could go where the wind took him, then materialize and return to me. 

 

It was late. 

 

I glanced at my watch. I had to be asleep before the witching hour when everything became as distorted as Dali’s melting clock. It was my rule. 

 

The Persistence of Memory. 

 

Indeed. 

 

I forced myself to close the window and allowed the air conditioner to do her cool thing as I got ready for bed. 

 

With the pitter patter of determined paws behind me, I climbed onto the high Dream Cloud mattress, then curled up, hoping desperately for a dreamless sleep. 


 ***


uppressed memories, past-life regressions, dreams … What they were called didn’t matter. I was locked in their tenacious tentacles, experiencing them as real as the nose on my face. 

 

I was no stranger to being helplessly sucked into—nay, consumed by—one of the many lives I’d lived centuries before. 

 

FLASH! 

 

My heart hammers against my chest, making it difficult to breathe. No matter how hard I try I can’t escape the horrifying images surrounding me. 

 

I gag as rosemary, sea spray, garlic, manure, rotten fruit, and acrid sweat invade my senses. Roughly hewn skirts in dull greens and lifeless grays swirl around me, hemming me in. 

 

The fierce hatred of those surrounding me becomes tangible when congealed spittle lands on my cheek like a vicious slap. 

 

I jerk up and swivel my head one way, then another, hoping to find a sympathetic expression in the circle. Alas, there is no empathy. These men and women wear only raging faces contorted with revulsion.

 

What have I done? 

 

I strain to hear them over the thundering of my heart and the ringing in my ears. Every inch of my body hurts. 

 

“Satan’s daughter. You lured my husband!” 

 

“Wicked witch! You told me my son would go blind, and he did. ’Tis the devil’s work!” 

 

“Making young girls act like imbeciles! Are you proud of your sins?”

 

My heart wishes it could thump louder to block out their monstrous accusations. 

 

I stare down at myself, hoping for clues. 

 

I am scantily clothed in blood-red silk scarves, a sharp contrast to the dull yarns encircling me. Splotches of dung, bruises and splatters of tomato pips mar my white, nigh-translucent thighs. 

 

A rough-legged hawk circles and, for the oddest reason, I become infused with loyalty and love. I concentrate on its magnificent wingspan, its beak, its fearlessness. It swoops down and I don’t duck. My conscious mind wonders why? Up, up, up he goes and then down again, dive-bombing the circle of haters around me. The dowdy ones cower and cover their eyes lest the hawk should pluck them out, but the rare bird swoops up again as if his aim was for them to witness, up close, the size of his talons. 

 

“Tula?” I reach my arm up to the hawk, “Is that you?” And the bird circles slowly and dips his head in acquiescence. “I thought so. You’ve been many animals during my lifetimes, haven’t you?” The tight circle again. The nod. “And you’re always here to do your utmost to protect me. Thank you,” I whisper. 

 

He flies down and through the ragged, now screeching circle and settles on my shoulder. 


I am no longer facing this dreadful fate alone. 

 

The circle of my condemners widens, giving way for this oddity that is wanton girl joined with a wild bird. 

 

I enjoy the peace and space the shocked silence and distance affords me, but too soon, hysteria resumes a thousand-fold. 

 

“Eeeee.” “She’s indeed a witch.” “No mere mortal would attract such a bird!” “And a vicious hawk we’ve never seen in these parts at that…” 

 

“Take her!” A course voice instructs, and brawny arms grab my arms from behind. The hawk lunges at my captor, but the women band together to shoo away my protector. 

 

Three men lift me up like I am but a tree branch. 

 

“Noooooooooo,” I cry. “Tula, stay with me, please.” 

 

Between violent kicks aimed at my pallbearers I see Tula above me, still circling, letting me know he is always with me. I am still for a second, allowing gratitude for the agape love from the Tula the hawk, to infuse my soul. 

 

The men push and prod me into their desired position until I feel a hard beam against my back and my buttocks. I look up at the looming wooden post to which I am now tied, hand and foot. I look down and see the women piling kindling around my ankles. 

 

Above me, as close as he can, Tula circles. 

 

Everyone steps far away from me and my head lolls back in relief, allowing me to admire Tula’s circles, but not ten seconds pass before a skinny man hurls a long, flaming torch into the firewood surrounding me.

 

“Go now, Tula, save yourself. I will see you in my next life and the life thereafter. Go. Live! Be safe.” And I watch as the hawk rises and disappears beyond the smoke. 

 

I hear the pyre spitting and surging as the flames crawl demonically toward me. 

 

Ferocious fire leaps and fans quickly. I cannot hear my scream through the roaring flames as my feet melt. 

 

The torment is so intense I feel myself slipping into the arms of…

 

…Roy, as I know him in this twenty-century life, He blocks the excruciating agony, the sounds of crackling fire, and smell of my own burning flesh. 

 

All I see is unconditional love in his expression. 

 

“Save me,” I cry, but his face disintegrates, becoming part of the smoke, and all that’s left are hungry flames. 

 

Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub):

 

 

What makes your featured book a must-read?

 

Readers say it’s unusual, unexpected at every turn, and they can’t wait for Book II.

 

Giveaway –

 

Enter to win a $20 Amazon gift card:

 

 

Open Internationally.

 

Runs January 21 – January 28, 2025.


Winner will be drawn on January 29, 2025.

 

Author’s Biography

 

Born and bred in South Africa, Jill’s lived half her life in America. She considers herself bi-continental. In South Africa she was a contemporary dancer; an air hostess; and a PR Officer. In America, she’s been a movie extra, a realtor and now, an award-winning author.


A true WWII love story told to Jill at age 3 danced in her head until she wrote a screenplay. Twice optioned for a movie, fate got in the way of production, but "War Serenade" the novel, garnered great accolades. Next came "Zebra" a heart-tugging story of a rare friendship, also set in South Africa which launched as an Amazon #1 New Release.


Her new series "Time Flies" is a mishmash of genres and troupes, including psychic mystery; romance; soulmates; reincarnation; female friendships and found families.


SIX books. ONE 1980’s 747 with a haunted crew rest. FIVE naughty ex-hostesses from the Golden Age of Aviation. ONE psychic dog. FIVE soulmates lost centuries before. ONE murderous bastard…

 

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©2015-2025 BY N. N. LIGHT. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (2015-17 on Wordpress) 

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