Rhobin Lee Courtright's Blog, page 20

Interruptions from the Living

I am in the writing groove, keying out several pages of the new WIP, knowing where the plot is going and what happens next. The TV is on but the volume low, serving as a white noise in the background. The other house inhabitant, Bill, is off to grocery shop.

Waking relatively early, I smelled bacon, fried onions, and potatoes emanating from the kitchen, and felt famished. Slipping into shorts and a tee, I took the outside staircase to Trixie’s kitchen.
“Smells great,” I said, looking at the stove where Abhita, one of the morning shift’s help, worked.
“I’ll fix you up a plate,” she promised. I poured myself a huge glass of grapefruit juice and went to the front to take a seat at the otherwise empty bar. Trixie’s was busy this morning. Nancy and Elena bustled from table to table, taking orders, delivering food, checking on customer needs, and busing dishes.
A seemingly ungodly loud noise pierces my concentration. Grabbing the phone I assume a pleasant voice and say, “Hello?”
“Hello!” Bill’s cherry melodious, greeting grates on my nerves, and a brief image of me as curmudgeon drifts through my mind. “What’s up?” I ask.
“Did you you needed flour? There’s a great sale on it.” Good question. I make all our bread.
“All-purpose or bread?”
“Both.”
“Get ten pounds each.”
“You don’t want more? We could store it.”
“Weather is too warm. No, ten is fine.”
“Okay.”
Usual adieus. Hang up. Where was I? I reread what I’ve written. Phone rings again.
No greeting. “I forgot to tell you earlier, you need to make bread.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll get to it a little later.” Adieus. Hang up. Reread section, fall back into my alternative world and start writing.
Passing me, Nancy said, “We been discovered.”
“Again?” I quipped. Trixie’s has gone in and out of fashion for decades. Murder and notoriety as a come-on somehow felt wrong, but both Eva and I would accept the resulting business. Abhita shouted from the kitchen, and seeing my plate on the pass-thru, I rose and retrieved it. Taking my first bite I saw Rhonda and the Elitist enter from the side door. Heat filled my face as I remembered the shouting from their apartment last night and returned my attention to my hash browns.
A familiar squelchy rubbing sound interrupts me. I look over at the upstairs porch door. My thirty-pound orange kitty dubbed Winston Churchill (he’s a dead ringer) runs his paws down the glass door as if trying to dig his way in. He sees me and I swear he smiles. As I rise from my chair, he sits down and waits for me to open the door. Win comes in; two others run outside. “And stay out,” I command to the tails already disappearing down the stairs. Before I sit down I fill my cup with the remains of coffee left in the percolator.
Back on my chair, I read the last paragraph. Was this the Elitist’s night with Rhonda? She is serially monogamous, one guy given a specific night of the week, exclusively his. Do I have the right one? Doubting myself, I double check my book’s fact book, which is bigger than the WIP. Yes. Okay, let’s go.
They slid onto the two bar stools to my right.
“Smells heavenly,” Rhonda said.
“Another treasure in visiting you, my dear, is the high quality of the food served so close by,” the Elitist said.
Rhonda and I both laughed at his compliment. I rose and found them menus. “I’m having the Friday morning special. What do you want to drink?”
“I’d appreciate coffee,” the Elitist said. I poured him a cup and plopped the sugar and cream next to where I put his cup. “I’ll have a large orange juice and a coffee,” Rhonda requested. “Early for you to be working, isn’t it?”
The phone rings again. I make an agitated noise, and may have even made an evil utterance,  but my voice is resigned when I pick up the instrument of torture. “Hello.”
“Hi, Mom. Did you hear what xxx (name deleted as protection from libel accusations) that @%$x&! said?”
My discontent disappears. “You mean about…”
“Yes!”
My son and I have ongoing and frequent political, cultural, situation rant fests. He must be driving. He has to drive a lot for his job, and while I don’t generally approve cars, phones, and long conversations, he always gets leeway. Before he hangs up ten minutes have passed.
I look at my computer screen, sigh, and reread the page again.
“Helping out is expected from the owner even when having breakfast.”“Sit down and eat before it turns cold,” Nancy said, coming up behind me. I gratefully relinquished my waitress duties as Nancy took over. She served Rhonda and the Elitist before pushing another large grapefruit juice in front of my plate. I quaffed several swallows down, enjoying the tang of the tart-sweet liquid.“Didn’t you have dinner last night?” Nancy asked.“No, I forgot.” I mashed my eggs into the hash browns and stuffed a forkful into my mouth, savoring the mixture of egg yolk, butter, onions, and potatoes. Within minutes I’d polished off the potatoes and picked up the crispy bacon. It crumbled on my tongue. Some inner sense made me notice…
I hear gravel crunching. Living in the country or BFE as my daughter refers to it, the driveway always alerts me when someone is approaching. I run downstairs, look out, and see the Fed Ex man coming up the walkway. We share thirty seconds of chit-chat and he is gone. The address on the envelop excites me. I go into the kitchen, careful open the package and unwrap the bottle of Madagascar vanilla and put it away. Hell, while I’m in the room I might as well start the bread, so I pull out the sourdough starter. Soon I’m back upstairs in my chair. Taking a relaxing breath I look at the page I’ve accomplished so far. I get to the last unfinished sentence. What did Kate notice? What was I thinking…? I sit, my mind stewing for a minute before the idea returns. Oh, yeah. I start keying.
…the Elitist watched me with an avid expression of interest while Rhonda hid her grin and sipped her coffee.I was about to lick my lips. Remembering the Elitist’s stare and what I heard last night, I used a napkin to wipe my mouth.
Phone rings again. Greetings shared. “Robin, I have a question about what we decided at the last meeting, do you have a minute?”
Ugh.
“Sure.” An hour later I’m back to my story.
“Looks good,” Rhonda said, as Nancy delivered her breakfast.Nancy handed me the kitchen phone at the same time with a brief, “For you.”
And so it goes. Without a life, I would be unable to write because my experiences offer so much insight, and I love all those who interrupt me. If there ever was a choice between one of them and a book, the answer is simple: them. Yet somehow when I go to work in my alternative world, I often wish I could somehow, just temporarily mind you, erase myself TOTALLY from reality.

Exotic Animals and Argumentation

The composition 2 class I teach is about writing persuasive and argumentative essays, or using argument in logical, courteous discourse. I have my students do short writing prompts on their opinion about many different contentious issues in the world today to help them find topics that interest them for their essays.

One topic came up about the private ownership of exotic animals. Students gave their opinion/solution on two counter-point arguments printed in USA Today editorials on September 15, 2011.

Should you or your neighbor own bears, tigers, lions, wolves, boa constrictors, alligators, crocodiles, or other unusual pets? These animals are easily procured from the Internet, but how many are privately owned? Specific numbers are hard to come by, but one article in National Geographic claims 15,000 large cats in U.S. under private ownership. Zoos and other professional animal handlers of various ilk have to be licensed, but not all states require licensing of private owners. The situation is described at the Wildlife Research and Conservation blog.

The viewpoints of those opposed fell into three arguments: 1) human treatment of animals, 2) inherent danger to owner, family, visitors, and neighbors, and 3) environmental issues.

The major problem is the same one as found in many other issues: irresponsibility. First off, many owners don't know the dietary and housing needs their exotic pet requires, and information can be hard to find. Exotic animals can be very expensive to keep, not only for secure habitats, but also for food and veterinary costs. Because of this, many fall into the neglected and starved animal scenario. Before this situation arises, some owners ask their local zoo to take their animal, but most licensed facilities have already been animaled-out by private owners and can't take any more. This leads many owners to release their exotics even though the local climate and landscape are entirely unsuitable for the animal, leaving the pet to die when the weather turns. Owners release others into environments where they can overwhelm native species. The Everglades are full of boa constrictors released when they became too 'big' for the owner to handle. Alligators have been found in New York's sewers, and perhaps you remember the Ohio incident where a man released his private zoo, many on the endangered species list, before committing suicide. Most of the animals shared his fate of death. These animals can ultimately create dangerous situations or cost the taxpayer for their capture or eradication.

Those who approve ownership felt it is their right to be able to own any animal they want if it isn't against their state's laws. As long as they remain responsible owners, leave them alone. They love their exotic pet and feel they are also helping keep some species from extinction. You want to talk about human treatment of animals? Talk to your local ASPCA or Human Society. Deaths by dog are probably much higher than deaths by exotic animal. Domestic cats also destroy native habitats by their superior skills in hunting native species of birds, reptiles, and small mammals, but no one is suggesting everyone has to get rid of their pet. Plus, owners failure to neuter their domestic pets has also led to major problems. Why single out exotic pet ownership as irresponsible?

So, what do you think?
Winston, a just dropped off now thirty-pound, neutered pet and as big a cat as I want to handle.

Astarte

Not sure what to call this fantasy piece. It was written as flash fiction but I've been told it is a vignette, not short or flash fiction. I like it anyway, so thought to share it. Maybe it might make the start to another story.
* * *


A smell of earth, part decay, part life, permeated the air and left a taste on the tongue. Rubble and broken statuary littered the floor. She walked, part substance, part wraith, in a forgotten chamber far below Byblos, most ancient of cities. How had she returned? She could not recall. Someone, somewhere must have made an offering in her name.

Once, this ruin had been a dower gift from her brother, her husband, El.

With perfect recall, she heard his youthful voice echo to her through the centuries, ‘Astarte, my star, my heaven.’

He, too, had moved on. He left me to seek more -- sole adulation, the one God.

She threw her head back, refusing to feel tears track her cheeks at her lover’s desertion. She turned away from the thought, her motion following her mind. Fool! That was thousands of years ago.

She held out a hand and an oil lamp formed, its handle between her fingers, its wick emitting flame. As she solidified, her robe dragged through the filth; flickering light caught each slow rising spec of dust. The motes swirled in mesmerizing patterns, each speck forcibly reminding her of a long-ago worshipers dancing before her sacred fire. As of old, they danced both separate and together, as in the act of love. She slowly rotated full circle, visualizing the temple in its former glory. The memory faded. Slow rivulets of reflection dissipating into the dark and shadowy chasm.

The shadows kindled her anger like ash-rimmed black embers. Those living in the sun drenched city above, building their foundations on their predecessors' dust -- those defilers of her name, honor, and ancient divinity -- they had no idea this sanctuary remained. That SHE existed.

‘They thought to destroy me, daughter of Gaea, mother to all womanhood. She named me goddess of love and hate, peace and war, barrenness and fertility.’ No one answered her.

A dagger at that betrayal gouged her gut. The pus of uncountable generations of neglect corrupted the wound and her soul. Her fingers touched her agony, drew it out and shaped the defiled flesh. Raising her poison-filled palm to eye level, she gently blew on the putrid pulp until it swelled and bubbled.

She stared at the mass in her palm. ‘They call me daemon now. So be it. They will learn, and I shall teach. As they crushed my temple, so shall they be served.’

With her other hand she touched the last temple pillar standing complete even in its subterranean neglect and closed her eyes. The shaft’s base quaked deep within Gaia, shaking her earthly folds and sending them slipping over her deep, bleeding heart. Above, Byblos shuddered. Cracks fissured the cave’s root-bound roof, creating conduits to El’s dominion. Grinning, Astarte blew the venom she held into the world of man.

The Truth About Hermits

When we first moved to our acreage (the old orchard in the local village parlance) there was another farm next door. The neighbor’s barn was in relatively good shape, but not the house. It was very small and dilapidated-looking. Local villagers old us Herman the Hermit lived there. I’d laugh. John the anarchist and the commander of the Michigan Militia lived on our back border, the old dump was to our north and Herman the Hermit lived to our south. I told myself you just never knew where you’d end up.
For a decade I gave Herman (yes, his actual name) his space. If he didn’t want to socialize, I didn’t want to impinge on his right to solitude. Occasionally I’d see him picking up his mail from his post box across the street from his house on the old zoo side of the street. Sometimes I’d see him working when I’d walk the road for exercise. I’d smile and wave. Herman always gave me a worried glance, his lined face squinting in concern, and then he’d quickly turn his shaggy head away from direct contact and briskly walk back across the street to his house. I heard from others in town about his body odor and how bad he smelled. One November I saw him at the polling place, and he grinned at me in recognition. Empty seats were on either side of him. I was surprised at his recognition and sat next to him while we waited our turn to vote. Neither of us said anything. Last winter I saw him walking home through deep snow carrying groceries bags. On the off chance that he needed a lift or would even accept one, I turned my car around and offered him a ride home. He accepted. We never spoke, but he nodded when he got out of my car. I assumed the snow prevented him from getting his old truck from the even older garage, so he had walked the mile to the village.
This summer all everyone believed about Herman changed. Bill and I knew Herman had a sister who owned the acreage backing onto Herman’s, their properties the remaining eighty acres from the original farm, but she lived in Grand Rapids, more than an hour away. On his way into the village, Bill saw Herman and his sister and stopped to say hello, as he’d met the sister before but seldom saw her. She was angry with Herman and asked Bill to help. Herman had had his phone turned off and that was her only way to contact him, and he wouldn’t explain why. What Herman was unwilling to discuss with his older sister, he was very willing to tell Bill who had approached him more times than I had. The plain fact was that Herman didn’t have enough money to pay for the phone.
It seems Herman had never had a regular paying job, but helped his mother with what I’ve been told was a dairy farm. At her death twenty years ago, the house and land went to Herman. Since then Herman’s monthly income had been a Social Security payment of $177. After selling off much of the farmland during the 90s to cover his living expenses, Herman was now living in abject poverty, and had been for many years. His house had no TV, no radio, no computer, a small counter-top refrigerator to hold the Meals On Wheels frozen dinners he picked up once a week at the local retirement center, and no running water. No wonder he could no longer afford to pay the phone bill.
Bill took Herman into the Social Security office thirty miles away. The woman who took the case was very helpful and very distressed that Herman had ‘fallen through the cracks.’ It was very evident that Herman, while not stupid, lacked social skills and had trouble figuring out technical or financial things. Soon he had a bridge card and ISS that now allows him to buy food and pay his electric bill. A family moving out of state gave him their refrigerator. Several donations from local churches, a big-box store, and individuals allowed some volunteers to reroof Herman’s very leaky roof with steel.
One person said she had passed Herman’s house every night for years going home from work, and for the first time she could remember, his lights were on when she passed. Another person said on seeing Herman in town that Herman wasn’t staring at the ground as usual but actually looked him in the face and smiled. Bill, Ethan, and Wyatt

The Night Diamond REO Burned

My family and I were downstairs in the basement rec room watching TV and working on trick or treating costumes. It was nearing 7:30 and bedtime bath and story was nearing. Tomorrow was Halloween. My seven-year-old daughter had gone upstairs to retrieve something, and as she came down stairs she wore a puzzled and worried expression. Looking at me with doubt-filled eyes, she asked, "Should the sun be rising?"

Considering her manner I didn't question its absurdity, but quick-stepped up the staircase. Looking through the north-facing dining room window, I saw a huge arc of sun-bright light on the horizon. It's cliche, I know, but my heart seemed to stop. Tree limbs and houses on the other side of Mt. Hope Avenue seemed like diminutive silhouettes against a colossal rising sun. Screaming down the staircase at Bill, I heard his feet thudding quickly upstairs to join me. Observing the scene outside the window, he told me to pack clothes while he gathered some irreplaceable family items. Within an half hour we had the car packed and had also warned the neighbors. Outside the smell of smoke filled the air, but as the fire hadn't come nearer, we decided to go see what was ablaze.

We lived on the south side of Mt. Hope Avenue a block west of the Cedar Street intersection. Our three-story 1920 Dutch colonial house was the second structure on west side of the street, next to the Tom's Grocery Store on the corner. Our house blocked the view of all the other houses further down the block. On the northern side of Mt. Hope two blocks of houses stood before the remains of the Diamond Reo Plant, up until about three years ago, manufacturer of well-known truck brands, and much earlier cars like the REO Flying Cloud and REO Royal.

We crossed Mt. Hope and slowly walked through residential streets with our daughter and five-year-old son towards the huge bonfire north of us. It became obvious what was burning --the Diamond Reo plant. The closer we approached the more the air night air held a rancid burning scent. We saw some residents removing their belongings from their houses, and others keeping an eye turned northward. Later we would learn sides of some of the houses nearest the blaze steamed from the heat, and windows became hot to the touch. Firemen had advised those owners to hose down their houses.

Diamond REO semi (Wikimedia Commons)

Known for producing one of the toughest trucks on the road, Diamond REO made semi-trailer trucks, fire engines, buses, heavy-duty trucks, and from 1915 to 1953, the REO Speed Wagon. (Yes, the band R E O Speedwagon-"Keep on Loving You" and "Can't Fight This Feeling" -- was named after the truck.) Ranson Eli Olds, founder of Oldsmobile, began the company in 1914 and used his initials for the company's name. Olds was an early automotive innovator, and this plant became one of the earliest car factories in the United States. White Motor Corporation bought REO in the 50s and merged it with Diamond T to form the Diamond REO Company. They were labeled the "World's Toughest Truck." Diamond REO fell on hard times in the seventies and had filed bankruptcy a few years ago which closed the plant. Parts of the thirty-eight acre site were condemned. When traveling I used loved to see the very identifiable front end of a Diamond Reo truck on the road. I took great pleasure knowing they were made close to where I lived. This was probably not true, as I now believe some were made at another out-of state site, but I thought them the best truck on the road. At this time, though, controversy stirred between historic preservationists and the city's leaders about the site's future.

It was a strange walk since the northern sky was so bright, but where we walked seemed extra dark. A few gawkers like us walked in the same direction, but not too many, others were busy emptying houses.
It was obvious the fire was way ahead of saving the building, but the numerous fire trucks and firemen worked to contain the fire from spreading to the residential neighborhoods surrounding the southern side of the area. Four lanes of Cedar Street contained the eastern side of the site, while a rail line and the Red Cedar River held the northern boundaries of Diamond Reo. On Washington Avenue to the west of the plant's grounds were the headquarters and other buildings, which were not ablaze. We walked down Baker Street which formed Diamond REO's southern boundary and linked Washington Avenue to Cedar Street, and where the flashing lights of fire trucks and police cars lined the road all the way to Cedar and then north on Cedar. In the shadows created by the bright light of the fire we saw the tall spire of one fire truck shooting water on the blaze, later identified as the new 'Firebird,' a high-pressure rig pouring thousands of gallons of water. We gazed in amazement at the huge embers of burning materials flying into the night sky and stayed on Baker Street's southern side so as not to impede fire workers. Reaching Cedar, we walked back home certain we would not have to evacuate our house.

Today, we, along with others living in the nearby neighborhoods, would have been evacuated because of all the asbestos, petrol chemicals, and other toxic substances carried into the night sky on embers and in the billowing smoke. The cloud of smoke lingered into Halloween, and we would learn from the city's newspaper, The Lansing Journal (from which some of this information has been taken from library archives), that arson probably started the fire and causes its fast spread sometime around 6:30 PM. Demolition workers had been inside the five-story production plant they were demolishing as late as 5:20 PM. Because of the condition of the building that stretched nearly three blocks, once the blaze was under control, and it was ascertained no one was within the structure, the sixty plus firemen pulled back and let the fire burn itself out. The company was already dead, this was a funeral pyre of the earthly remains, and there was no use in endangering anyone's life. The deathwatch would continue for another twenty-four hours, but Diamond REO was gone.

1919 REO ad from from Wikimedia Commons.
Click here more photos and history of REO plant site

Note: I have heard rumors of a WWII tunnel from the Diamond REO site to the Capital building, which worried many people with knowledge of the tunnel; and that helicopters flew over the city to watch where the embers might land. Another rumor was of the presence of fire departments from as far away as Grand Rapids, Jackson, and Ann Arbor. I have found no evidence to support any of this information, but if a reader does, please contact me.





Note: I originally planned to post this much earlier on the date of the fire, but I wanted permission from the Lansing Journal to use one of their photos of the night of the fire. After three phone calls to answering devices and two emails, I've heard nothing so gave up.

Beyond Biology

I've blogged on Night Writers about how plants go beyond biology to inspire science fiction and fantasy plot ideas.

Ottillie from Magic Aegis

One of my favorite characters from my first book, Magic Aegis, is Ottilie.  One of the secondary plot lines concerned her and her hero's journey, so she was important to the story even as a secondary character. Hope you enjoy her excerpt. Magic Aegis won that year's Dream Realm Award for fantasy novel.
~*~ Cold infiltrated the austere interior of Queen’s Library at Queen’s University. Unthinking of her surroundings and unrepentant, she muttered a few words recently learned from her father’s new under-groom after her horse not only bit the lad, but also stepped on his foot. Perhaps the gentle clerics held a desire to keep more earth-bound types at bay, she mused, as the drafts cut through any normal mortal’s clothing with absurd ease. Carefully she adjusted the folds of her floor-length brocade surgown for the hundredth time.
Looking between the stacks of books on her table she found one cleric still watched her with benign aversion. With measured movements she pulled the cuffs of her foresleeves down over her hands, covering her cold, stiff fingers. It helped little, other than to look pretty.
She admired her clothing with pleasure. The backside of her cuffs were quilted in an apple green silk that matched the embroidered silk leaves adorning the gold stems that swirled up the sleeves. Pearls formed petals around topaz-centered flowers in a precise geometric pattern. The sleeves were tied with gold ribbons to her brown velvet surgown with puffs of a fine linen chemise showing through the ties. The edge of the gown also hung heavy with gemstones, pearls and peridot, and on this cloth, orange and amber silk embroidery embellished the whole. All in all, she knew, with the peridot winking from the fillet encasing her red hair, she presented an extraordinary visage in the somber, book-lined gallery. If they insisted she wear what they considered proper ‘women’s wear’ to enter their sanctified grounds, then she would dress to scream ‘Aristo Woman’ back.
Obviously, the misogynic clerics had missed their mark. A bastard, true, but a rich one capable of facing down the haughtiest Aristo in court. These clerics offered little challenge; especially at an institution where money spoke, if not more clearly than the Holy One’s word, certainly louder.
She held a history of Kennetsure, but had found little about the Aegis. Once expelled from court, history ignored them, but land records might trace ownership. Except the Vere family became enmeshed within clan territory, so the family could not be identified. The families that had owned the ‘Aegis’ land in Wessure and Easure were gone, dead and forgotten.
Only the lands remained, and those had reverted to the crown. Those on the western ocean coast in Wessure remained in crown hands. In Easure, Ottillie learned, Aristo Yonger had claimed the land by direct heir forfeiture. His claim on one of his distaff relatives from the Guthase family went uncontested and he took the land from the crown.
Ottillie sighed to quell a thrill of anticipation that tickled just beneath her heart. Egan. One would think a supposed living talisman easier to track down as either fact or fiction.
She turned her focus to her father’s problem. His men, the Kennetsurean brothers Corbin and Galen Napier, had unearthed no further clues. Questioning guards and prisoners took time. No one remembered seeing anyone spend many candlemarks in the library other than herself, who nearly dwelled here. Neither of the Kennetsurean men knew anything about the existence of the Kennetsurean Aegis, which caused Ottillie some doubt of the pair.
Egan, like a litany, it ran through her mind, disrupting concentration. The answers might be there. True, the Aegis powers might be myth, but the library at Egan was reputed the greatest in all Kaereya, perhaps the best in all the remaining world. Ottillie wanted to know all the past, even the forbidden secrets of before the Cataclysmic Centuries, to learn the truth of the Protector.
She rose to roam the stacks once more, smiling at the cleric. At long last she’d found books of interest and returned to her seat to read well into the afternoon. When no lamp was offered as the room’s light faded, she rose and picked up the books.
“No books allowed out of the library,” the cleric said as she passed his desk.
“I am on the King’s business.”
“You have papers for this business?”
“Do you ask all the courtiers for the King’s papers?”
“I am asking you.”
“Send to the Bishop. He will give approval.”
“The Bishop is conducting high service and cannot be disturbed. You must leave the books here until he can be reached.”
How convenient. “I will return tomorrow.” Ottillie said in the genteel voice her governess had ground into her comportment with the delicacy of a millstone. “Please hold the books until I return.” She smiled a brittle non-smile and nodded with no response from the cleric. Once she placed the books on the desk, the cleric returned to his studies, ignoring her as she walked away.
She strolled in sedate steps from the library and headed toward her own apartment one floor below her father’s rooms, a quarter mark away. Halfway there, Theodulf Gilchrist, Duke of Hearthron, stopped her. Tall, black haired, handsome and exquisite, Aristo Gilchrist, as King Frederick’s brother-in-law, exerted a powerful influence within the court. His courtier toads and hired men trailed him.
He demanded the fullest respect, for even with the death of his royal wife, his two sons, blood princes Emory and Tate, insured his position at court and the royal family held him in high regard. His expression mocked his gracious greeting, as did the smirks on his men.
Ottillie assumed her ingrained poise, and gave the curtsey Gilchrist’s position demanded. His lazy eyes sharpened as she raised her head. He took her hand and raised it to his lips as he pulled her from her sunken position. “You look, as always, brilliantly attractive, Ottillie.” One of his retainers coughed to cover his snigger, and with disciplined aplomb Ottillie ignored it. The duke lowered her hand but kept it in his grasp, his thumb running over its smooth skin, it finally came to rest over the darker circle of skin as if to hide the blemish.
“Thank you, Duke Hearthron. Your well-known discernment in matters of beauty and fashion does me credit.”
“Not at all. Perhaps if all... daughters... at court were as attractive, the court would be a far more elegant place.”
Ottillie missed no nuance, but gave him her best simpering smile, and thanked him.
“Will I see you at Handfasting?” he asked.
Keeping her thoughts tightly guarded, Ottillie answered. “No, I’m beyond that now. Hopefully I will be traveling.”
“Traveling? This close to winter? The Earl of Rikon has given his permission?”
“Not yet, but he will. It’s not bad if you head south.”
“And where will your southern travels take you?”
“To the Zankiri coast. I am tired of the drafts in the Queen’s Library and wish to spend the winter reading in warmth.”
“Zankiri?” Gilchrist laughed. “Ottillie! You needn’t go so far to stay warm. If you were in my care, you wouldn’t spend so much time among the books and dust. There is more to life, you know.”
Ottillie gave a silvery laugh. “I know that as well, Duke Hearthron.” She gave him a sly look. “But I must confess I find myself lucky to remain in my father’s care. I am thus assured of everything I want.” With a subtle tug she pulled her hand free.
“What, no desire to be a wife? That sounds premeditated, Ottillie, and I congratulate you on your machinations if they bring you all you desire. Just remember there is surely one other man who wishes to give you everything a woman could desire.”
“The trick is finding him,” Ottillie laughed. “I must not keep you any longer Duke Hearthron.” She sank into another deep curtsy. “You are dressed for riding and I would not wish to keep you from your horses. I know how you men are about such matters.” She stepped back, allowing the duke and his retinue to pass. She kept the smile pasted to her face as she watched them walk down the hall. Turning, she made her way back to her room, all emotion firmly bridled.
~ * ~The Duke of Hearthron stopped and turned to watch Aristo Rikon’s daughter depart. Her gown swayed with her elegant movements. One of his companions made a humorous, foul remark about the lady. Others laughed.
“You are all very short-sighted,” he said with a smile. “Lady Ottillie is the only child of the land rich, powerful and wealthy Earl of Rikon. A prize that overcomes the few flaws his daughter possesses.”
“If you can put up with the mouth.”
“You don’t let your dog bite you, do you?”
“Do you have plans for the lady?”
“I always have plans.” Hearthron’s smile deepened. Only he knew how much he planned.

Win Book Money

MuseItUp Publishing is hosting a Christmas in July Hunt from July 9 - 23, 2012.
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*with the 15 authors' links where their trees were hidden
*and your name


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Begins on July 9 and ends July 23...no exceptions.


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And because the publisher wants to thank everyone who continue to support their authors by adding a little something to say THANK YOU -- Everyone who participates will walk away with a prize!

New Book This Month

Okay, it's my first story with adult content, provocative title. I would not class it as erotica, but it has sexual encounters. 
Trixie's Hot BoxAdjusting to being a witch and symbiont to an ancient creature is disturbing enough for Kate without suddenly inheriting Trixie’s Hot Box, the best jazz joint in St. Louis. Trixie’s requires responsibility and work, but turns to danger when an evil want-to-be warlock thinks he should have inherited. When police find his body on the property, Kate knows the determined detective investigating the case suspects someone at Trixie’s, and that spells trouble.

Why Read Fiction?

From TV to film, video games to cartoons, with so many story-telling entertainment media venues available… why read a book, why waste your time? Isn't it easier to wait for the movie of some blockbuster story? Are the novel and short story passé, a doomed media?

We've all heard the benefits of reading fiction for years, probably since the first novels were marketed: escapism, mind travel, relaxation, stress relief, and engagement of the imagination. Don't these other venues do the same? Probably. So why read a book? Because reading words does something better than any of the other image-based story-telling media do. Reading strengthens the brain circuitry through exercise. Reading gives the brain a hi-powered workout. It also helps the reader become more socially adjusted, and might even offer a cure for obesity.

New research has provided evidence reading does much more than just entertain the reader. It seems reading stimulates more than the language regions of the brain. According to Anne Murphy Paul in an article for the New York Times (Your Brain on Fiction), scientific studies conducted in Spain and published in NeuroImage show our sensory and motor skill centers, indeed the whole brain, become involved in conceptualizing words, which is what makes submersion in fictional words feel so real. Another study shows how metaphoric language excites the brain: "Researchers have found that textural metaphors-phrases such as "soft-hearted"-turn on a part of the brain that's important to the sense of touch. The result may help resolve a long-standing controversy over how the brain understands metaphors and may offer scientists a new way to study how different brain regions communicate" (Metaphors Make Brains Touchy Feely). Fiction, it seems, produces powerful brain chemistry.

Reading also enables a person to learn social skills, empathy, and exercise their imagination. Again in "Your Brain on Fiction," writer Annie Murphy Paul cites evidence from psychological studies by a Doctor Mar showed reading fiction uses many of the same process regions of the brain used in social interactions. The conclusion relates how reading helps individuals become better with their social interactions with other people in reality. Fiction readers, more so than non-fiction readers, seem to be more empathetic and more socially adjusted. Dr. Mar found this also true in pre-school children. The more stories read to this age group, the better their coping skills (Your Brain on Fiction).

Lastly, reading appropriate literature can help us develop good habits. A recent study of obese girls already in weight-control programs at Duke Children's Hospital indicated those who read a specifically recommended novel, Lake Rescue (Beacon Street Press), had a greater reduction in their body mass index numbers than the non-reading group (Reading helps obese children lose weight ).

This is strong proof reading is more than just entertainment, stress relief, and escapism, all though those are strong motivators. We knew the outward benefits of reading, now we are beginning to understand the inner benefits, those unseen, mind-expanding, brain exercising changes. More research into the brain-social-physical-reading connection will probably show other benefits to fiction. In the meantime, aren't you glad you read?

Rhobin