Elizabeth Russell's Blog, page 22

3 Things About Me

 

Desperate

 

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All is empty and plain.

The tabernacle unadorned

and the rafters oak and all forlorn.

 

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I am completely desolate.

But there, though spooks and whispers,

troubled prayer, I had the plaster saints

when I was desperate.

Three-Fold Fires without Pain

And when the winds of June

And when the cornflowers bloom

And when, when earth meets sky

in vast array of glorious show,

the apple blossoms lie

across the fresh-strewn mow,

then the rains have passed

then the pain is cast

then my lying abed has met at last

it’s final fresh-strewn grave.

 

Upon the silent, still cement

the sun has cast her golden raiment,

and if my final gripping pain,

is washed and dried and gone like rain,

then truly, cruelly, I can claim,

my pain is really gone again.

 

But if on soaring wings I fly,

to meet the scattered, star-filled sky,

then pure upon the wind I call

with joyful, alleluia yells.

At last I’m free and free to last,

among seraph, angels and eternal choirs.

I forget already the bitter, biting past,

and rise to burn exultant in the three-fold fires.

 

Halfbreeds Practically Free!

My fantasy novel Halfbreeds is on sale now for only ~~ $0.99! Be sure to take advantage of this great deal!

You can purchase it at Amazon ~ Clean Reads ~ or Kobo

Also, you can follow my author profiles on both Amazon and Goodreads.

In a village wrapped about with strange monsters and superstition, a new kind of child is born. Half-man half-monster, the villagers fear their own children and, turning against them, burn them at the stake. But a small band of resilient Halfbreeds escape their executioners and take up their home in the wild. In a desperate attempt to find their place in the world, these children question what it really means to be human.

Related Posts:

Halfbreeds Artwork

Halfbreeds

Check out my Debut Novel!

The Smoothie Bar

I was leaning against the counter in a smoothie bar, waiting to meet up with a friend. It was his college campus, not mine, which is why we were meeting in a public place and not a dorm hall or classroom building. I suppose we could have rendez voused at the Newman Center, which is where we originally met, but he was currently avoiding a beautiful, cold-hearted girl who frequented there – drama, dram drama… I shook my head.

The shop was bright, with white and azure-blue tiles lining the walls. The counter was clean pink lacquer, and the floor a dizzying array of green, pink, and stone white tiles. A display of frozen yogurt decorated the wall behind the counter, and accents of fruit dotted about the room were a nod to their main advertised product.

Leisurely waiting, and with nothing else to do, I stared at the tv screen suspended on the ceiling. Five women flashed across it in an ad, over made-up, over-frizzed, and over-frilled.

They looked like women from the cover of W or Harper’s Bazaar. Meant to display five different types of fashion styles and personalities, to me, they all looked alike. I shuddered and commented to the girl behind me, before quite turning around, “Do any of those fashions appeal to you?” To my horror, when I turned all the way around, she looked just like the women on the screen. Blue lips, dark, heavily-rimmed eyes, pale face, and grunge/punk clothing that hid and revealed her body in all the wrong places.[image error] My face burned with embarrassment, and I gaped a moment, but then she answered me. I have a habit of not sounding sarcastic when I actually am, and to my relief, she had taken me seriously.

“Yes,” she said in a quiet, uncomfortable voice. Hearing her discomfort, I saw through her appearance to the person beneath. Her voice sounded bored, tired, and lonely, and rather than just seeing the liner around her eyes, I saw the deadness inside them. “The…” she made a movement on her chin, obviously trying to communicate one of the styles, but I was lost.

“Which one?”

“The…” She did it again. I shook my head, and she repeated, “The…; the artist one. I like that.”[image error]

“Ah.” I smiled at her, trying to remember which one that was, but failing. They all looked the same to me. “So, what are you doing tonight?”

“My boyfriend’s picking me up. We’re going to a club.”

“Oh fun! That’ll be nice.”

She shrugged languidly. “Hm. We go every night and stay out till morning. I only woke up a few hours ago.”

The bar had cleared out so there was only the two of us left, and the guy behind the counter leaned over to take our orders. But he paused and remained to listen when he heard our conversation.

I was suddenly very frustrated with a world that would suck girls down into a void, where they felt they had to be sexy, dead, and numb to be recognized. This girl – I felt in my bones – did not have meaning in her life. What made her tick? What gave her a reason to get up every…afternoon? I leaned over intensely, the way I get sometimes when I passionately want to save the world and everyone in it.

“What do you think it means to be good?” I blurted out. “You know? I feel like no one talks about that anymore. What does it mean to be good? Not just polite or nice, but genuine goodness. What do you guys think?”

The boy leaning against the counter had a longish blonde crew-cut, clear, handsome blue eyes, and a defined oval face. He looked wholesome, but I had met enough clean-cut young men who turned out to be empty shells. You can’t judge anyone by their cover. I was genuinely interested to hear what these two people had to say about my question.

I was surprised to see that they were both thinking about it; the girl in a sluggish, hazy sort of way, and the boy with a wrinkle and crease in his forehead.

“My girlfriend and I say something to each other a lot.” He spoke up. “We both try to sacrifice.”

I gazed at him in admiration. He wasn’t an empty shell after all.

“I love it!” I exclaimed. “That’s exactly right, I think. Sacrifice. You mean, like, for each other?”

“Yeah. It’s the only way to not think about yourself all the time.”

I basked in this bit of truth, then whirled on the girl and demanded an answer with my passionate, exuberant gaze.

“Well,” she mumbled, and it was hard to hear her, “I guess it has something to do with entertaining people.” At least, I think that was what she said, but I definitely heard the word ‘entertaining’.

The young man answered her. “But isn’t entertaining just pleasing ourselves?”

She shrugged, and I made a wild stab in the dark to help her out.

“Well, but entertaining can be about the other person. I think that if we entertain well and graciously, we show that we notice and care about people. That you value them. Is that what you meant?”

She nodded and shrugged. Then they both looked at me.

I thought hard. Then laughed in embarrassment. “I feel like you’ve said what had to be said. Anything I think of seems to fall into either of your categories: sacrifice or valuing people. But I need to give an answer; I’m sure there’s more to goodness.” After another moment, I had a thought. “We can’t take life for granted. It’s good, or goodness, to live each day as if it were our last. To try to leave something behind for posterity. Sometimes it’s something sacrificial that’s hardly noticed, and sometimes it’s noticing a person for who they are, and letting them know. But I think it goes beyond that. We have to leave a mark behind us, something that says, “I’ve been here, and I hope I left the world a better place because of it.” For me, it’s my writing and storytelling. For parents, it would be their children. I guess it’s something different for everyone.”

They nodded. Then the boy laughed heartily. “You don’t hear conversations like this every day. I’m glad you girls came in tonight. Smoothies?”

We ordered, and soon my friend showed up, so I left. And, I suppose her boyfriend came soon after, to leave the boy behind the counter alone with his pureed fruit. I liked to think that they would both go home that night with a changed view of the world, but then I realized it didn’t matter what they did. I had no control over that. I had control over me. Would I go forth, from that brightly-lit, frozen drink bar, to think about myself, entertain myself, and live for myself? Or would I have a new lease on life, and go out to sacrifice for others, entertain and value men and women, and leave something behind to posterity, to let them know that once upon a time, a girl lived here, and she cared about making the world a better place?

Ruth and Boaz – Part 4 (The Final Part)

When I rang her doorbell, after returning home from my voyages, it was the enigma who answered.

“We had begun to think you would never return,” she told me. We did not know each other well, but she knew of me, and I of her.

I could see, by the full sadness, hope, and mother bear protectiveness behind her eyes, that she had heard of me from two separate sources. One, from her step-daughter, whom she loved as her own heart’s blood; and two, from the village, which must have presented such overwhelming evidence against me that she cringed to have such a man stand on her doorstep.

“She’s been waiting for you.”

“I know,” I admitted, “but I’ve actually come to speak to you.”

“Really?” To my relief and surprise, her demeanor softened, and she let me in.  “And to what do I owe this visit?”

“To Naomi, actually,” I laughed a little and the sound, even to my ears, came across as unhinged. I had pent myself up so tight for this encounter, and now, with her goodness and maturity daring me to meet it, I was swiftly coming unwound. “I’ve been reading the story of Ruth and Naomi, and I wanted to tell you about it.”[image error]

“I know the story,” she said calmly. “Please sit down.” She led me to a chair, actually guiding me as if I had been a child, and I realized how much of a wreck I must appear. I was indeed a wreck. After all those months of endless, unending sailing, coming in the end safe into port, I had been cast a wreck here, upon my own home shore, before the woman I most feared. And her kindness was undoing me faster.

“Why did Ruth love Naomi so much?” I demanded, my breath whooshing out as if I had been holding it since I left.

She smiled sweetly and gave me cookie from a jar. Somehow, a cookie is better than an answer, and I slumped back in my chair, defeated.

“Why does anyone love anyone?” she turned my question against me. “Why did Boaz love Ruth?”

I did not have to think about the answer to that. It was written, as it had always been written, in my soul. “Because she completed him. He couldn’t help it. And if someone else was better for her, he would have accepted that. If she had been better off with Naomi, alone…” I paused. I was not Boaz. I was not a man of integrity. Had Boaz been me, then Ruth might very well have been better off without him. “He would have let her alone. He wanted what was best for her.”

She stood up and went to the window. I finished the cookie. “When my husband died,” she said, “he left a part of him behind, and that part has become more precious to me than anything else. She is like my own daughter, and I love her so much my heart aches. I couldn’t give her up to someone who loved her less than that. But I can see that your love for her tortures you. And it should! And I am not jealous in my love. Naomi always wanted what was best for Ruth, you know. How can I want anything less? I only feared you were not worthy.”

“I’m not.”

“You weren’t. You were a proud man, and vain. You were just a boy. I wanted you never to return, because maybe then she would be spared the pain of learning that you could never change.”

My heart was breaking and I sat broken before her, bent beneath the burden of her blame. I accepted the chastisement. But then I felt her hand on my arm, and I stood quickly, eager to show her I was not a wreck anymore. That I could stand tall, even in adversity. That I could be a good man, no matter the reward or loss. I wanted her motherly eyes, the kind of eyes I had not seen in many, many years, to look on me with pride and approval.

And they did. Blown away, I saw that they sparkled with new love. Her look, if I dared believe it, told me she had found a son as well as a daughter.

“You have changed,” she said, confirming what I feared to hope. “Go to her.”

With her confidence and love behind me, with my new self within me, and with my everything before me, I went out into the garden to find my Ruth.

The End.

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Read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 of Ruth and Boaz

Read the original story here

Halfbreeds Artwork

See the world of Halfbreeds through the author’s eyes.

I’ve created a couple of the iconic images from my novel that stick in my mind.

First, here are some I did months ago.

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Above: Bobakin, in soft chalk pastel

Below: Dalimi, in soft chalk pastel

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I’m very happy with the way these turned out! I feel they get across the essence of their characters. It’s rare that I’m able to do just what I want with art, so I’m proud of this.

2. I keep going back to the barn for some reason – every image looks similar to how I picture it, and eventually, I’ll get one that looks exactly right.

Above is a closeup of my first one that I did in colored pencils awhile back.

Here is an oil pastel I did just the other day. The terrible forest is in the upper right corner. It’s rougher, but has more of the appropriate feel.

I thought I was going to put the barn in this one, but turned into a stretch of the Terrible Forest. The hard copy is very heavy and shiny since it is done in thick oil paint.  I was out of blue paint, so I had to be creative with the sky, but I think I like this better. It brings across the true feel of the forest.

3. I wanted to work the title into the wheat field, so here’s the logo in colored pen! I used up an entire blue pen on this one.

Ruth and Boaz – Part 3

Across the shifting sea I voyaged, to far ports and distant shores. I went not to forget, but to remember. To remember the way I was as a child, not the way I had grown to be as a man.

I wrote her a letter and sent it on the first ship we crossed. Brief, I told her my intent, and left it at that. To find myself. To learn to love. To remember.

After a year of port to port, island to island, praying to God each night and rising for her each morning, we arrived at the small Caribbean Island, Eye of the Mother. Named so for the pile of rocks atop which, at the crest of the topmost cliff, presided a stone chipped statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Her arms, poised as if waiting to rise to her maker, were spread wide toward the earth, and her gaze was bent to the wide island vista. I climbed the crumbling stone path that led with crude steps to the foot of her shrine, and paused to contemplate her face.[image error]

But I soon grew nervous. Hers was not the innocence of inexperience, and I could not hold my own beneath it. Instead, I noticed that one of her fingers pointed distinctly to a patch of earth, and idly curious, wanting to escape her eyes, but finding comfort somehow in her presence, I investigated as an excuse to stay. Beneath her finger was an orange patch of earth – prime molding clay. Suddenly inspired, I dug with my fingers and took out fistfuls. I poured my water bottle into my hand and with the mixture began to shape and mold.

Presently, I know not how long my task engrossed me, I suddenly found a child sitting on the cairn of rocks and contemplating my actions with wide eyes. Delicate pale wisps fluttered around her face, stirred delicately by the breeze.

“What are you making?”

I glanced down at the sculpture in my hands. A woman. It wasn’t her, like I thought it would be; nor my mother, which might have made sense; not even a replica of the Virgin standing above my head. I handed it over to the child, who took it with her tiny hands and looked it all over.

“I’m in love with my best friend, you see,” I told her. “I’ve always wanted to love her, but I don’t really know how, so mostly I’ve just demanded her to love me. But she told me a story – a story about why she refuses to love me…”

“What was the story?”

I had poured over the story of Ruth ever since setting sail, and I knew it now by heart. “Once upon a time, a girl named Ruth married a handsome man named Elimelek–”

The little girl erupted into giggles. “That’s a funny name!”

I smiled at her. “Yes, I suppose it is. Well, Elimelek had a mother named Naomi who was a very wonderful and holy woman. But soon, Elimelek died and Ruth was a widow. Ruth now had nothing to do with Naomi, no connection to her, you see, but the girl didn’t see it that way.[image error] Instead of drifting away from her, Ruth clung even closer and chose to love Naomi more than anyone else, even more than her friends and relatives.”

“Why?”

I blinked. “I don’t know. I guess they were both lonely – they needed each other. Anyway, because Ruth loved Naomi so much, she was able to meet the love of her life and marry him in the end of the story.”

“Emmylack?”

I laughed so hard tears came into my eyes. “No, he died remember? The new guy was named Boaz.”

“They all have funny names!” she laughed. “Are you Boaz?”

“Sort of.” [image error]

She stuck out the sculpture at me, now deformed beyond recognition by the fondling of her tiny fingers. “And she is Ruth, the girl you love?”

I sighed deeply. “Actually, no. She is a woman I don’t understand. The woman Ruth loves. She’s Naomi.”

The girl wrinkled her face at the sculpture, confused and dissatisfied with my tale. “Are you going to marry Ruth?”

I hadn’t admitted my desire to myself – all through my searching, I was too confused. And now, standing at the foot of a mother, I was too afraid. The little girl before me seemed to represent my friend as a child, and the Blessed Virgin was her new mother. One was too young, and the other, too old. One too bereft of experience, the other loaded with too much. If I dared to presume to ask for her hand, would innocence repel me? Would experience condemn? I feared it.

“You should marry her,” she finally pronounced when I was silent too long. She declared confidently. “Naomi wants Ruth to be happy…. Right?”

Ruth and Boaz – Part 2

The silver light danced across the white tiles of the empty hall. I was brooding, my hand clenched around a jar of clay, my gaze fixated unseeingly upon the unfinished mural before me.

I had not set foot in this room for seven years, and apparently, neither had anyone else. The dust lay heavy upon the floor mixed with dirt and stone dust, and cobwebs of lonely spiders straggled the corners of the mighty pillars.

Ever since running out on her last night, since retreating from that starlit fantasy of a man I might be, my mind would not leave me alone. In unending parade, memories of my mother marched across my vision, refusing to cease their haunting. At last, desperate to escape, I fled to the one place around which they all centered, and found myself here, leaning against a makeshift scaffold, free of the ghosts but now brooding over this haunt like a ghost myself.

The mural was large and beautiful, an outdoor scene of a meadow that my mother and I both loved. It was in this meadow that she met my father, and it was to this meadow that she would bring me and my childhood friend when we were young and unaffected. The three of us decided to recreate our own paradise in the giant hall of my mother’s castle, a castle that was old, crumbling, and unassociated with any monarchy; a hall that served to remind us of decay and loss, but we decided to transform to a spring of hope and renewal.

I was a master sculptor, my mother an inspired painter, and my young friend a genius gardener. But in the prime of her life, in the midst of her greatest masterpiece, in the very process of raising a son into manhood, God took her in his infinite providence. Two weeks later, in his unending Mercy, God inspired my best friend’s father to send her abroad for an education. Away from my corrupting society, away from our paradise, away from the memory of pain and anguish. If she got to escape the devastation of my life, I decided then, then so will I. And so without a second thought, seeped in my bitterness, I shut up the hall and transformed my home from a sanctuary into a place of revelry, just to defy God. But I kept it respectable on the outside, just to defy society – they would never have another excuse to exclude me from their company. And for the next seven years, I was a carefree, untamed, debonair scoundrel, just to defy my own pain.

But the pain was there, it was buried deep, and I had not forgotten. And love was there, though I’d never known it. When I saw her again last night, my heart tightened into a knot, for the moment she saw me, I knew she never stopped loving me. But I was so accustomed to shutting myself off, so used to being dashing, that I masked my true self, and lied to her all night.

All night, until the moonlight. And then I couldn’t.

And I did love her. I looked at the mural, full of untamed flowers, birds, and wind. I looked at the dead potted plants all around me – one of the roses had dried on it’s stem. I looked at the half-formed clay statue of a mother with two children, and then words from last night swam to my consciousness, “She must be my love, you know. For now.” My mother had always been our love, our guide, and now my friend had a new mother to love, but I only had the old. Rough as it was, the stone revealed my mother’s features – she had had such hope for us.

“I will make you proud, mother,” I whispered to her for the first time since her death, breathing the words through clenched teeth. “I will fulfill your hope for me.”

Then I leapt to my feet and left my home, my village, forever. I descended to the seaport docks, hired myself as a sailor, and departed on a schooner to the wide world.

Favorite Books!

Hey guys! I don’t usually break the fifth wall – you know how much I love writing a story and just putting it out there. Without commentary, without introduction.

But I’d love to hear more from all of you! So I thought I would share a list of my top ten favorite books, and then ask you to comment and share your favorites! I’d love to read them.