Richelle E. Goodrich's Blog, page 15
November 24, 2016
I am Grateful
Here I am, sitting with my feet up, slippers on, relishing one of the few quiet Thanksgiving days I've had in life. I find myself feeling grateful for a low-key, peaceful holiday. Not that I don't appreciate time with my family and friends, for I love them dearly, but it feels like ages since I've been able to put on the brakes and "chill" as my boys would say. In the warmth and comfort of my house, I am grateful to hear the soft hum of a refrigerator underlining the quiet. A quiet that won't last for long.
It is good to count blessings on Thanksgiving. It's a healthy habit to count blessings every day of the year, and so I would like to share a few things I'm most grateful for.
First would be the blessing of prayer and the opportunity it affords me to speak to my Heavenly Father at any time and in any circumstance. I cannot imagine wading through life's trials without leaning on Him.
Next, I am grateful to have experienced the immense joy of motherhood. I have never felt love as powerful and consuming as that of a mother's love for her children. I am happy to have been blessed to give birth to my beautiful angels, a joy I would not trade for anything.
I am immensely grateful for family, for this divinely instituted unit of humans bound by blood and/or vows to support and love and uphold each other. It is insane and yet wondrous how a family unit works; despite squabbles, clashing preferences, and differences of opinion, when the storm clouds roll in, it is family first we turn to and rely on. It is family who loves us regardless and often stands up to bullies in our defense. I am thankful for the Master's glue that binds families forever.
In this same vein I must say how grateful I feel toward my husband for his noticeable efforts in being thoughtful, kind, and a helpful presence in our home. I appreciate his efforts, often biting his lip to keep the peace when I've had a bad day. Thank you for that.
I am grateful for the daydreaming reader who loves to pretend and fantasize incredible, impossible things. And I am thankful for every stolen moment I am able to use for scribbling out my poetry and stories. I am grateful to those who purchase my books, whether for their own entertainment or as a gift to others, thus supporting my dreams and allowing me more precious time to write.
I am grateful for enchanting stories by talented authors. Their tales are my ticket to experience fantastical worlds and incredible lives. The creativity abounding in these tales inevitably enhances my own.
I am grateful for those who take time to give a kind word to others. I cherish the thoughtful emails and comments I have received, usually about something I have written that has touched a heart or helped buoy a despondent spirit. I keep these printed, kind remarks in a box to remind me that words are powerful to the soul; what I write makes a difference.
I am grateful for purpose and goals. For a world of rich diversity. For landscapes as vast and beautiful and contrasting as the people who possess this earth. I am grateful that my list of things to be grateful for is too extensive to write out in one sitting.
And so I will leave you with these thoughts and a word of advice. Find much to be grateful for in every day. Doing so will not only enrich your life, it will bless those around you in ways you may never know.
From me to you, Happy Thanksgiving.
― Richelle E. Goodrich
November 10, 2016
Cover ART for Book III in the Harrowbethian Saga
Soon to be released....
Book III in the Harrowbethian Saga
Eena, The Curse of Wanyaka Cave
COVER ART REVEAL!
Prepare for more adventure with the young Queen Eena!
Captain Derian and his crew have successfully returned Eena to her home in Harrowbeth. Gemdorin, their enemy of over a decade, has been defeated. The world awaits healing as peace once again settles over the land. Unfortunately for those closest to Eena, this much-deserved rest proves short-lived.
Deep within Lacsar Forest inside the black walls of Wanyaka Cave, a childhood ghost story has become reality. A more powerful and enduring enemy lures the young queen to where two immortal sisters await in confines, having been imprisoned there for generations. These evil sisters and their brother, along with a dragon forced to do their bidding, combine efforts to manipulate Eena into helping them accrue a means of escape. Though she tries to refuse her assistance, every move she makes only seems to worsen her predicament. She fears losing Derian's trust, Ian's friendship, and possibly someone's life.
Look for Eena, The Curse of Wanyaka Cave to be released in e-book and paperback the end of November!
Book I
Eena, The Dawn and Rescue
Book II
Eena, The Return of a Queen
Book III in the Harrowbethian Saga
Eena, The Curse of Wanyaka Cave
COVER ART REVEAL!
Prepare for more adventure with the young Queen Eena!
Captain Derian and his crew have successfully returned Eena to her home in Harrowbeth. Gemdorin, their enemy of over a decade, has been defeated. The world awaits healing as peace once again settles over the land. Unfortunately for those closest to Eena, this much-deserved rest proves short-lived.
Deep within Lacsar Forest inside the black walls of Wanyaka Cave, a childhood ghost story has become reality. A more powerful and enduring enemy lures the young queen to where two immortal sisters await in confines, having been imprisoned there for generations. These evil sisters and their brother, along with a dragon forced to do their bidding, combine efforts to manipulate Eena into helping them accrue a means of escape. Though she tries to refuse her assistance, every move she makes only seems to worsen her predicament. She fears losing Derian's trust, Ian's friendship, and possibly someone's life.
Look for Eena, The Curse of Wanyaka Cave to be released in e-book and paperback the end of November!
Book I
Eena, The Dawn and Rescue
Book II
Eena, The Return of a Queen
October 30, 2016
The 5th Annual Posting of THE TARISHE CURSE for Halloween
It's hard to believe this is my 5th annual posting in my ongoing Hallows Eve story, The Tarishe Curse. For those new to my Hallows Eve tradition, allow me to fill you in...
A few years back I thought it would be fun to write a short Halloween story for my friend, Cathie, who happens to be the holiday's biggest fan. I posted the story on my blog—a grim tale about the cursed Queen of Werefolk—and then let Cathie know to read it.
So she did.
And then she asked, "What's the rest of the story?"
Whoa, wait….what? The rest of the story? You mean, you want to know what happens next? Well, I don't know; I meant for it to end.
"Oh, I think you should consider extending the story for next Halloween."
The idea appealed to me. So I wrote more about the werewolves, their enemies and challenges, and posted it the following Halloween. That day a tradition was born.
If you haven't already, read The Tarishe Curse from the beginning by clicking here. And then sit back and enjoy what happens next...
Dedicated to my friend, Cathie Duvall,
the true Queen of All Hallows Eve.
Year 2012 - 'An Eye for an Eye'
Year 2013 - 'Closer as Enemies'
Year 2014 - 'Rats with Wings'
Year 2015 - 'Rock Beast'
Year 2016 - 'Vallatrece'
A few years back I thought it would be fun to write a short Halloween story for my friend, Cathie, who happens to be the holiday's biggest fan. I posted the story on my blog—a grim tale about the cursed Queen of Werefolk—and then let Cathie know to read it.
So she did.
And then she asked, "What's the rest of the story?"
Whoa, wait….what? The rest of the story? You mean, you want to know what happens next? Well, I don't know; I meant for it to end.
"Oh, I think you should consider extending the story for next Halloween."
The idea appealed to me. So I wrote more about the werewolves, their enemies and challenges, and posted it the following Halloween. That day a tradition was born.
If you haven't already, read The Tarishe Curse from the beginning by clicking here. And then sit back and enjoy what happens next...
Dedicated to my friend, Cathie Duvall,
the true Queen of All Hallows Eve.
Year 2012 - 'An Eye for an Eye'
Year 2013 - 'Closer as Enemies'
Year 2014 - 'Rats with Wings'
Year 2015 - 'Rock Beast'
Year 2016 - 'Vallatrece'
October 29, 2016
Isolation by R.E.Goodrich
On a dreary, cold October while I watched the leaves descending,
twirling orange, red, and golden from the trees,
my frame of mind, it dourly echoed the depressing song of autumn,
for my life had turned as dull and dry as leaves.
I slipped on a woolen sweater, though a coat may have been better
to protect my skin from harsh and chilly winds.
It was not my first concern to contemplate external comfort
when my heart and soul were agonized within.
Nay, I don’t recall the day when joy began to fade to nothing,
turning every hour a somber shade of gray.
Drawn out weeks I spent alone while urgent business called you elsewhere,
keeping both your mind and body far at bay.
It was never my intention to reside apart from others,
but the woods’ enchanting mood had won our hearts.
I remember how romantic it had seemed to build a cottage
in the trees for you and me to make a start.
Nonetheless, when life demands it, love and fantasy erode
until the push to make a dollar turns to greed.
And so you spent more time without me, crafting deals and making money,
never meaning to neglect my greater needs.
Oh, it was a slow descent that over time brought me to madness.
Years before, my heart did love you evermore,
knowing hours away were only meant to ease our mortal burdens,
so with eagerness I’d meet you at the door.
Day by day you lingered longer in the caves of money changers.
Night by night your presence failed to warm my bed.
But oh! The times you did appear with pretty gifts and warm affections,
not one small complaint or griping word was said.
Perhaps that was my err. I should have voiced how dreadful lonely
and depressing isolation was for me.
So stale and stagnant fell my solitude that time and time again
I tried to coax intruding squirrels to sit for tea.
Sipping chamomile while nibbling almond crumpets, I could
hear a spotted owl that answered every noise with “who?”
And for weeks my desperation found the owl a fine companion
‘til I realized we were “whooing” out for you.
It was on this dark and starry night I first set out to wander
far beyond our property into the woods.
And despite the nippy weather, with a sweater wrapped around me,
I determined to hike on as best I could.
An enchanting moon shone luminous upon my virgin path,
highlighting every step into the yet unknown.
I traveled on with neither destination nor a goal in mind
except to walk the aching sorrow from my bones.
‘Midst the timbers I did travel, scrunching underbrush and mushrooms,
being careful of dead branches on my way.
Moss and pine assailed my nose while I was much opposed to stepping
foot in mucky piles of weather and decay.
It was in an open circle, very small but boasting daisies
and white asters growing wild among the grass,
well-illuminated also by a moon so full and glowing
it appeared to be a lid of giant mass.
Though the night was getting colder, it was like the sun had risen.
I absorbed a ray of warmth that wasn’t real.
Nonetheless, my skin behaved as if the hotness of the day
was being mirrored by the moon for me to feel.
With my face turned up to heaven, eyelids closed against the moonlight,
I stepped slowly to the circle’s very heart.
There my foot bumped into something far more supple than a boulder.
When I looked, the image gave my fright a start.
For a moment I stood frozen, hardly breathing in the evening,
hoping what my eyes beheld would cease to be.
But the body, white as ivory, lying still within the grasses
neither vanished nor attempted aught to flee.
Just a gasp at length I managed, for a scream seemed rather pointless
in the middle of the forest in the night.
With wide eyes I scanned the body, more than certain it was lifeless,
seeking evidence of how she met her plight.
A young woman, maybe twenty, seemed to sleep among the flowers,
blooms so white and wild around her pretty dress.
I could see no sign of mischief, not a wound or laceration.
By my scrutiny she seemed in no distress.
Then I noticed in her fingers lay a vial. It was empty.
I could picture how in life this troubled soul
had destroyed herself through poison in a bleak, crestfallen moment,
having nobody and nowhere else to go.
Oh alas! How bitter sorry I did feel for this sweet maiden,
empathizing with what mystery was her pain.
The enormity of anguish must have been an awful burden
to convince her every hour was lived in vain.
As I shed a tear or two, my fingers touched the cold cadaver
and the strangest shiver traveled up my spine.
At my back, I felt a chill that far surpassed the curious warmness
I’d encountered stepping through the ring of pines.
The impression of a presence made me glimpse across my shoulder
where I spied a being ethereal and fair.
The ghost was no illusion but a shadow of the maiden
lying at my feet, devoid of mortal cares.
For a brief eternal moment I believed my life in danger,
but that notion faded with a simple smile.
The young spirit kept her distance as she studied me in wonder,
lost in mutual contemplation for a while.
Then she spoke, her visage beaming, and she seemed a friendly specter,
overjoyed to come across a living soul.
And despite her eerie aura, I could honestly admit
her mere existence did my loneliness console.
“Speak your name,” said she in eagerness. I did without delay.
She told me hers, at which we shared a pensive sigh.
Placing both feet on the grass, she stepped beside me near her body.
Pointing to the vial, I softly uttered, “Why?”
In a dull and solemn murmur she replied, “What’s done is done.”
And then she turned away, refusing more to tell.
As her ghostly form moved off to wander weightless o’er the grasses,
my gaze lingered longer on her lifeless shell.
Then, as if she were a child, I heard her say, “Come play with me.
It’s been so very long since I have had a friend.”
I turned to find her two eyes hopeful, glowing near as white as starlight,
with a longingness my heart could apprehend.
I too was greatly hungering to make a new acquaintance,
craving personal companionship once more.
So I shed my woolen sweater, amply warmed by mystic moonlight,
to engage in dance and singing tales of lore.
In the morning I awakened ‘mid the mossy ring of pine trees
with my sweater draped across my shivering arms.
I had almost deemed the evening but a figment of my dreaming
when I spied the ashen corpse with some alarm.
Casting glances ‘bout the meadow where the air had felt like summer
up until a timely autumnal sunrise,
I was highly disappointed not to spot the pretty specter who
had capably my sorrows minimized.
Determining it wise to leave the body where it rested,
I stepped back into the trees to head for home.
Momentarily, I paused to scan the circle for a sign
that night had not elapsed with me out here alone.
Seeing nothing in the daylight, I moved off somewhat bewildered.
I could not erase the maiden from my mind.
It was crazy to feel grief o’er an imagined apparition,
yet I could not leave her memory behind.
Had I fantasized this friendly specter out of desperation?
Had the solitude and quiet made me mad?
Or, rather, had the most delightful night I’d spent in ages
been a pleasure for one living and one dead?
Wrestling sanity amid these thoughts, I drifted off in slumber,
waking just as sunset turned the sky maroon.
I pulled on my woolen sweater and ducked out into the forest,
keen to reach the meadow heated by the moon.
When I passed between the pine trees, smelling moss upon the branches,
I glanced everywhere with highest hopes indeed.
At the feel of drenching warmth my eyelids closed to face the moonlight.
Then I felt a shiver, followed by a plea.
“Please come play with me.” A soft request that covered me in goose bumps.
When my eyelids flickered open, I grinned wide.
“I would love to play,” I answered to the same incorporeal being
whose mortality had ceased in suicide.
I scarcely can express the great relief I felt to know
I wasn’t half as mad as I had first assumed.
And throughout the moonlit evening we did laugh instead of grieving.
In my heart a bud of optimism bloomed.
Daylight hours I used for sleeping while each precious night I rushed
To find my ghostly sister waiting patiently.
The moon above remained a nightlight warming up our magic circle
where the wild asters grew tenaciously.
One wet and drizzly afternoon while fast asleep in bed
I felt a large and gentle hand against my cheek.
My mattress shifted at the weight of someone sizeable and heavy,
and I heard a man inquire if I was weak.
“You look pale, my dearest. Are you ill? Your skin’s in need of sun.”
I felt big fingers cup my face as I awoke.
And for a moment it was if I had an onset of amnesia
‘til I recognized my husband, and I spoke.
“It is you!” I cried. “My darling, you’ve returned to me at last!”
He hugged me tight, and in his ear I breathed a sigh.
“How I’ve missed you!” “Oh, I’ve missed you too, but sadly I can’t stay.”
A cold remark to which I gravely uttered, “Why?”
“There’s important work to do, my love. Please try to understand.
It is our future for which business doth provide.
But I promise I shall not be long. One week and I’ll return.”
He smiled softly while my tears I blinked aside.
He then showered me in gifts, so I put on a glad expression
and accepted dainty trinkets and a ring.
I was grateful for the night we shared exchanging warm affections,
but by morning he was flittering his wings.
“Must you fly from me so soon?” I asked, already feeling lonesome.
“You could sit a spell and share a pot of tea.”
With a hand upon my cheek he pacified me with a kiss.
“I’m sorry, dearest, but I’ll be home soon—you’ll see.”
Now, before I said goodbye I made him swear to backtrack quickly.
He assured me it was just a few more days.
“I’ll be standing on our doorstep by this very hour next weekend.
Hear my promise; I shall rush and not delay.”
Late that evening I revisited the moonlit grassy meadow.
There I found the ghostly maiden shedding tears.
Strands of haze were misted sorrow that fell o’er her empty body;
She was mourning loss of life, so it appeared.
I rushed over, arms outstretched as if to offer an embrace,
but when I reached the girl my hands dropped to my thighs.
A dismal exhale crossed my lips; my features twisted with compassion.
No one spoke until the mourner raised her eyes.
I was shocked when she proceeded to recount her day of death
by first confessing that a man had won her heart.
They had proved their love in secret when society forbade them,
though in open view they spent their time apart.
Months elapsed and turned to years while their love blossomed undiscovered,
yet they yearned for more than meetings in the dark.
But alas! The unforgiving world denied them any refuge.
To the afterlife they both vowed to embark.
It was here inside this same secluded circle they met up
to swear their love to one another evermore.
If the world refused a nuptial kiss for man and wife to wed,
the pitying angels would hold open heaven’s door.
Beneath a harvest moon they spent their last devoted hours,
resolute to make the final sacrifice.
Star-crossed lovers held up vials as they toasted their affections.
To their lips they put the poison and imbibed.
But that wasn’t true. Her sweetheart hesitated as she swallowed.
Not a drop of poison touched the craven’s tongue.
First confusion, then betrayal, lastly fear sunk in to haunt her
knowing there was no reversing what she’d done.
She collapsed and breathed her final dying breath among the daisies
while her living lover muttered deep regrets.
He scurried off, a single kiss upon her icy hand in parting—
wanton cowardice she never would forget.
She remained night after night beside her still and frigid body,
where the moon’s full eye had witnessed bitter woe.
And there she meant to haunt the woods until his passing made things right,
for she had nobody and nowhere else to go.
A well of tears I shed at hearing her disastrous tale of heartbreak,
and upon its end she questioned where I’d been.
Disappointing her the prior night had caused a valid worry
that, just like her love, I’d ne’er return again.
I apologized and then began the tale of my own sorrows,
how essentially I lived each day forlorn.
Though I loved my husband dearly and I longed to have him near,
his frequent travels meant he scarcely stayed at home.
We connected much like sisters and divulged a wealth of secrets.
In our misery, we howled up at the moon.
For the first time in my life I felt both understood and pitied.
It was hard to part when morning came so soon.
Daylight hours I slept away until the moon became my sunshine.
After dusk, I basked in treasured company,
until one windy autumn night a whispered wish disturbed my thoughts;
my ghostly sister bid eternity with me.
She said there was yet another vial of poison, left untouched.
Her fleeing lover had abandoned it in haste.
She suggested that if someone sought to reach the world beyond
the vial’s contents would require but a taste.
I’ll admit at first the notion was distressing to my mind.
“I have a husband and a home and seeds to sow!”
My spirit sister forced a smile. “And so you shall….at least a while.
Though eventually all treasures you’ll forgo.”
I understood her subtle meaning: now or later ends the same.
But giving up my now seemed wasteful and unwise.
“You forget what you’d be gaining—an eternity together.
What you’d lose are lonely days that you despise.”
At the leading rays of sunrise, I proceeded toward my home.
It was impossible to sleep a wink that day.
Call it madness. Call it reason from an otherworld perspective.
The allure to join my friend had taken sway.
She was there for me. A ghost! Not now and then but every evening.
While the flesh-and-blood I’d married, he was gone.
Though he’d promised one week prior to return at dawning light,
my sole companion was an owl the whole day long.
Pulled apart by clashing wants, I chose to stay the night at home
and pray my husband would arrive before the dew.
I yearned to speak to him of love and verify his heart’s desire,
but the only voice I heard kept crying, “Who!”
So I contemplated hour by hour that one repeated word,
and in the morning I continued wide awake.
As the owl and I “whooed” out for you, my tears turned to a river.
And the sun, he traveled slowly for my sake.
And I waited.
Oh, I waited! ‘til the sky turned red with envy!
But you didn’t come to beg me stay with you.
Hence, my darling, where one lay now there are two.
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Copyright 2016 Richelle E. Goodrich
twirling orange, red, and golden from the trees,
my frame of mind, it dourly echoed the depressing song of autumn,
for my life had turned as dull and dry as leaves.
I slipped on a woolen sweater, though a coat may have been better
to protect my skin from harsh and chilly winds.
It was not my first concern to contemplate external comfort
when my heart and soul were agonized within.
Nay, I don’t recall the day when joy began to fade to nothing,
turning every hour a somber shade of gray.
Drawn out weeks I spent alone while urgent business called you elsewhere,
keeping both your mind and body far at bay.
It was never my intention to reside apart from others,
but the woods’ enchanting mood had won our hearts.
I remember how romantic it had seemed to build a cottage
in the trees for you and me to make a start.
Nonetheless, when life demands it, love and fantasy erode
until the push to make a dollar turns to greed.
And so you spent more time without me, crafting deals and making money,
never meaning to neglect my greater needs.
Oh, it was a slow descent that over time brought me to madness.
Years before, my heart did love you evermore,
knowing hours away were only meant to ease our mortal burdens,
so with eagerness I’d meet you at the door.
Day by day you lingered longer in the caves of money changers.
Night by night your presence failed to warm my bed.
But oh! The times you did appear with pretty gifts and warm affections,
not one small complaint or griping word was said.
Perhaps that was my err. I should have voiced how dreadful lonely
and depressing isolation was for me.
So stale and stagnant fell my solitude that time and time again
I tried to coax intruding squirrels to sit for tea.
Sipping chamomile while nibbling almond crumpets, I could
hear a spotted owl that answered every noise with “who?”
And for weeks my desperation found the owl a fine companion
‘til I realized we were “whooing” out for you.
It was on this dark and starry night I first set out to wander
far beyond our property into the woods.
And despite the nippy weather, with a sweater wrapped around me,
I determined to hike on as best I could.
An enchanting moon shone luminous upon my virgin path,
highlighting every step into the yet unknown.
I traveled on with neither destination nor a goal in mind
except to walk the aching sorrow from my bones.
‘Midst the timbers I did travel, scrunching underbrush and mushrooms,
being careful of dead branches on my way.
Moss and pine assailed my nose while I was much opposed to stepping
foot in mucky piles of weather and decay.
It was in an open circle, very small but boasting daisies
and white asters growing wild among the grass,
well-illuminated also by a moon so full and glowing
it appeared to be a lid of giant mass.
Though the night was getting colder, it was like the sun had risen.
I absorbed a ray of warmth that wasn’t real.
Nonetheless, my skin behaved as if the hotness of the day
was being mirrored by the moon for me to feel.
With my face turned up to heaven, eyelids closed against the moonlight,
I stepped slowly to the circle’s very heart.
There my foot bumped into something far more supple than a boulder.
When I looked, the image gave my fright a start.
For a moment I stood frozen, hardly breathing in the evening,
hoping what my eyes beheld would cease to be.
But the body, white as ivory, lying still within the grasses
neither vanished nor attempted aught to flee.
Just a gasp at length I managed, for a scream seemed rather pointless
in the middle of the forest in the night.
With wide eyes I scanned the body, more than certain it was lifeless,
seeking evidence of how she met her plight.
A young woman, maybe twenty, seemed to sleep among the flowers,
blooms so white and wild around her pretty dress.
I could see no sign of mischief, not a wound or laceration.
By my scrutiny she seemed in no distress.
Then I noticed in her fingers lay a vial. It was empty.
I could picture how in life this troubled soul
had destroyed herself through poison in a bleak, crestfallen moment,
having nobody and nowhere else to go.
Oh alas! How bitter sorry I did feel for this sweet maiden,
empathizing with what mystery was her pain.
The enormity of anguish must have been an awful burden
to convince her every hour was lived in vain.
As I shed a tear or two, my fingers touched the cold cadaver
and the strangest shiver traveled up my spine.
At my back, I felt a chill that far surpassed the curious warmness
I’d encountered stepping through the ring of pines.
The impression of a presence made me glimpse across my shoulder
where I spied a being ethereal and fair.
The ghost was no illusion but a shadow of the maiden
lying at my feet, devoid of mortal cares.
For a brief eternal moment I believed my life in danger,
but that notion faded with a simple smile.
The young spirit kept her distance as she studied me in wonder,
lost in mutual contemplation for a while.
Then she spoke, her visage beaming, and she seemed a friendly specter,
overjoyed to come across a living soul.
And despite her eerie aura, I could honestly admit
her mere existence did my loneliness console.
“Speak your name,” said she in eagerness. I did without delay.
She told me hers, at which we shared a pensive sigh.
Placing both feet on the grass, she stepped beside me near her body.
Pointing to the vial, I softly uttered, “Why?”
In a dull and solemn murmur she replied, “What’s done is done.”
And then she turned away, refusing more to tell.
As her ghostly form moved off to wander weightless o’er the grasses,
my gaze lingered longer on her lifeless shell.
Then, as if she were a child, I heard her say, “Come play with me.
It’s been so very long since I have had a friend.”
I turned to find her two eyes hopeful, glowing near as white as starlight,
with a longingness my heart could apprehend.
I too was greatly hungering to make a new acquaintance,
craving personal companionship once more.
So I shed my woolen sweater, amply warmed by mystic moonlight,
to engage in dance and singing tales of lore.
In the morning I awakened ‘mid the mossy ring of pine trees
with my sweater draped across my shivering arms.
I had almost deemed the evening but a figment of my dreaming
when I spied the ashen corpse with some alarm.
Casting glances ‘bout the meadow where the air had felt like summer
up until a timely autumnal sunrise,
I was highly disappointed not to spot the pretty specter who
had capably my sorrows minimized.
Determining it wise to leave the body where it rested,
I stepped back into the trees to head for home.
Momentarily, I paused to scan the circle for a sign
that night had not elapsed with me out here alone.
Seeing nothing in the daylight, I moved off somewhat bewildered.
I could not erase the maiden from my mind.
It was crazy to feel grief o’er an imagined apparition,
yet I could not leave her memory behind.
Had I fantasized this friendly specter out of desperation?
Had the solitude and quiet made me mad?
Or, rather, had the most delightful night I’d spent in ages
been a pleasure for one living and one dead?
Wrestling sanity amid these thoughts, I drifted off in slumber,
waking just as sunset turned the sky maroon.
I pulled on my woolen sweater and ducked out into the forest,
keen to reach the meadow heated by the moon.
When I passed between the pine trees, smelling moss upon the branches,
I glanced everywhere with highest hopes indeed.
At the feel of drenching warmth my eyelids closed to face the moonlight.
Then I felt a shiver, followed by a plea.
“Please come play with me.” A soft request that covered me in goose bumps.
When my eyelids flickered open, I grinned wide.
“I would love to play,” I answered to the same incorporeal being
whose mortality had ceased in suicide.
I scarcely can express the great relief I felt to know
I wasn’t half as mad as I had first assumed.
And throughout the moonlit evening we did laugh instead of grieving.
In my heart a bud of optimism bloomed.
Daylight hours I used for sleeping while each precious night I rushed
To find my ghostly sister waiting patiently.
The moon above remained a nightlight warming up our magic circle
where the wild asters grew tenaciously.
One wet and drizzly afternoon while fast asleep in bed
I felt a large and gentle hand against my cheek.
My mattress shifted at the weight of someone sizeable and heavy,
and I heard a man inquire if I was weak.
“You look pale, my dearest. Are you ill? Your skin’s in need of sun.”
I felt big fingers cup my face as I awoke.
And for a moment it was if I had an onset of amnesia
‘til I recognized my husband, and I spoke.
“It is you!” I cried. “My darling, you’ve returned to me at last!”
He hugged me tight, and in his ear I breathed a sigh.
“How I’ve missed you!” “Oh, I’ve missed you too, but sadly I can’t stay.”
A cold remark to which I gravely uttered, “Why?”
“There’s important work to do, my love. Please try to understand.
It is our future for which business doth provide.
But I promise I shall not be long. One week and I’ll return.”
He smiled softly while my tears I blinked aside.
He then showered me in gifts, so I put on a glad expression
and accepted dainty trinkets and a ring.
I was grateful for the night we shared exchanging warm affections,
but by morning he was flittering his wings.
“Must you fly from me so soon?” I asked, already feeling lonesome.
“You could sit a spell and share a pot of tea.”
With a hand upon my cheek he pacified me with a kiss.
“I’m sorry, dearest, but I’ll be home soon—you’ll see.”
Now, before I said goodbye I made him swear to backtrack quickly.
He assured me it was just a few more days.
“I’ll be standing on our doorstep by this very hour next weekend.
Hear my promise; I shall rush and not delay.”
Late that evening I revisited the moonlit grassy meadow.
There I found the ghostly maiden shedding tears.
Strands of haze were misted sorrow that fell o’er her empty body;
She was mourning loss of life, so it appeared.
I rushed over, arms outstretched as if to offer an embrace,
but when I reached the girl my hands dropped to my thighs.
A dismal exhale crossed my lips; my features twisted with compassion.
No one spoke until the mourner raised her eyes.
I was shocked when she proceeded to recount her day of death
by first confessing that a man had won her heart.
They had proved their love in secret when society forbade them,
though in open view they spent their time apart.
Months elapsed and turned to years while their love blossomed undiscovered,
yet they yearned for more than meetings in the dark.
But alas! The unforgiving world denied them any refuge.
To the afterlife they both vowed to embark.
It was here inside this same secluded circle they met up
to swear their love to one another evermore.
If the world refused a nuptial kiss for man and wife to wed,
the pitying angels would hold open heaven’s door.
Beneath a harvest moon they spent their last devoted hours,
resolute to make the final sacrifice.
Star-crossed lovers held up vials as they toasted their affections.
To their lips they put the poison and imbibed.
But that wasn’t true. Her sweetheart hesitated as she swallowed.
Not a drop of poison touched the craven’s tongue.
First confusion, then betrayal, lastly fear sunk in to haunt her
knowing there was no reversing what she’d done.
She collapsed and breathed her final dying breath among the daisies
while her living lover muttered deep regrets.
He scurried off, a single kiss upon her icy hand in parting—
wanton cowardice she never would forget.
She remained night after night beside her still and frigid body,
where the moon’s full eye had witnessed bitter woe.
And there she meant to haunt the woods until his passing made things right,
for she had nobody and nowhere else to go.
A well of tears I shed at hearing her disastrous tale of heartbreak,
and upon its end she questioned where I’d been.
Disappointing her the prior night had caused a valid worry
that, just like her love, I’d ne’er return again.
I apologized and then began the tale of my own sorrows,
how essentially I lived each day forlorn.
Though I loved my husband dearly and I longed to have him near,
his frequent travels meant he scarcely stayed at home.
We connected much like sisters and divulged a wealth of secrets.
In our misery, we howled up at the moon.
For the first time in my life I felt both understood and pitied.
It was hard to part when morning came so soon.
Daylight hours I slept away until the moon became my sunshine.
After dusk, I basked in treasured company,
until one windy autumn night a whispered wish disturbed my thoughts;
my ghostly sister bid eternity with me.
She said there was yet another vial of poison, left untouched.
Her fleeing lover had abandoned it in haste.
She suggested that if someone sought to reach the world beyond
the vial’s contents would require but a taste.
I’ll admit at first the notion was distressing to my mind.
“I have a husband and a home and seeds to sow!”
My spirit sister forced a smile. “And so you shall….at least a while.
Though eventually all treasures you’ll forgo.”
I understood her subtle meaning: now or later ends the same.
But giving up my now seemed wasteful and unwise.
“You forget what you’d be gaining—an eternity together.
What you’d lose are lonely days that you despise.”
At the leading rays of sunrise, I proceeded toward my home.
It was impossible to sleep a wink that day.
Call it madness. Call it reason from an otherworld perspective.
The allure to join my friend had taken sway.
She was there for me. A ghost! Not now and then but every evening.
While the flesh-and-blood I’d married, he was gone.
Though he’d promised one week prior to return at dawning light,
my sole companion was an owl the whole day long.
Pulled apart by clashing wants, I chose to stay the night at home
and pray my husband would arrive before the dew.
I yearned to speak to him of love and verify his heart’s desire,
but the only voice I heard kept crying, “Who!”
So I contemplated hour by hour that one repeated word,
and in the morning I continued wide awake.
As the owl and I “whooed” out for you, my tears turned to a river.
And the sun, he traveled slowly for my sake.
And I waited.
Oh, I waited! ‘til the sky turned red with envy!
But you didn’t come to beg me stay with you.
Hence, my darling, where one lay now there are two.
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Copyright 2016 Richelle E. Goodrich
October 22, 2016
Being Thoughtful Anyway
This morning I drove my son to the high school at 5:30 am for a choir field trip. He was dressed up and looking very nice, as were all his fellow students.
As we pulled up along the sidewalk bordering the school, the first thing we and most others noticed was a large, heavy garbage can that had been filled with trash now tipped over, its contents dumped on the ground by some thoughtless soul. I watched a number of individuals steer around the garbage can and its spill in order to get to the waiting buses. I imagined their thoughts were similar to the following:
What jerks. Now someone else is going to have to clean up this mess. Its not my job. I'm all dressed up. I don't want to get dirty. And I didn't do it. There's someone who gets paid to clean the campus. How disgusting.
I made a comment to my son as he stepped out of the car with his bag that I wish the world were more thoughtful. Then I told him goodbye and to have a nice trip.
There are moments in life when your kids upset you to the point of tears. And there are moments when they make your heart swell with admiration to the point of tears.
I watched my son walk over to the pile of trash and stop to look at it. Most of it consisted of leftover food and paper packaging. He put his bag on the ground and spoke to the next student to approach who was dressed in a white shirt and tie. The young man set down his gear and proceeded to help my son set the garbage can upright. Then I watched these young men go the extra mile and pick up every last disgusting piece of leftover food and soggy trash to deposit it back into the garbage can in which it belonged. A third student stopped to stand over them, watching. Then a parent emerged from her car with hand sanitizer and wipes for these young men. They proceeded to get on the bus when they were done, but the consequences of their actions lingered, shouting out loud for others to understand. No, it wasn't their mess; they didn't make it. It wasn't their job; they weren't paid to clean up trash. And no, they weren't dressed for doing a disgusting job. But they did it anyway. They were thoughtful and kind and decent anyway.
These are the young people I hope will lead the world someday.
As we pulled up along the sidewalk bordering the school, the first thing we and most others noticed was a large, heavy garbage can that had been filled with trash now tipped over, its contents dumped on the ground by some thoughtless soul. I watched a number of individuals steer around the garbage can and its spill in order to get to the waiting buses. I imagined their thoughts were similar to the following:
What jerks. Now someone else is going to have to clean up this mess. Its not my job. I'm all dressed up. I don't want to get dirty. And I didn't do it. There's someone who gets paid to clean the campus. How disgusting.
I made a comment to my son as he stepped out of the car with his bag that I wish the world were more thoughtful. Then I told him goodbye and to have a nice trip.
There are moments in life when your kids upset you to the point of tears. And there are moments when they make your heart swell with admiration to the point of tears.
I watched my son walk over to the pile of trash and stop to look at it. Most of it consisted of leftover food and paper packaging. He put his bag on the ground and spoke to the next student to approach who was dressed in a white shirt and tie. The young man set down his gear and proceeded to help my son set the garbage can upright. Then I watched these young men go the extra mile and pick up every last disgusting piece of leftover food and soggy trash to deposit it back into the garbage can in which it belonged. A third student stopped to stand over them, watching. Then a parent emerged from her car with hand sanitizer and wipes for these young men. They proceeded to get on the bus when they were done, but the consequences of their actions lingered, shouting out loud for others to understand. No, it wasn't their mess; they didn't make it. It wasn't their job; they weren't paid to clean up trash. And no, they weren't dressed for doing a disgusting job. But they did it anyway. They were thoughtful and kind and decent anyway.
These are the young people I hope will lead the world someday.
October 8, 2016
Halloween Poems by R.E.Goodrich
In the spirit of All Hallows Eve, I dug up a few of my original short Halloween poems. I've added some new verses to the mix in celebration of this spooky holiday. I hope you enjoy them.
The Harvest Moon glows round and bold,
In pumpkin shades outlined in gold,
Illuminating eerie forms,
Unnatural as a candied corn.
Beware what dare crawls up your sleeve,
For 'tis the night called Hallows Eve.
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Making Wishes)
A pumpkin lives but once a year
when someone sets its soul afire
and on that night it stirs up fear
until its flame is snuffed.
But e'en one night of eerie light is fright enough.
— Richelle E. Goodrich
Monsters excite us in this way or that.
They make our pulse thrum and steal lives from the cat!
They're frightening creatures, one peek and you'll see.
Yet life without monsters, how dull it would be.
Your tense, nervous laugh tells me you disagree?
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Smile Anyway)
Witches cackle.
Goblins growl.
Spectres boo,
And werewolves howl.
Black cats hiss.
Bats flap their wings.
Mummies moan.
The cold wind sings.
Ogre’s roar.
And crows, they caw.
Vampires bahahahaha.
Warlocks swish their moonlit capes.
Loch Ness monsters churn the lake.
Skeletons, they rattle bones
While graveyards crack the old headstones.
All the while the ghouls, they cry
To trick-or-treaters passing by.
Oh, the noise on Halloween;
It makes me want to scream!
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Slaying Dragons)
A Halloween flower,
if ever there was one,
would smell like an onion,
have thorns like a rose.
With charcoal black petals
and vines that entangle,
t'would grow under moonlight
in mud, I suppose.
— Richelle E. Goodrich
Treats and tricks.
Witch broomsticks.
Jack-o-lanterns
Lick their lips.
Crows and cats.
Vampire bats.
Capes and fangs
And pointed hats.
Werewolves howl.
Phantoms prowl.
Halloween’s
Upon us now.
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Slaying Dragons)
Haunt an old house.
Ask for a treat.
Laugh like a witch.
Lick something sweet.
Offer a trick.
Wander a maze.
Echo a boo.
Exclaim the phrase—
Normal's unnatural on Halloween!
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Making Wishes)
The jack-o-lantern follows me with tapered, glowing eyes.
His yellow teeth grin evily. His cackle I despise.
But I shall have the final laugh when Halloween is through.
This pumpkin king I’ll split in half to make a pie for two.
— Richelle E. Goodrich
The coldest day in fall
is at the Hallows Evening ball
where ghoulish fun
avoids the sun
as monsters mingle wall to wall.
— Richelle E. Goodrich
Copyright Richelle E. Goodrich 2016
The Harvest Moon glows round and bold,
In pumpkin shades outlined in gold,
Illuminating eerie forms,
Unnatural as a candied corn.
Beware what dare crawls up your sleeve,
For 'tis the night called Hallows Eve.
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Making Wishes)
A pumpkin lives but once a year
when someone sets its soul afire
and on that night it stirs up fear
until its flame is snuffed.
But e'en one night of eerie light is fright enough.
— Richelle E. Goodrich
Monsters excite us in this way or that.
They make our pulse thrum and steal lives from the cat!
They're frightening creatures, one peek and you'll see.
Yet life without monsters, how dull it would be.
Your tense, nervous laugh tells me you disagree?
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Smile Anyway)
Witches cackle.
Goblins growl.
Spectres boo,
And werewolves howl.
Black cats hiss.
Bats flap their wings.
Mummies moan.
The cold wind sings.
Ogre’s roar.
And crows, they caw.
Vampires bahahahaha.
Warlocks swish their moonlit capes.
Loch Ness monsters churn the lake.
Skeletons, they rattle bones
While graveyards crack the old headstones.
All the while the ghouls, they cry
To trick-or-treaters passing by.
Oh, the noise on Halloween;
It makes me want to scream!
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Slaying Dragons)
A Halloween flower,
if ever there was one,
would smell like an onion,
have thorns like a rose.
With charcoal black petals
and vines that entangle,
t'would grow under moonlight
in mud, I suppose.
— Richelle E. Goodrich
Treats and tricks.
Witch broomsticks.
Jack-o-lanterns
Lick their lips.
Crows and cats.
Vampire bats.
Capes and fangs
And pointed hats.
Werewolves howl.
Phantoms prowl.
Halloween’s
Upon us now.
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Slaying Dragons)
Haunt an old house.
Ask for a treat.
Laugh like a witch.
Lick something sweet.
Offer a trick.
Wander a maze.
Echo a boo.
Exclaim the phrase—
Normal's unnatural on Halloween!
— Richelle E. Goodrich (Making Wishes)
The jack-o-lantern follows me with tapered, glowing eyes.
His yellow teeth grin evily. His cackle I despise.
But I shall have the final laugh when Halloween is through.
This pumpkin king I’ll split in half to make a pie for two.
— Richelle E. Goodrich
The coldest day in fall
is at the Hallows Evening ball
where ghoulish fun
avoids the sun
as monsters mingle wall to wall.
— Richelle E. Goodrich
Copyright Richelle E. Goodrich 2016
September 20, 2016
Never Say Never
Life is a fairytale.
At least that's the way I see it. Each day we create and compile chapters — some short and simple, some extensive and involved, either humorous or dramatic or sweet or eerie or heartbreaking — all adding to our very own book of tales. Daily occurrences have the capacity to be retold in story form. And most, I've found, are naturally oozing with morals.
Take the other day for example....
It was a morning like any other, not bright and sunny nor gray and stormy but somewhere dull and in between. Regardless of the weather, I was hoping for the day to prove momentous on a personal level. For, you see, I was down to writing the very last chapter of my latest book. Being so near my goal, I felt eager to actually complete the ending. I foresaw it as a huge personal accomplishment, one I couldn't wait to check off my mental list of achievements.
However, as I often tell my three boys, 'responsibilities come first'. And so I set off to work for the morning, antsy and bubbling on the inside in anticipation of a free afternoon of writing.
This would be the day I finished writing a book! That's not an easy task, people.
I made the drive to my youngest son's school and dropped him off with a kiss and an 'I love you.' Then I drove to the little ma-and-pa shop where I work. Though I tried and tried to avoid the clock, my eyes flickered in that direction nearly every minute. My job isn't all that intellectually engaging to begin with, not like the science of creating new worlds or anything, so time naturally ambled along. But on this occasion I swear time was literally dragging its feet on purpose. Somehow, I managed to keep my anxiousness contained.
I answered phone calls as cordially as possible.
I took things apart.
I put things back together again.
I tormented the gentlemen who work with me.
And then...........finally.......the clock struck 12:00! (No not midnight. This isn't Cinderella's story.)
Out the front door I disappeared in a blur. I rushed to my car and turned the key in the ignition, all hopped-up anticipating my completion of those final crowning paragraphs that would complete my latest book! My heart pounded in my chest, overly anxious for two reasons. First, this was going to be my day of great accomplishment. Second, though I fancy myself to be a good person, I do believe that......well, how shall I put this?
I'm cursed.
Don't laugh.
Trust me.
There are plenty of past extraordinary disappointments in my life to prove it, but I'll wait for another time to compose that list. For now, sufficeth to say that driving the short distance from work to home while aware of those past frustrations was enough to have me concerned about what could possibly go wrong between point A and point B.
So, being wary, I kept to the speed limit and signalled at every turn, managing not to get pulled over by a traffic cop.
I was an observant, defensive, careful driver, managing to avoid a car wreck on the way.
I didn't text or call on my cell phone while driving. (Not that I ever do. Okay, next to never.)
I made it down the neighborhood street, onto the highway, through the busy four-way stop, and was cruising at the appropriate speed while keeping an eye out for the occasional deer, skunk, dog, cat, raccoon, varmint, or vampire that occasionally crosses the road neari>ng our home — fairly common occurrences.
Yes, you heard me; I was nearing home without a single stroke of bad luck!
It was about a hundred yards from my house, the length of a football field, where my heart plummeted to the very bottom of my shoes. Placing a foot on the brake and bringing the car to a stop, I laughed. Not a humorous laugh either. I laughed out loud with incredulity — a crazed cackle to keep from crying.
Like I said......I'm cursed.
No, this isn't Dorothy and Toto's story, but like their tale, sitting in the very middle of the road and across both lanes as well as blocking off the only drivable access to my street was..... a house. Yes, you heard me right, an actual wretched house.
A HOUSE!
For criminy's sake, who puts an entire house in the middle of a road? And without leaving any room to get around it? Of all the days, times, and places, barring the one and only path that I needed! All I wanted was to get home to my precious lap top and type out those last few paragraphs! That's all I asked! Was that so much? Fate had to put an entire house in my way? Really?
I'm cursed; told you so.
So, I rolled down the window as Mr. Police Officer approached.
"Sorry, ma'am, but you'll have to take the road up the hill to get around."
"But I don't want to get around. I want to turn that corner right there and get to my house."
"Oh."
(Yeah, duh 'oh'.)
"Well, ma'am, I'm sorry, but there's no way around the, um...."
"the house," I assisted in a grumble.
"Yeah."
"So.......how do you suggest I get home?"
"You'll have to wait, I guess."
"For how long?"
"The men tell me it'll be two to four hours before they get it moved."
(This is where I roll my eyes and scream silently in my head.)
"Officer, do you realize there will be school buses headed down this road in less than three hours? How are my kids supposed to get home?"
"Huh. I hadn't thought about that. I don't know. Maybe we'll have to escort them to their homes." (Yes, he really said that. And I'm thinking, how are you going to escort them around the house?)
Accepting the absolutely uncanny reality of things, I drew in a deep breath and asked, "Is it okay if I pull over to the side of the street here and wait?"
"Oh no, ma'am. We can't have cars blocking the road."
(Seriously?)
MORAL OF THE STORY: Be adaptable. Be patient. Don't ever think it's a sure thing, and vice versa, don't ever think it's impossible. Because life can put a house in the middle of your road if it wants to. Never say never.
This wasn't the actual house (in a state of bewilderment, I failed to take a picture)
but my situation appeared exactly the same.
September 9, 2016
The Tarishe Curse―A NEW Post on Halloween
Halloween is closer than you think! I've begun writing the next installment of my traditional tale for All Hallows Eve. An ongoing story about the cursed queen of werefolk, Duvalla. Only a few short days and it will be time to post the next portion of this dark adventure. I'd say you have just enough time to re-read the story from the beginning. Enjoy, and be anxious for what's to come!
by American author, Richelle E. Goodrich
by American author, Richelle E. Goodrich
August 13, 2016
A Different Type of Book
After finishing the last and final chapter of the Harrowbethian Saga, I wept for a short time, a mixture of joyous and desolate tears. I had accomplished far more than the one book I had set out to write. What a wondrous feeling of completion! But now it was over. "The End" inked on the page. What now?
It had taken me four years to write out the original first draft comprising 139 chapters plus a prologue and epilogue that in sum amounted to the entire saga. I was well-pleased with the adventure, a fantasy—sci fi—romance sprinkled with myth and magic. It had been a delightful and entertaining hike through my imagination. A crazy, BIG achievement that left me itching to write more.
But what if I were to write a different type of book this time around. A novel. More realistic. Less fantastical. One with the power to manipulate a reader's heart.
Sold on the idea, I went about accomplishing the task. The result is a book about little Miss Anna, entitled Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher.
It is a stand-alone novel that proved a struggle to compose, and yet I found it immeasurably rewarding. In the end I was able to shape a loveable character named Annabelle, a girl both young and fragile, mature and clever.
Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher is the fictional tale of an elementary-aged girl struggling to cope with her aggrieved mother and alcoholic father. By day-dreaming characters to life from popular fairytales, she manages to create make-believe moments of happiness in the midst of harsh circumstances. School is the only place Annabelle interacts socially where a few individuals suspecting her circumstances attempt to reach out to the wary girl. But it is an imagined friend whom she turns to repeatedly for comfort and kindness. When his ghostly form appears before her during waking hours, his voice augmenting the hallucination, it becomes a struggle to keep reality and pretend from blurring boundaries. Her choice, it seems, is to succumb to madness, and happily so, or embrace her cruel reality.
You will fall in love with Annabelle instantly, cherishing the way she makes you take notice of all the simple wonders in life. Your heart will bleed for her and the awful circumstances dealt to the child. And yet you will find moments to smile—appreciating a simple, budding friendship and experiencing her young, beautiful imagination. Be touched by a kind heart and the amazingly mature spirit of this wonderful creature. This book is a worthwhile read for so many reasons.
Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher is available at the following online retailers:
It had taken me four years to write out the original first draft comprising 139 chapters plus a prologue and epilogue that in sum amounted to the entire saga. I was well-pleased with the adventure, a fantasy—sci fi—romance sprinkled with myth and magic. It had been a delightful and entertaining hike through my imagination. A crazy, BIG achievement that left me itching to write more.
But what if I were to write a different type of book this time around. A novel. More realistic. Less fantastical. One with the power to manipulate a reader's heart.
Sold on the idea, I went about accomplishing the task. The result is a book about little Miss Anna, entitled Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher.
It is a stand-alone novel that proved a struggle to compose, and yet I found it immeasurably rewarding. In the end I was able to shape a loveable character named Annabelle, a girl both young and fragile, mature and clever.
Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher is the fictional tale of an elementary-aged girl struggling to cope with her aggrieved mother and alcoholic father. By day-dreaming characters to life from popular fairytales, she manages to create make-believe moments of happiness in the midst of harsh circumstances. School is the only place Annabelle interacts socially where a few individuals suspecting her circumstances attempt to reach out to the wary girl. But it is an imagined friend whom she turns to repeatedly for comfort and kindness. When his ghostly form appears before her during waking hours, his voice augmenting the hallucination, it becomes a struggle to keep reality and pretend from blurring boundaries. Her choice, it seems, is to succumb to madness, and happily so, or embrace her cruel reality.
You will fall in love with Annabelle instantly, cherishing the way she makes you take notice of all the simple wonders in life. Your heart will bleed for her and the awful circumstances dealt to the child. And yet you will find moments to smile—appreciating a simple, budding friendship and experiencing her young, beautiful imagination. Be touched by a kind heart and the amazingly mature spirit of this wonderful creature. This book is a worthwhile read for so many reasons.
Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher is available at the following online retailers:
July 30, 2016
Official Website for American Author, Richelle E. Goodrich
My website has recently undergone a complete renovation, and I have to say I love it! One of my favorite details is on every page at the top border--there is a stretch of forested land behind the title. It's no secret that I have a thing for trees. They are beautiful creatures and the best keepers of secrets. So yes, I'm happy with the mystical forests that vary from page to page on my new site.
Other things you will find on my official author website include book quotes from my published works, vibrant cover images linked to summaries of each book, an area for comments and questions, and a little blurb about me personally as an author. Please, go visit my newly remodeled website at RichelleGoodrich.com and take a look around. It's a walk through the forest. And don't forget to admire the trees!
