Richelle E. Goodrich's Blog, page 16
July 21, 2016
The Mossy Hill
Behind my house within walking distance is a big, beautiful hill. I fell in love with it growing up as a child years ago. I would look to the hill many times a day, studying its mossy spots; its hairy, golden veins; and the muddy flecks that mimicked a scattering of bulbous rocks. Because of the hill, I learned to adore the evening sunset for unusual reasons no one would ever believe. Not because the red sun dyed the hump of my hill a dark maroon when the two appeared to touch. And not because of the way the sky mixed rosy and smoky clouds together as they reached down from above…or up from below—it was hard to say which way they swirled to spread as sheer as a veil. No, the reason I loved the sunset enough to watch it faithfully every night, either from up on the rooftop or from a private spot in the cattails near the creek below my house, was because that beautiful hill showed me twice in a night the same marvelous sunset.
First upside up. And then upside down.
Please don’t laugh. The sun did indeed set twice in a night for me. My mother would laugh whenever I tried to convince her it was true. More than once I persuaded her to sit and watch, directing her eyes to a small rise attached to the steeper hill next to it. When the final red tinge of sun vanished completely and the world went dark, I would look to the lesser rise, knowing a red sun would manifest itself once again on its rugged face.
“Look, Mama, look! You will see it! The sun will show itself again, it will! And it will set upside down—I’m not lying!”
But no matter how long she waited, her patience was never long enough. “Silly girl,” she would say. “I see nothing but stars.”
“But it’s true, Mama! The sun will show itself again if you wait.”
And she did wait.
But it didn’t show in all that time.
“It must be an illusion,” she finally decided, believing her daughter would not lie. “Perhaps the moon reflects the sun onto that rise on rare nights.”
“On every night, Mama,” I corrected.
Her smile was playful and doubtful at the same time. She then walked away sighing, “Oh, silly girl.”
Alone I would wait until, as faithfully as ever, the red sun appeared on the smaller rise, divided by a vertical wisp of black. Slowly, surely, it sank upside down until it disappeared.
And so it was I grew to be a young woman in love with a magical hill—for that is the logical conclusion I drew at its repeating of an upturned sunset each night for my eyes only. Mother, though she never witnessed the miracle, labeled it an illusion. I dubbed it magic. For what else could explain a single sun setting twice within a span of minutes, and topsy-turvy at that? I will admit there were occasions when I stood on my head in the grass, feet propped high against the trunk of an oak tree, in order to see the second sunset properly. Never with Mother nearby. For she would surely gasp and say, “How terribly unladylike!”
One cloudy evening, only a few sunsets after my seventeenth birthday, I was nearing my quiet spot amongst the cattails by the creek when something stirred in my stomach. It felt awful. At the same time, I glimpsed a figure move within the cattails, but I had no idea if what I’d find there would prove as awful as my stomach’s uneasiness seemed to anticipate. For those who doubt, I emphatically insist that it is a wise rule to listen to your stomach. It has an uncanny sense about the reality of things. On this particular occasion I failed to heed that uncomfortable warning and continued cautiously forward to my spot within the cluster of tall cattails.
My stomach did a somersault when a very large man stepped out into the open and faced me. He was smiling in a manner that could never—even by the most naïve minds—be mistaken for friendly.
I turned to run back to the house, but I was grabbed by the man who lunged at me with the speed of a cobra. He yanked my body to him. When my lungs filled with air, preparing to scream, he stifled the sound with a firm hand, smothering my face. Desperate to breath, I tried in vain to pry his fingers away. He dragged me into the cattails before slipping his hand down off my nose, allowing me to draw in oxygen but still barring any ability to scream. As the man growled in my ear, insensible words dripping with malice, I feared for my life.
“They thought they could hide you from me, that I wouldn’t detect your putrid stench out here in the middle of nowhere. But I swore to them I’d hunt you down—every last one of you. So far I’ve kept my word. I’ve diminished your numbers and robbed you of those abominable service creatures. And I never stopped searching for you, young one—in caves and deserts and every other inhospitable corner of existence. I even bribed the vagrant sailors of pirate ships, thinking they might find you in transport when your superiors finally decided to call you overseas. But no—you’re not quite old enough to be summoned yet. So I’ll kill you now as I did the others. I’ll end your life before it becomes my misfortune. When you’re dead, I’ll wait here for your service creatures to show their vile forms, and then I will slay them as well.”
I was sucking in air through my nose while these words hit my ear, void of meaning. Nothing he said made the least amount of sense to me. Surely, he had mistaken me for a hostile individual capable of causing him torment.
I was no one to fear. No one at all.
His fingers clamped down over my nose once again as if he meant to suffocate the life out of me. I fought him with all my might, knowing my struggles were futile; his strength far surpassed my own. My eyes flickered back at the hill I loved so much as if to say “goodbye,” at which time I caught a peculiar sight. Two suns were visible at once—one red orb hanging above the hill and a second orb aglow on the face of the lower rise. I thought, perhaps, that my senses were being impaired by lack of oxygen.
When the ground quaked beneath my feet, it seemed as if the planet itself had chosen to come to my rescue. The tremors managed to pull the grassy footing from beneath my assailant. He tumbled over and his hands flailed outward, releasing me. Coughing and gasping for air, I scrambled to get away from him, deterred by the shaking ground until it suddenly ceased. My eyes darted from the grass to my beloved hill, only to find that it was gone. The setting sun hung low in the sky over a completely flat horizon!
I was about to flee for home, more concerned for self-preservation than the miraculous disappearance of an entire hill, when the man shrieked, making my eyes turn back to him. My body slowly followed suit, astounded by what my eyes were registering.
My would-be killer was on the ground looking up into the face of an ominous, hovering beast kept aloft by giant wings. The body of the creature was humped, covered in mossy spots and hairy, golden veins and muddy, bulbous flecks that resembled exactly the missing hill. It dawned on me that the low rise normally sitting adjacent to the hill was the beast’s head. I knew this without a doubt because a red eye glared from the side of its head, mimicking the sun at dusk. I gasped, realizing my beloved hill was in actuality a dragon! My topsy-turvy sunset wasn’t at all a second sunset but a dragon’s bright eye which opened up each and every evening to look out at the world before vanishing under dragon eyelids.
I wondered, was this beast a service creature like those the vile man had muttered about in my ear? There would be no asking him, for he was swallowed whole by the beast in question, scarcely able to let out a final shriek.
The dragon’s face turned to stare at me full on, revealing two glowing, red eyes. My stomach felt calm, but in my mind I feared this was no service creature but a monster that meant to feed on me as it had the unfortunate man. The dragon made no sudden moves, however, and the sword-like teeth I had glimpsed in its mouth were not shown to me again. The dragon lowered its head. Cautiously I approached, moving just close enough to reach out and touch its snout. As my fingers made contact with the scaly texture of its skin, a waft of swirly, gray smoke puffed from both nostrils, startling me, convincing my feet to scuttle backwards. Its immense body rotated in the air, and I watched in awe as a pair of giant wings took the creature back to its resting place where once again he appeared as a distant hill blocking out the setting sun.
“Thank you,” I breathed as the dragon closed its eyes.
I immediately ran to the house to relay the entire story to my mother who became greatly agitated at my mention of a stranger, and then greatly perturbed at my insistence that a man-eating dragon did indeed live past the creek behind our house. The truth was ultimately labeled an outlandish illusion, and I was informed by my mother that a career in story-telling might very well suit me.
That was all about a year ago today. And I shall never forget the life-changing moment I discovered that the hill I loved was in truth a dragon I loved even more. Now, as I turn eighteen, my stomach twists itself up into knots. I have learned to listen to it, for its predictions have yet to be wrong. I know something is coming. A change in my life and in the world itself. What sort of change, I don’t know. But I am sure it involves me and my dragon. The great beast has awakened for the second time in my young life, but I have no fear. It intends to take me somewhere. Somewhere I am needed. And when my mother sees that I and the great hill behind our house are both gone, she might come to believe in my illusions…..and in dragons.
~ By Richelle E. Goodrich Copyright 2016
First upside up. And then upside down.
Please don’t laugh. The sun did indeed set twice in a night for me. My mother would laugh whenever I tried to convince her it was true. More than once I persuaded her to sit and watch, directing her eyes to a small rise attached to the steeper hill next to it. When the final red tinge of sun vanished completely and the world went dark, I would look to the lesser rise, knowing a red sun would manifest itself once again on its rugged face.
“Look, Mama, look! You will see it! The sun will show itself again, it will! And it will set upside down—I’m not lying!”
But no matter how long she waited, her patience was never long enough. “Silly girl,” she would say. “I see nothing but stars.”
“But it’s true, Mama! The sun will show itself again if you wait.”
And she did wait.
But it didn’t show in all that time.
“It must be an illusion,” she finally decided, believing her daughter would not lie. “Perhaps the moon reflects the sun onto that rise on rare nights.”
“On every night, Mama,” I corrected.
Her smile was playful and doubtful at the same time. She then walked away sighing, “Oh, silly girl.”
Alone I would wait until, as faithfully as ever, the red sun appeared on the smaller rise, divided by a vertical wisp of black. Slowly, surely, it sank upside down until it disappeared.
And so it was I grew to be a young woman in love with a magical hill—for that is the logical conclusion I drew at its repeating of an upturned sunset each night for my eyes only. Mother, though she never witnessed the miracle, labeled it an illusion. I dubbed it magic. For what else could explain a single sun setting twice within a span of minutes, and topsy-turvy at that? I will admit there were occasions when I stood on my head in the grass, feet propped high against the trunk of an oak tree, in order to see the second sunset properly. Never with Mother nearby. For she would surely gasp and say, “How terribly unladylike!”
One cloudy evening, only a few sunsets after my seventeenth birthday, I was nearing my quiet spot amongst the cattails by the creek when something stirred in my stomach. It felt awful. At the same time, I glimpsed a figure move within the cattails, but I had no idea if what I’d find there would prove as awful as my stomach’s uneasiness seemed to anticipate. For those who doubt, I emphatically insist that it is a wise rule to listen to your stomach. It has an uncanny sense about the reality of things. On this particular occasion I failed to heed that uncomfortable warning and continued cautiously forward to my spot within the cluster of tall cattails.
My stomach did a somersault when a very large man stepped out into the open and faced me. He was smiling in a manner that could never—even by the most naïve minds—be mistaken for friendly.
I turned to run back to the house, but I was grabbed by the man who lunged at me with the speed of a cobra. He yanked my body to him. When my lungs filled with air, preparing to scream, he stifled the sound with a firm hand, smothering my face. Desperate to breath, I tried in vain to pry his fingers away. He dragged me into the cattails before slipping his hand down off my nose, allowing me to draw in oxygen but still barring any ability to scream. As the man growled in my ear, insensible words dripping with malice, I feared for my life.
“They thought they could hide you from me, that I wouldn’t detect your putrid stench out here in the middle of nowhere. But I swore to them I’d hunt you down—every last one of you. So far I’ve kept my word. I’ve diminished your numbers and robbed you of those abominable service creatures. And I never stopped searching for you, young one—in caves and deserts and every other inhospitable corner of existence. I even bribed the vagrant sailors of pirate ships, thinking they might find you in transport when your superiors finally decided to call you overseas. But no—you’re not quite old enough to be summoned yet. So I’ll kill you now as I did the others. I’ll end your life before it becomes my misfortune. When you’re dead, I’ll wait here for your service creatures to show their vile forms, and then I will slay them as well.”
I was sucking in air through my nose while these words hit my ear, void of meaning. Nothing he said made the least amount of sense to me. Surely, he had mistaken me for a hostile individual capable of causing him torment.
I was no one to fear. No one at all.
His fingers clamped down over my nose once again as if he meant to suffocate the life out of me. I fought him with all my might, knowing my struggles were futile; his strength far surpassed my own. My eyes flickered back at the hill I loved so much as if to say “goodbye,” at which time I caught a peculiar sight. Two suns were visible at once—one red orb hanging above the hill and a second orb aglow on the face of the lower rise. I thought, perhaps, that my senses were being impaired by lack of oxygen.
When the ground quaked beneath my feet, it seemed as if the planet itself had chosen to come to my rescue. The tremors managed to pull the grassy footing from beneath my assailant. He tumbled over and his hands flailed outward, releasing me. Coughing and gasping for air, I scrambled to get away from him, deterred by the shaking ground until it suddenly ceased. My eyes darted from the grass to my beloved hill, only to find that it was gone. The setting sun hung low in the sky over a completely flat horizon!
I was about to flee for home, more concerned for self-preservation than the miraculous disappearance of an entire hill, when the man shrieked, making my eyes turn back to him. My body slowly followed suit, astounded by what my eyes were registering.
My would-be killer was on the ground looking up into the face of an ominous, hovering beast kept aloft by giant wings. The body of the creature was humped, covered in mossy spots and hairy, golden veins and muddy, bulbous flecks that resembled exactly the missing hill. It dawned on me that the low rise normally sitting adjacent to the hill was the beast’s head. I knew this without a doubt because a red eye glared from the side of its head, mimicking the sun at dusk. I gasped, realizing my beloved hill was in actuality a dragon! My topsy-turvy sunset wasn’t at all a second sunset but a dragon’s bright eye which opened up each and every evening to look out at the world before vanishing under dragon eyelids.
I wondered, was this beast a service creature like those the vile man had muttered about in my ear? There would be no asking him, for he was swallowed whole by the beast in question, scarcely able to let out a final shriek.
The dragon’s face turned to stare at me full on, revealing two glowing, red eyes. My stomach felt calm, but in my mind I feared this was no service creature but a monster that meant to feed on me as it had the unfortunate man. The dragon made no sudden moves, however, and the sword-like teeth I had glimpsed in its mouth were not shown to me again. The dragon lowered its head. Cautiously I approached, moving just close enough to reach out and touch its snout. As my fingers made contact with the scaly texture of its skin, a waft of swirly, gray smoke puffed from both nostrils, startling me, convincing my feet to scuttle backwards. Its immense body rotated in the air, and I watched in awe as a pair of giant wings took the creature back to its resting place where once again he appeared as a distant hill blocking out the setting sun.
“Thank you,” I breathed as the dragon closed its eyes.
I immediately ran to the house to relay the entire story to my mother who became greatly agitated at my mention of a stranger, and then greatly perturbed at my insistence that a man-eating dragon did indeed live past the creek behind our house. The truth was ultimately labeled an outlandish illusion, and I was informed by my mother that a career in story-telling might very well suit me.
That was all about a year ago today. And I shall never forget the life-changing moment I discovered that the hill I loved was in truth a dragon I loved even more. Now, as I turn eighteen, my stomach twists itself up into knots. I have learned to listen to it, for its predictions have yet to be wrong. I know something is coming. A change in my life and in the world itself. What sort of change, I don’t know. But I am sure it involves me and my dragon. The great beast has awakened for the second time in my young life, but I have no fear. It intends to take me somewhere. Somewhere I am needed. And when my mother sees that I and the great hill behind our house are both gone, she might come to believe in my illusions…..and in dragons.
~ By Richelle E. Goodrich Copyright 2016
July 11, 2016
Writer's Nightmare
"A daydreamer is a writer
just waiting for pen and paper."
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Where do stories come from? How does an author conjure up new adventures, new characters, and realities that seem to peel off the printed page? How do they engage the reader's imagination so effectively? And how is it that so many diverse tales even exist, with more scribbled out daily to add to a truly endless library?
The fact that billions of unique people enter and leave this world (and perhaps other worlds) is proof that at least that many unique stories are possible. But how do authors think up these wild tales? Though this is a frequently asked question, there is no single answer―no perfect process.
Some say that artistic insight is granted by the Muses, and that it can be robbed from a writer by the same beautiful goddess of inspiration. Others account for creativity by calling it talent―a gift from God that improves with use. There's also the thought that inspiration is whispered influence from ghosts of past poets and authors. And still others attribute an unsettled mind or unbridled imagination as the spring of creative writing. Genius? Madness? Delusions? Dreams? Or the gift of an enchanted pen?
I believe... " Artistry exists in everyone. What makes it blossom is a soul's personal desire to find an outlet for expression."
― Richelle E. Goodrich
In the same way that people are not born with identical characteristics, writers are not inspired in the same fashion, nor for the same reasons. Some require outside stimuli to spark a creative flame, needing environmental immersion in music or softy-whispered poetry. Some prefer to be surrounded by panoramas of artwork, collectibles, or a library of favorite books where every glance is tied to memories that act as prompts for fresh ideas.
Many writers read incessantly for inspiration, taking in a wealth of finely-narrated stories, allowing these adventures to swirl and blend in their subconscious until new ideas emerge, borrowed from proven talent. Still other authors formulate their best stories from everyday experiences; adopting the hobby of 'people watching' in order to develop realistic and colorful characters. They often write in public settings―at a central table or hidden in a corner―to observe human interactions when not engaged in furious bouts of writing. Some books are simply the result of adoration for another being's existence.
Then there are artists, like myself, who work best in the absence of stimuli, craving peace and utter silence. Perhaps this is because of being easily distracted. Or because imagination treads as warily and timidly as its mistress, willing to abandon inhibitions only in solitude. Or, perhaps it is that silence allows the whispers of muses to reach the ear, while stillness invites the gentle hand of divine inspiration.
"Some build their castles 'mid thunderbolts and fireworks.
My worlds take shape in silence."
― Richelle E. Goodrich
And that brings me to another place of serenity where many have been inspired to write. I speak of the extraordinary realm of dreams. Whether hypnotized by a vivid daydream or overcome by sleep, raven to the winds of fantasy, the creative process sprouts wings within a disencumbered mind. Imagination runs wild, as they say, because nothing is absurd or unreal or nonsensical in Dreamland. Dreams innocently grasp the possibility of anything! The trick is―during that hazy state between slumber and cognizance―to quickly memorize the performance before it evaporates in the light of reason.
Regardless of the circumstances and means for artistic creativity, all authors will agree that when immersed in the process, writing is a passionate experience. The hours spent forming a written work can make one obsessive, distracted, compulsive, and neurotic even, especially when it comes to those rare, precious occasions of streaming pure inspiration. To have a muse moment interrupted―to watch her scuttle back into hiding with unshared insight remaining on the tip of her tongue―is a wicked irritation. When a writer's eyes glaze over, when she stares off at nothing or appears to be memorizing the lines on a blank page, when she falls asleep at the desk.......tiptoe softly. For a writer's greatest desire is to receive inspiration; her greatest nightmare, to have tossed to the wind what could've been captured in words.
WRITER'S NIGHTMARE
By Richelle E. Goodrich
I felt a grip on my arm that shook my body, forcefully pulling me toward a tunnel of darkness. The threat of consciousness stole my steady breath. For a moment I believed myself to be under siege; ripped from the sky in mid flight, my wings useless against the monstrous claws shredding my reality. I struggled to remain, to be left alone, aloft. Reaching with wings that through the power of imagination were suddenly feathered arms, I grabbed at the air. My hands clutched at something solid. Wooden. A desk. My head spun as I held the furniture, suffering the illusion of falling.
"I was flying," I gasped, realizing suddenly that it had all been a dream. "My best fantasy ever."
Lifting my head from its resting spot on the writing desk, I worked mentally to secure the fading images, hoping to capture their essence to memory before they faded away forever. Bitterness tainted my heart against the hand that had jerked me into sensibility. Why was I always so callously awakened while doing my best work? Why not let me dream?
What no (spouse) of a writer can ever understand is
that a writer is working when he's staring out of the window.
― Burton Rascoe
just waiting for pen and paper."
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Where do stories come from? How does an author conjure up new adventures, new characters, and realities that seem to peel off the printed page? How do they engage the reader's imagination so effectively? And how is it that so many diverse tales even exist, with more scribbled out daily to add to a truly endless library?
The fact that billions of unique people enter and leave this world (and perhaps other worlds) is proof that at least that many unique stories are possible. But how do authors think up these wild tales? Though this is a frequently asked question, there is no single answer―no perfect process.
Some say that artistic insight is granted by the Muses, and that it can be robbed from a writer by the same beautiful goddess of inspiration. Others account for creativity by calling it talent―a gift from God that improves with use. There's also the thought that inspiration is whispered influence from ghosts of past poets and authors. And still others attribute an unsettled mind or unbridled imagination as the spring of creative writing. Genius? Madness? Delusions? Dreams? Or the gift of an enchanted pen?
I believe... " Artistry exists in everyone. What makes it blossom is a soul's personal desire to find an outlet for expression."
― Richelle E. Goodrich
In the same way that people are not born with identical characteristics, writers are not inspired in the same fashion, nor for the same reasons. Some require outside stimuli to spark a creative flame, needing environmental immersion in music or softy-whispered poetry. Some prefer to be surrounded by panoramas of artwork, collectibles, or a library of favorite books where every glance is tied to memories that act as prompts for fresh ideas.
Many writers read incessantly for inspiration, taking in a wealth of finely-narrated stories, allowing these adventures to swirl and blend in their subconscious until new ideas emerge, borrowed from proven talent. Still other authors formulate their best stories from everyday experiences; adopting the hobby of 'people watching' in order to develop realistic and colorful characters. They often write in public settings―at a central table or hidden in a corner―to observe human interactions when not engaged in furious bouts of writing. Some books are simply the result of adoration for another being's existence.
Then there are artists, like myself, who work best in the absence of stimuli, craving peace and utter silence. Perhaps this is because of being easily distracted. Or because imagination treads as warily and timidly as its mistress, willing to abandon inhibitions only in solitude. Or, perhaps it is that silence allows the whispers of muses to reach the ear, while stillness invites the gentle hand of divine inspiration.
"Some build their castles 'mid thunderbolts and fireworks.
My worlds take shape in silence."
― Richelle E. Goodrich
And that brings me to another place of serenity where many have been inspired to write. I speak of the extraordinary realm of dreams. Whether hypnotized by a vivid daydream or overcome by sleep, raven to the winds of fantasy, the creative process sprouts wings within a disencumbered mind. Imagination runs wild, as they say, because nothing is absurd or unreal or nonsensical in Dreamland. Dreams innocently grasp the possibility of anything! The trick is―during that hazy state between slumber and cognizance―to quickly memorize the performance before it evaporates in the light of reason.
Regardless of the circumstances and means for artistic creativity, all authors will agree that when immersed in the process, writing is a passionate experience. The hours spent forming a written work can make one obsessive, distracted, compulsive, and neurotic even, especially when it comes to those rare, precious occasions of streaming pure inspiration. To have a muse moment interrupted―to watch her scuttle back into hiding with unshared insight remaining on the tip of her tongue―is a wicked irritation. When a writer's eyes glaze over, when she stares off at nothing or appears to be memorizing the lines on a blank page, when she falls asleep at the desk.......tiptoe softly. For a writer's greatest desire is to receive inspiration; her greatest nightmare, to have tossed to the wind what could've been captured in words.
WRITER'S NIGHTMARE
By Richelle E. Goodrich
I felt a grip on my arm that shook my body, forcefully pulling me toward a tunnel of darkness. The threat of consciousness stole my steady breath. For a moment I believed myself to be under siege; ripped from the sky in mid flight, my wings useless against the monstrous claws shredding my reality. I struggled to remain, to be left alone, aloft. Reaching with wings that through the power of imagination were suddenly feathered arms, I grabbed at the air. My hands clutched at something solid. Wooden. A desk. My head spun as I held the furniture, suffering the illusion of falling.
"I was flying," I gasped, realizing suddenly that it had all been a dream. "My best fantasy ever."
Lifting my head from its resting spot on the writing desk, I worked mentally to secure the fading images, hoping to capture their essence to memory before they faded away forever. Bitterness tainted my heart against the hand that had jerked me into sensibility. Why was I always so callously awakened while doing my best work? Why not let me dream?
What no (spouse) of a writer can ever understand is
that a writer is working when he's staring out of the window.
― Burton Rascoe
July 3, 2016
His Open Door
"Ma'am," he said, reaching for the door. He held it open, his posture as erect and sturdy as a pole.
I eyed the man's uniform, the pins and badges that signified his military rank and position. At that moment I felt opposing forces wash over me, clashing internally like a cold and warm front meeting in the air.
At first I was hit by a burning sense of respect and gratitude. How privileged a person I was to have this soldier unbar the way for me, maintaining a clear path that I might advance unhindered. The symbolism marked by his actions did strike me with remarkable intensity. How many virtual doors would be shut in my face if not for dutiful soldiers like him?
As I went to step forward, my feet nearly faltered as if they felt unworthy. It was I who ought to be holding open the door for this gentleman—this representative of great heroes present and past who did fight and sacrifice and continue to do so to keep doors open, paths free and clear for all of humanity.
I moved through the entrance and thanked him.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
How strange that I should feel such pride while passing through his open door.
I eyed the man's uniform, the pins and badges that signified his military rank and position. At that moment I felt opposing forces wash over me, clashing internally like a cold and warm front meeting in the air.
At first I was hit by a burning sense of respect and gratitude. How privileged a person I was to have this soldier unbar the way for me, maintaining a clear path that I might advance unhindered. The symbolism marked by his actions did strike me with remarkable intensity. How many virtual doors would be shut in my face if not for dutiful soldiers like him?
As I went to step forward, my feet nearly faltered as if they felt unworthy. It was I who ought to be holding open the door for this gentleman—this representative of great heroes present and past who did fight and sacrifice and continue to do so to keep doors open, paths free and clear for all of humanity.
I moved through the entrance and thanked him.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
How strange that I should feel such pride while passing through his open door.
June 30, 2016
Dimpellumpzki
For all my friends, family, and fans, a twisted fairytale that will hopefully leave you grateful for your circumstances, as imperfect as they may be. Enjoy!
Dimpellumpzki
By Richelle E. Goodrich
An old mankin ran a finger alongside his nose, staring at its crooked reflection off the still surface of a black pond. This misshapen snout happened to be his most notable feature—all dimpled, extended, and swollen as it was—and the mirror image at his knees did nothing but augment the fact, magnifying his nostrils to twice their actual size. But everything about this little man was deformed, frightfully blemished and warped. And though the pond reflected this truth about his outward appearance, it failed to reveal that his inner character could be described in the same way.
The mankin leaned in closer to the water, very nearly dipping the tip of his snout in the pond while his beady eyes scrunched to see what lived beneath the glassy surface. Searching for a raw fish dinner within reach, his eyes began to focus on shadows roaming the darker depths. Just then a gust of wind twirled past, placing a single red leaf upon his reflection. The gentle swells that formed around the leaf distorted the mankin’s misshapen image, altering traits already grotesquely warped. He growled at his ugliness before turning away. But it wasn’t detest of his own person that made him turn and rise. No, it was his nose. Or rather, what his nose had detected in the breeze.
For you see, this shrewd character possessed a rare gift inside his sizeable nostrils. He could sniff out nearly any trail he longed to follow, being particularly keen on detecting one scent above all others. It wasn’t spicy or sugary or citrus smells that lured him. Nor was it the ambrosia incense of fame and money. And it certainly wasn’t the sweaty stench of hard work and labor that attracted this measly character. No, it was something potent and ripe with a subtle, unsavory flavor.
The little mankin inclined his head, closed his eyes, lifted his chin, and breathed in deeply. A sly grin crept across his face as he identified the cold whiff of utter desperation. As quickly as his bowed legs could swing each hairy foot forward, he hobbled away from the pond in pursuit of a hopeless soul.
Sunset had stained the western sky in fiery colors about the time the mankin approached a one-level farmhouse set close to the edge of a small town. He ignored the well-lit dwelling and scuttled inside a wooden barn large enough to act as a landmark for villagers. The structure stood naked, without paint or stain, just a box of raw timber planks nailed together yet artfully assembled to attract the eye. Inside, dusk grew dimmer while space seemed to expand—an odd illusion for confining oneself within four walls—most likely owing to an arched ceiling and an openness uncustomary for regular buildings.
There was no need to follow his nose any longer, for the sound of muted weeping took over as his guide, beckoning him forward to a high stack of straw bales along the furthest wall. Circumventing this pile brought all eight of his fuzzy toes smack dab before the balled-up form of a young lady who had withered to the ground. She was bent over her knees, sobbing, with both hands covering her face. So upset by whatever travailed her, the frail creature didn’t notice she was no longer alone. Not until a gnarled hand patted her shoulder did she jump, startled, and scurry onto her backside against a prickly wall of straw. Her eyes rounded into the shape of coins as she gasped. It was a miracle that her natural reaction hadn’t been a high-pitched scream. Perhaps she would have screamed had the darkness not masked the mankin’s repulsiveness. He didn’t wait for her to think to do so, however.
“Good evening, deary. I couldn’t help but overhear your heartrending sounds of sorrow. May I ask, why? Why are you crying so bitterly?”
The young lady’s sad face contorted into an even sadder expression at the knowledge that sympathy might very well be standing over her.
“Oh! I am in a dreadful mess!” she exclaimed. “My father is behaving like a monster! A tyrant! An unfeeling ogre! He’s bent on destroying my life and bashing any hope that I might ever find true happiness!”
“I see. And how is it that he’s treated you so awfully?”
The poor darling wiped at her swollen eyes, unable to keep from sniveling as she explained. “He’s forcing me to marry a man I don’t know, someone I don’t love, to better his own estate! He won’t listen when I tell him my heart belongs to another, to my true love. My father hates me! He must, because he doesn’t care about my happiness at all!”
The little man rubbed at his stubbly chin. “Hmmm. And when is this wedding to take place?”
A sound of sheer despair squeaked from the girl’s throat before she bawled, “In two weeks!” Once again her hands hid her face as a flow of misery soaked her cheeks. Over the ruckus of her weeping, a possibility of hope was extended.
“I can help you……if you want my help, that is.”
Her hands fell, unveiling two wide, bleary eyes for a second time. “You can?”
The squatty stranger nodded. “Oh yes. And I will agree to do so, if that is what you want.”
“Oh I do, I do!” she exclaimed assuredly. “But how? How will you stop my father? He’s a stubborn man, a tyrant! He won’t listen…”
A hairy hand, knotted at each joint, lifted to halt any concerns. “Don’t worry about how, deary. What you should be asking is….how much?”
“How much?” She repeated the question without understanding. When the little man explained, her face wilted again, not hopeless as before, but nearly.
“Ah, yes, how much is correct. What will you give me to stop your father from forcing your tender heart into a loveless marriage? My generosity must bear a cost or there’d be no value in what you gain from it. There’d be no second thought for me, the tiny, humble mankin who came to save you. Is it right for a desperate soul to expect redemption for nothing? No. No, no. So, tell me, child, what will you give me in exchange for my services?”
The young lady slanted her brows, looking as if she might cry again. “I don’t know. I have nothing to give.”
“Not so,” the tempter disagreed. There was a sparkle in his eyes and a grin that told her he already had a wager in mind.
“What is it that you want?” she asked.
Standing as tall and straight as his decrepit form would allow, he voiced his terms. “I want your wedding ring. The one your true love will offer when he asks your hand in marriage. This tiny trinket in exchange for preventing your being wed to a stranger.”
She agreed without hesitation, eager to live out the events that the mankin had painted in her head with words.
“I promise I will give you the ring.”
“Then it is done.”
With that verbal agreement he hobbled away, no further sounds of sorrowing at his back.
Read the rest of the story here...http://regoodrichnews.blogspot.com/20...
Dimpellumpzki
By Richelle E. Goodrich
An old mankin ran a finger alongside his nose, staring at its crooked reflection off the still surface of a black pond. This misshapen snout happened to be his most notable feature—all dimpled, extended, and swollen as it was—and the mirror image at his knees did nothing but augment the fact, magnifying his nostrils to twice their actual size. But everything about this little man was deformed, frightfully blemished and warped. And though the pond reflected this truth about his outward appearance, it failed to reveal that his inner character could be described in the same way.
The mankin leaned in closer to the water, very nearly dipping the tip of his snout in the pond while his beady eyes scrunched to see what lived beneath the glassy surface. Searching for a raw fish dinner within reach, his eyes began to focus on shadows roaming the darker depths. Just then a gust of wind twirled past, placing a single red leaf upon his reflection. The gentle swells that formed around the leaf distorted the mankin’s misshapen image, altering traits already grotesquely warped. He growled at his ugliness before turning away. But it wasn’t detest of his own person that made him turn and rise. No, it was his nose. Or rather, what his nose had detected in the breeze.
For you see, this shrewd character possessed a rare gift inside his sizeable nostrils. He could sniff out nearly any trail he longed to follow, being particularly keen on detecting one scent above all others. It wasn’t spicy or sugary or citrus smells that lured him. Nor was it the ambrosia incense of fame and money. And it certainly wasn’t the sweaty stench of hard work and labor that attracted this measly character. No, it was something potent and ripe with a subtle, unsavory flavor.
The little mankin inclined his head, closed his eyes, lifted his chin, and breathed in deeply. A sly grin crept across his face as he identified the cold whiff of utter desperation. As quickly as his bowed legs could swing each hairy foot forward, he hobbled away from the pond in pursuit of a hopeless soul.
Sunset had stained the western sky in fiery colors about the time the mankin approached a one-level farmhouse set close to the edge of a small town. He ignored the well-lit dwelling and scuttled inside a wooden barn large enough to act as a landmark for villagers. The structure stood naked, without paint or stain, just a box of raw timber planks nailed together yet artfully assembled to attract the eye. Inside, dusk grew dimmer while space seemed to expand—an odd illusion for confining oneself within four walls—most likely owing to an arched ceiling and an openness uncustomary for regular buildings.
There was no need to follow his nose any longer, for the sound of muted weeping took over as his guide, beckoning him forward to a high stack of straw bales along the furthest wall. Circumventing this pile brought all eight of his fuzzy toes smack dab before the balled-up form of a young lady who had withered to the ground. She was bent over her knees, sobbing, with both hands covering her face. So upset by whatever travailed her, the frail creature didn’t notice she was no longer alone. Not until a gnarled hand patted her shoulder did she jump, startled, and scurry onto her backside against a prickly wall of straw. Her eyes rounded into the shape of coins as she gasped. It was a miracle that her natural reaction hadn’t been a high-pitched scream. Perhaps she would have screamed had the darkness not masked the mankin’s repulsiveness. He didn’t wait for her to think to do so, however.
“Good evening, deary. I couldn’t help but overhear your heartrending sounds of sorrow. May I ask, why? Why are you crying so bitterly?”
The young lady’s sad face contorted into an even sadder expression at the knowledge that sympathy might very well be standing over her.
“Oh! I am in a dreadful mess!” she exclaimed. “My father is behaving like a monster! A tyrant! An unfeeling ogre! He’s bent on destroying my life and bashing any hope that I might ever find true happiness!”
“I see. And how is it that he’s treated you so awfully?”
The poor darling wiped at her swollen eyes, unable to keep from sniveling as she explained. “He’s forcing me to marry a man I don’t know, someone I don’t love, to better his own estate! He won’t listen when I tell him my heart belongs to another, to my true love. My father hates me! He must, because he doesn’t care about my happiness at all!”
The little man rubbed at his stubbly chin. “Hmmm. And when is this wedding to take place?”
A sound of sheer despair squeaked from the girl’s throat before she bawled, “In two weeks!” Once again her hands hid her face as a flow of misery soaked her cheeks. Over the ruckus of her weeping, a possibility of hope was extended.
“I can help you……if you want my help, that is.”
Her hands fell, unveiling two wide, bleary eyes for a second time. “You can?”
The squatty stranger nodded. “Oh yes. And I will agree to do so, if that is what you want.”
“Oh I do, I do!” she exclaimed assuredly. “But how? How will you stop my father? He’s a stubborn man, a tyrant! He won’t listen…”
A hairy hand, knotted at each joint, lifted to halt any concerns. “Don’t worry about how, deary. What you should be asking is….how much?”
“How much?” She repeated the question without understanding. When the little man explained, her face wilted again, not hopeless as before, but nearly.
“Ah, yes, how much is correct. What will you give me to stop your father from forcing your tender heart into a loveless marriage? My generosity must bear a cost or there’d be no value in what you gain from it. There’d be no second thought for me, the tiny, humble mankin who came to save you. Is it right for a desperate soul to expect redemption for nothing? No. No, no. So, tell me, child, what will you give me in exchange for my services?”
The young lady slanted her brows, looking as if she might cry again. “I don’t know. I have nothing to give.”
“Not so,” the tempter disagreed. There was a sparkle in his eyes and a grin that told her he already had a wager in mind.
“What is it that you want?” she asked.
Standing as tall and straight as his decrepit form would allow, he voiced his terms. “I want your wedding ring. The one your true love will offer when he asks your hand in marriage. This tiny trinket in exchange for preventing your being wed to a stranger.”
She agreed without hesitation, eager to live out the events that the mankin had painted in her head with words.
“I promise I will give you the ring.”
“Then it is done.”
With that verbal agreement he hobbled away, no further sounds of sorrowing at his back.
Read the rest of the story here...http://regoodrichnews.blogspot.com/20...
June 19, 2016
If Fathers Behaved as Trees
When I hear the word fathers I think of trees. Perhaps because I see in trees so many of the finest qualities all great fathers share.
The obvious, their strength and sturdiness. A tree will bear all things thrust upon its branches without an uttered word of complaint. Reaching limbs will hold a person up, supporting him throughout days and nights.
A tree is rooted where it stands. One never needs to glance repeatedly out a window to be sure it hasn't walked away. It is planted firmly. It is always there. Its form may sway with the wind, but it never falters.
A tree is dependent upon sunlight; therefore, its majestic form reaches toward Heaven for nourishment. It does not hide its need for the light, but flourishes beneath the sun for all eyes to see.
A tree bears fruit to feed others, even though it is unable to partake of the fruit itself. It complains to no one. And if called upon to sacrifice itself entirely in order to warm and protect another, it does so without a word of protest.
Trees shade and protect. They shield us from the elements. I have never seen a child fear a tree, but smile up at its grandness, eager to climb into its arms and see the world from a higher viewpoint.
One can talk to trees without interruption or reprisal. All secrets remain in a tree's confidence despite the passing of many generations.
Out of all God's creations, I admire most the quiet creatures we call grand, majestic, beautiful trees.
"How wonderful our world would be
if fathers all behaved as trees." — Richelle E. Goodrich
June 10, 2016
Book Two is Out in Beautiful Color!
Prepare to continue the adventure...
Read the continuing tale of Queen Eena in this newly-released book two in the Harrowbethian Saga!
Eena, The Return of a Queen
By Richelle E. Goodrich
in PAPERBACK or E-BOOK / KINDLE
Experience more adventure, peril, mystery, fun, new races, old legends and developing romance in this second volume of The Harrowbethian Saga.
Read the introductory chapters here!
Synopsis
The young queen of Harrowbeth, has been saved from the clutches of her enemy, only to fear prophetic nightmares of being captured by Gemdorin again. A red-eyed dragon haunts her dreams frequently, portending doom within his fortune-telling gaze. It is Derian and Ian's job to keep the beast's grim visions from coming true.
Joined by their allies—a large and warring race called the Viiduns—Captain Derian and his militia escort their queen across the galaxy toward home. An unexpected detour takes them to an advanced world where a quirky king might possess the power to rid them of their enemy for good. But is trusting the promise of a stranger a risk worth taking? It will require Eena to face her worst nightmare alone.
The most difficult challenge
an honest man will ever face
is having to choose between
duty and love.
One creates a man of honorable
character–a life worth dying for.
The other creates a vulnerable soul
that madly yearns for
either death or immortality.
― Richelle E. Goodrich
June 8, 2016
Successful Book Signing
My oh my, how the days fly by! It's hard to believe four years has past since my first book signing! I was reading an old post about that fun (but nerve-racking) day and how successfully the whole event transpired, and I thought I'd share.
Saturday, September 29th was the first book signing for Pacific Northwest author, Richelle E. Goodrich. The event took place at Hastings book store in Moses Lake, Washington from 1:00 - 4:00 in the afternoon. People lined up from the very beginning, putting an instant smile on the author's face. "So many friends and family, it was wonderful!"
Sara and Cassie wait for their books to be personalized.
Richelle arranged a table by the front doors, assisted by her parents, Lanny and Arlene, and her husband, Larry. Chocolates and bookmarks advertising her book were set out to give away to passing customers. "My husband was a huge help. I'm so grateful to him for giving me his time and energy."
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Trying to concentrate on writing while talking to those in line takes talent!
Most who attended the book signing were local residents, though friends from the Seattle area showed up to support their friend from youth. "It was a real treat seeing David after twenty-plus years. I was privileged to meet his wife and sweet daughter. My best friend from high school, Jackie, accompanied them. I can't tell you how much it meant to have their support. I only wish I'd had more time to visit!"
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Jackie and Richelle, lifelong best friends!
The event was a real success, ending with every copy available of Richelle's book, 'Eena, The Dawn and Rescue', SOLD! "I should have brought more books, I guess. 38 signed to date. Now to plan for the next book signing!"
Mindi keeps Richelle company for the second hour.
May 30, 2016
Do More than Just Remember
Memorial Day is set aside for remembering those who gave their lives fighting for their country. More specifically, fighting to defend a lifestyle of enviable freedoms enjoyed by citizens of the United States of America. It is important we understand that these freedoms came about because of the willingness of individuals to sacrifice for every human's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, unalienable rights endowed by the Creator of us all.
It is important that we remember.
It is vital we do more than just remember.
How wonderful the occasion is when a banquet is laid out before us, rich with foods and delicacies in sweet variety. We may feel immense gratitude towards those who spent days preparing the feast. We may to some extent attempt to understand the sacrifices made by these men and women who made possible our enviable feast. But what good is all their hard work and effort if those at the banquet do nothing more than sit and admire the end results? Compliments are ill-served if no one ventures to taste the delicacies.
Likewise, we may express our gratitude while keeping in our hearts those who have fallen to defend our precious rights and freedoms. But our gratitude is ill-shown when we fail to use those freedoms to our advantage by creating better homes, better lives, and better communities within our united states.
On this Memorial Day, take time to remember those who have fallen. But on every day after, do more than simply remember; put the freedoms they died for to greater and nobler uses.
It is important that we remember.
It is vital we do more than just remember.
How wonderful the occasion is when a banquet is laid out before us, rich with foods and delicacies in sweet variety. We may feel immense gratitude towards those who spent days preparing the feast. We may to some extent attempt to understand the sacrifices made by these men and women who made possible our enviable feast. But what good is all their hard work and effort if those at the banquet do nothing more than sit and admire the end results? Compliments are ill-served if no one ventures to taste the delicacies.
Likewise, we may express our gratitude while keeping in our hearts those who have fallen to defend our precious rights and freedoms. But our gratitude is ill-shown when we fail to use those freedoms to our advantage by creating better homes, better lives, and better communities within our united states.
On this Memorial Day, take time to remember those who have fallen. But on every day after, do more than simply remember; put the freedoms they died for to greater and nobler uses.
May 27, 2016
How Many Books?
I've been asked the same question a number of times since the publication of my first book, Eena, The Dawn and Rescue. Once readers discover that this is just the beginning of Eena's extraordinary adventure, they want to know...
"How many books are in the saga?"
Well, the truth is.....
Eena's tale, which I refer to as the Harrowbethian Saga, was originally the Harrowbethian Trilogy. When I took on the challenge of creating a new fantasy /science fiction /romance /adventure story, I was only interested in compiling three books. Quite frankly, that's about my personal attention span for any series. Not that I haven't read the four, five, six, seven, plus volumes of many excellent strings of amazing works of fiction, but I tend to grumble about it. So, to satisfy my own preference, Eena started out as a trilogy.
It was a three-book package that I handed out to dozens of my friends for pre-reading.
Book One - Eena, The Return of a Queen
Book Two - Eena, The Two Sisters
Book Three - Eena, The Companionship of the Dragon's Soul
Personally, I still prefer the story in this trilogy bundle. I think it's perfect. However, as is often the case in life, others disagreed with me. The fact is, these original books comprised 700+ pages each. A little lengthy, maybe, but well worth the read. Who isn't frustrated when an entertaining tale ends too soon? At first I ignored the few who suggested I consider dividing the novels into shorter-length narratives.
"Ha! Are you kidding me? It's a trilogy, people! Would you tolerate cutting The Lord of the Rings in half? Or slashing the Eragon Saga into eight parts? Yeah...I didn't think so!"
But there were arguments to consider. Young adult literature is more likely to sell if the page count isn't overwhelming. The majority of book buyers shy away from thick books, prefering something they can tackle on a flight, there and back. It's more cost effective to publish a smaller book.
"Yadda, yadda, jibberish, nonsense, yawn......whatever."
Then the miraculous day came when I was actually on the phone speaking to an interested publisher. Unbelievable! Not an easy occurence to come by, I'll tell you. Oh my gosh, if within the first five mintues she wasn't recommending I divide each book in two, persuading me with the same previously brushed-off arguments! Wisely I said, "Of course I'll consider it."
Then I hung up the phone and groaned. "Ugh! My beautiful trilogy! My poor, perfectly-wonderful-as-it-is trilogy! They want to tear you apart and destroy you!"
So, a bit on the unwilling and disgruntled side, I complained to my husband.
"Three books is the perfect number, the perfect length for a saga. More than that and you lose the interest of readers! And then tell me this, how am I to find some coherent midpoint to slice each book in half? What if I can't? How do you end one half of a book and start it up again in another, making it believably two books when obviously it's supposed to be one? That's insane! It's impossible! And then.....oh yes....and then I would need to come up with THREE MORE TITLES for THREE MORE BOOKS! I might as well just call it part one and part two of what ought to be one solid book! Criminy!"
My husband heard me out and said little. "If your goal is to get published, Richelle, you should do what the publisher asks."
"Grumble, grumble, traitor........whatever."
Okay, so my husband's not really a traitor. He's actually a man of strong resolution, commendable character, and good, albeit galling, advice.
So, I went to work butchering the first of my books. Dreadful, anguishing chore!
Honestly......shockingly.....it turned out to be easier than expected severing the book in two. The story's action naturally came to a nice shift in settings and plot near midpoint.
Huh. Interesting.
Okay....alright....so maybe that wasn't so hard. But there was still the chore of having to write a new ending to this 'first-half' of the book, making it believably a stand-alone book of its own. A grevious task....if even possible.
It took me two added pages. Hmmmm.
But......there remained a need for another title! A catching caption to slap on the cover of what had now been transformed into two books instead of one.
Okay, so in this first book the heroine discovers her true identity and is rescued from dire circumstances. How about..... Eena, The Dawn and Rescue?
(Dang, that was easy.)
You get the picture. Each book of the original trilogy was divided into two halves creating a six-book epic saga. The new titles (around 350 page count each) are as follows:
Book One - Eena, The Dawn and Rescue
Book Two - Eena, The Return of a Queen
Book Three - Eena, The Curse of Wanyaka Cave
Book Four - Eena, The Two Sisters
Book Five - Eena, The Tempter's Snare
Book Six - Eena, The Companionship of the Dragon's Soul
Now, as the twisted irony of fate would have it, the publisher who showed such promising initial interest in my books backed out, leaving me with transformed written works and a bucket of pitiful tears. Yes, I cried a bit. But after a little lamenting, I picked myself up, whispered a prayer, and resolvedly quoted myself, "Don't ever give up!"
With the support of my husband, I was able to invest in a self-publishing venture, and on April 26th, 2012 a box was delivered to my doorstep. Inside the cardboard package, in paperback form, was the first novel I'd ever written, Eena, The Dawn and Rescue. I am grateful now for the events that encouraged Eena's story to be sectioned into smaller books, enabling me a better opportunity to find success in this self-publishing world. My short-term goal is to sell enough copies to reinvest in the remaining books.
My long-term goal? To eventually find success enough as a novelist to have Eena's story published in the trilogy form in which it was originally meant to exist. At that day it shall sit on my bookshelf next to the great J. R. R. Tolkein's masterpiece, The Lord of the Rings.
"Don't laugh. A girl can dream."
May 24, 2016
Reread and Review
Since my first book was published, Eena, The Dawn and Rescue, I've taken the time to re-read the adventure. Happily, I found myself all smiles at the last page, entertained by my own story and eager to move right into the next book. There were multiple places where I cringed at sections I wished to rewrite. Never happy. Never perfect. (I'll admit I did make corrections in my personal digital copy of the book which led to an improved second publishing with added dialogue.) But what author doesn't rearrange the same paragraph a dozen times, hoping to find the perfect delivery? It's a curse. It's a challenge.
So I left a review on goodreads.com. Thank you to those readers who have also posted kind reviews about Eena. I truly appreciate it!
Eena, the Dawn and Rescue
by Richelle E. Goodrich
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This book was written for me, so of course I love it. The entire Harrowbethian Saga deals with relationships and fantasy exploits I often daydreamed about as a young woman. What else was there to do with all that free time in school?
It was delightful fun inventing new cultures and then mingling them in a way that forced a cast of dynamic personalities to interrelate. Meet the strong and sexy Mishmorats and the fearless warrior Viiduns and the repulsive Ghengats and Eena's race―cemented in tradition―the refined Harrowbethians. There is never a dull moment in this tale, whether running from frightful, gem-eyed dragons (that receive names in book two) or surviving the persecution of Ghengats or taking sides in conflicts between blood-related enemies as well as reluctant friends. Get ready to find yourself hooked on a lively fantasy-scifi-adventure-romance because this is just the beginning of Eena's unusual adventures!
View all my reviews
