Allan Hudson's Blog, page 21

January 8, 2022

The Story Behind the Story with Author Chuck Bowie of Fredericton, NB.

Starting the new year with our bold look, who better to have for our first guest with The Story Behind the Story than Chuck Bowie, a popular author and a true gentleman. He is sharing the news of his Work-in-Progress. He’s been here before. If you missed Chuck’s earlier interviews, guest post, start HERE.

Who is Chuck Bowie?

Chuck has been writing for a while, but has happily settled into crafting mystery series these days; specifically Suspense-Thrillers and Cozy Mysteries. He has sat on the Boards of NB Writers’ Federation and The Writers’ Union of Canada, and is a fellow of the Kingsbrae International Residency for the Arts. He writes out of Fredericton, NB, when he is not travelling for fun and research.

Chuck is currently finishing up his eighth novel, a Cozy Mystery. His readers are used to experiencing thrillers under his author name, So when he finished his first Cozy, it was decided to reduce confusion as to what genre of mystery was being offered, and cozies would be presented as having been written by his pseudonym: Alexa Bowie.

Working Title :

Death Between the Decks is the third Cozy in the Old Manse Mysteries series, scheduled to drop this spring. Chuck writes the Cozy Mystery series under the pen name Alexa Bowie

Synopsis:

Emma Andrews is finally settling into her adopted small Maritime town, and has decided she won’t return to her former home of Toronto except for visits. She attends a dockside reception of lawyers to keep her non-lawyer friend company, and while six lawyers cruise around the harbor, only five return alive. With the caterer in jail, Emma must convince the police (and herself) the caterer is innocent. But if she is correct, then the murderer must be a lawyer. Will the town’s lawyers conspire to band together, or will they seek the truth? And is Emma herself being targeted as the second victim?

The Story Behind the Story:

I’d been writing international suspense thrillers for years – and love writing them! – but the concept for a story kept niggling at me. What if I wrote a mystery where a small town, similar to the one I grew up in, was so charming and warm and, yes, so cozy that the town itself became a sort of character? Book one: Death Between the Walls was well received. It was loosely based on a construction demolition that revealed a skull hidden in the walls of an old inn. Book two was equally fun: Death Between the Tables, where I staged a murder to take place in front of most of the town’s police, fire, and EMTs. In Book three: Death Between the Decks, I wanted to pay homage to the river-bay water system that bisects the community in the series. The location…all fictional, I assure you!... is loosely based on the Miramichi River Valley area.

Website: http://www.chuckbowie.ca

And a question for you, Chuck, before you go:

What is your most favorite part and least favorite part about publishing?

Chuck: Clearly this is a trick question! I began writing, well, to write, and publishing has been the necessary evil—joking!—to the process. I was fortunate to land with a trad publisher for my thriller series, and chose to independently publish for my cozy series. I guess I am a convert to the indie route, since all of my novels are now published under my own (microscopic) publishing arm: Old Manse Studios. The best part is the control I have with my novels, and the challenging part is marketing and promotion.

People write to be read. Publishing is the enabling mechanism. I receive great pleasure from having been read, so thank you, publishing universe!

Thank you for being our guest Chuck. Wishing you continued success.

Please leave a comment. Would love to hear what you think. Who is your favorite author?

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Published on January 08, 2022 04:54

January 1, 2022

Happy New Year. A new look. Lots to look forward to in 2022.

Goodbye 2021.

Hello to a new year, new dreams, new horizons and all good things.No looking back.
I have so much to be grateful for. A loving wife, a happy home, family, a roof over my head - a new one since we moved in November - lots to eat, dear friends...

Gloria Hudson.

and you - my fantastic visitors and readers.

I said there would be changes to the Scribbler.Besides the new color and layout, we are taking a new approach to our guest's visits.
The Story Behind the Story.

You will meet great authors, old and new, from all over the world.They will share their latest work, or what they are working on.A brief bio.Title.Synopsis.andThe story behind the story.A question.A link.
January 8th - Chuck Bowie of Fredericton, NB.

January 15th - Zuzanne Belec of Chechia.

January 22 - MJ LaBeff of Arizona, US.

January 29th - Janet Sanford of Moncton, NB.

Yes, there will still be occasional interviews. There will be short stories, mine and others.

There will be new contributors. Nothing set yet but we are searching for anyone willing to share their thoughts, ideas or whatever.

Exciting news!
Today I am introducing you to my newest story and revealing the cover.

I'm extremely happy about this story. I've been wanting to write it for a long time.

In 1942 everything is going good for Tanner Hill. He has a good job, two healthy sons and a wife who loves him. As he makes lots of extra cash with his moonshine, he can afford many luxuries his neighbours cannot. And he’s not worried about conscription.

However, he soon realizes good things do not last forever. One argument after church with a disgruntled man with revenge on his mind and Tanner’s world is turned upside down. Forced into making a choice, Tanner chooses to follow his brothers and enlists. He leaves for the fighting so far away as a private in the Royal Canadian Engineers.

It will be three years until Tanner returns home. It won’t be the same.

Available today as a eBook. Go HERE. Paperbacks coming soon.

Launch date and location - February 19th. 12:00 p.m. - 4:00 p.m.Chapters Moncton.
Go HERE for more information.

I'm hoping to publish the next Jo Naylor adventure - Shattered Dreams - in April.

Jo leaves Thailand because it is not safe for her any longer. She can't go back to Canada yet. She's not certain where she will travel to but an image of the Eiffel Tower lures her to Paris. Jo has been a cop too long to ignore injustice and this time the bad people picked on the wrong person.

Scoudouc (tentative title)

A murder mystery set in World War II at Royal Canadian Air Force Station Scoudouc, New Brunswick.

The base is gone now but it thrived during the war. Pilots from England, Canada, Australia and New Zealand trained in tiger Moths.
The body was headless. Identification would be difficult, if not impossible.
There is more than one body.Warrant Officer Stefan Kravchenko has been ordered to solve the mystery and keep the police from getting involved. There are too many secrets on the base to have civilians nosing around. RCMP Officer Dia Francis thinks differently.

.... and Volume 2 of The Alexanders. 1921 - 1930. In progress.

I'm looking forward to 2022. I think the dreaded Covid will become a memory. I have lots of time to write. I love sharing other peoples work with you.

Leave a comment if you like. Tell me your plans for 2022. Which mountain will you climb. Which project will you finally get to? Tell me your favorite author. Your favorite book.

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Published on January 01, 2022 04:37

December 25, 2021

An interview with the Real Mrs. Claus.

The Scribbler was hoping to interview St. Nick again but the PR department at SC Enterprises has asked us to interview Mrs. Claus instead. Very little is known about her and the head elf in the PR Dept., Slipknot Boomside (people call him Slippy), felt it should change.

The last time we had the opportunity to speak with Santa was in December 2019. Due to the world-wide pandemic in 2020, we had to forego an interview with the man-in-red due to his hectic schedule. Preparations were unlike any other, so we did a recap of Santa’s interviews to the Scribbler last year. Have a peek HERE.

The Scribbler is more than pleased to have Mrs. Claus as our guest.. Wow. WE ARE IMPRESSED. What a lady. We didn’t know……..

Allan: So, Mrs. Claus….

Mrs. Clause: Oh please call me Svetlana. None of this Mrs. Claus stuff.

Allan: Um… okay, Svetlana. Nice name by the way. Sounds Russian. Before we get into the interview, let’s tell our readers about the photo above. The one Slippy from PR sent us. Titled - The New You. This is not the little old lady we’ve become accustomed to. You know, heavy set, the long dress, the ever-present apron, hair in a bun, granny glasses…

Svetlana: The image of the kindly, cookie making Mrs. Santa was a product of our PR department began in the early twentieth century, probably back around 1910 or so. There wasn’t a Mrs. Claus actually; it was all a figment of everyone’s imagination, from well know authors and poets who chose to romanticize the old guy. For the benefit of children everywhere and other true believers, it was felt he should be married. I mean, really, who would ever think a bachelor would be a Santa Claus, or Sinter Klass, as he was known back then. A female companion adds warmth, hominess, you know. But the twenty-first century calls for a new image and in this case, the real me.

Allan: Back in 2019 in Santa’s last interview, he mentioned how you two met, when you were a nurse. His description of you fits with the image above. How come you don’t age?

Svetlana: Ah, the mystery of the North Pole. No one ages here. We all get older but the beauty of youth lingers.

Allan: Like magic?

Svetlana: Not really magic, like pulling a rabbit from a top hat, or sleight of hand. It’s…; well it’s difficult to explain. It’s mystical…, dream-like. A moment in time and space where nothing changes. It really is quite beautiful.

Allan: Where are you from? Were you really a nurse, or is that part of the myth?

Svetlana: I’m from Siberia. My father was a reindeer herder, part of the Lapp community. I actually met Santa when I was only six. He was looking for reindeer to pull his sleigh. Oh gosh, he was so handsome. Oddly enough he took the reindeer with the shiny nose everyone had neglected. Of course, you’ve heard of him, Rudolph. When he left, he gave me a doll. I still have it. I moved to Australia when I was twenty. I wanted to heal people and truthfully, I was tired of the cold. And look at me now, back in the cold in the North Pole.

I was working the midnight shift when they brought him in. He remembered me and asked about the doll. We fixed him up and poof, he disappeared. I knew we had worked on him for at least two hours and when he left, I checked the clock and only two minutes had gone by. Part of the mysticism I spoke of earlier. We’ve been together ever since.

Allan: I know this might be personal but do you and Santa still… you know…

***There is no response from Svetlana but the wide smile and blushing cheeks tells me enough.

Allan: Do you still bake cookies, look after the elves, and such?

Svetlana: Not any longer. When Santa stopped eating all the cookies and sweets people left for him, I mean he was getting so big and all the food made him sluggish, he couldn’t do anything for weeks after he returned. People took the hint and now they leave him money, so we are quite well off. We have the elves to look after the chores. I spend a lot of my time writing letters to the kids and sign Santa’s name. There are just too many for him. I spend time at my spa. I meet with women all over the world, especially those in need of support. I work hard for women’s rights and equality.

Allan: As Mrs. Clause?

Svetlana: No. As Svetlana Tsvetkova. No connection to Santa at all.

Allan: Oh, you’re that Svetlana? I’ve heard of you and would’ve never known. Yes, you do wonders. Before we sign off Svetlana, is there anything else you’d like to tell our readers?

Svetlana: Yes. To everyone, it is not enough to just ‘be good’ at Christmas time. You need to reach out to your fellow man and woman and commit yourself to at least one act of kindness each day. Smile to strangers. Hold the door open, help the old person across the street, let someone cut in front of you, do something nice unexpectedly… just be nice all year round.

Thank you Svetlana… Mrs. Claus… for being our guest this week.

… and poof! – she disappears!

This, of course, is the last post of the year. I owe so much to many spectacular guests and to you, my dear readers. I need to thank many people for making 2021 great. I hope you all know I appreciate every one of you, from the bottom of my heart.

MJ LaBeff. Chuck Bowie. Steve Chiasson. Sally Cronin. Susan Toy. Marjorie Mallon, Angela Wren. Debby Geis. James Fisher. The Miramichi Reader. Susan Jardine. Stephen Shortall. Leonard Shortall. Bernie & Jacinthe Blanchard. Paul Blanchard. The Seasonal Collective. Lucille Robinson. Andy Gill. Cynthia Murray. John Roberts. Darlene Daigle. Lisa LeBlanc. Mill Cove Coffee. Chapters. Et al.

The next post will be January 1, 2022 and there are exciting changes coming to the Scribbler. A new format, new colors, new (and old favorite) guests. I’ll tell you more then.

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Published on December 25, 2021 06:16

December 18, 2021

December 11, 2021

Returning Award-Winning Author Sonia Saikaley of Ottawa.

Let’s welcome Sonia back. This is her second visit to the Scribbler and she shares exciting news of her current book.

If you missed her interview, please go HERE.

Her novel - The Allspice Bath - was featured on the Scribbler posting of February 2020

Six Great Books - Six Great Authors

From a Talking Crow to a Swooping Eagle: The creation of Samantha’s Sandwich Stand

By Sonia Saikaley

When I was a child, the closest I came to seeing myself in a children’s story was in Peter and the Wolf. Well, sort of. There was Sonia the Duck. Not that I’m a duck even though my contagious laughter could sometimes possibly be mistaken for a quack. Seriously, seeing my name in print made me feel closer to the narrative and when my kindergarten teacher read the story out loud to my class, all the children turned to me and smiled when they heard my name. I was a shy child so being the centre of attention was nerve-wracking but I loved that duck and returned my classmates’ smiles with a big smile of my own.

Growing up in the seventies and eighties, I wasn’t exposed to many books with characters who looked like me. There weren’t children with a Middle Eastern background in the stories I read and, at the time, I didn’t question this but as I got older I wondered why I wasn’t represented in children’s books and when I started getting serious about writing, I decided to create a story about a young Lebanese-Canadian girl. I named her Samantha after one of my nieces.

In my story, the character Samantha is bored and she needs something to do over the summer so like many children she wants to open a lemonade stand. This is what came to me first: lemonade. Then I googled children’s books with lemonade stands and found a huge number of stories featuring this favourite summer activity. This made me think about taking a twist on the lemonade theme so I came up with something from my Lebanese heritage, something I loved to eat on hot summer days and was just as cool and refreshing as lemonade. My mother used to make me homemade labneh(Lebanese cream cheese) and cucumber pita sandwiches and I loved eating those pita wraps. I found them light and refreshing on a humid day and even better, no hot oven or stovetop was required to prepare this meal.

So one day I began writing this story and the title came to me easily: Samantha’s Sandwich Stand. I had Samantha packing shelves and dancing but even those activities didn’t stop her from being bored. I set the story in her father’s grocery store. My own dad had a charming yellow corner store where I’d help him stock the shelves, dust and sweep. I loved spending time in the store but, more importantly, I loved watching my dad interact with his customers. He was personable and joked with them, introducing me as Suzy. It was his nickname for me. The first draft of Samantha’s Sandwich Stand was written in 2001 when my dad was recovering from major surgery. He had been diagnosed with stomach cancer around 2000. Despite his surgery, the cancer returned.

While taking care of my ailing father, I turned to my writing. I wrote a sad and moving book called The Allspice Bath but in between I worked on Samantha’s Sandwich Stand which featured Samantha, her dad and a talking crow who snatches some sandwiches from her stand. He wasn’t a bad crow with evil intentions (although he did steal the sandwiches, he made up for it later by cawing the news about Samantha’s delicious pita wraps). This lively story lightened my heavy heart while I watched my dad fight the cancer living in his body.

When I finished Samantha’s Sandwich Stand, I saw a call for submissions to a Canadian writing contest. I decided to give it a shot and sent off the story for consideration. Although I didn’t win the contest, I made the longlist and received excellent feedback from the generous judges. I took those comments and rewrote the story and sent it off to publishers but it kept getting rejected so I rewrote it again. Instead of having a talking crow, I created a swooping eagle who could symbolize hope because in Samantha’s Sandwich Stand, Samantha gets discouraged because no one comes to her stand and buys her sandwiches. But the eagle was just one part of the story and over the years with my own different life experiences, which included teaching English in Japan, the story expanded and more characters appeared. The only original things that remained were Samantha, her dad, his grocery store and her sandwich stand.

Samantha needed her friends to help. As a result, I developed three friends who shared their own cultural backgrounds so other children could see themselves in the story too. Because I lived in Japan several years ago, I created a character named Naoko after a wonderful friend and teaching colleague who provided guidance and friendship when I needed it the most. It wasn’t easy packing up my life and leaving my family in Ottawa to travel across the world but having people like Naoko around made my Japanese life easier. Naoko even surprised me on my last day in Japan by showing up on my train and guiding me through the busy Tokyo airport so I wouldn’t miss my flight. I will always remember her waving at me and wiping her eyes while I got ready to board my flight. I had grown to love Japan and was grateful to the friends who became family. To thank Naoko, I developed a young girl who plays her taiko drum to help her friend Samantha draw in customers. Then there was another character with a Scottish background, Ethan, and named after a friend’s nephew. I also added Samantha’s caring mom and kept her encouraging dad. Jimmy rounded off Samantha’s friends and I named him after my beloved dad. At this point in my life, my dad had passed on and I wanted a way to have him live forever so I added his name to the story. There was also his yellow grocery store.

I only wished my dad could have lived to see my published books but I like to think that wherever he is, he is smiling and probably pulling some strings for me. Although it took about twenty years from that initial draft for the book to finally enter the world with the help of the amazing people at Renaissance Press and the talented illustrator Nathan Caro Fréchette, I kept on going. I didn’t give up. After every rejection, I got up again and again and kept sending the manuscript out. I failed often but with faith in myself and the encouragement of my family and friends, I remained hopeful that someday Samantha’s Sandwich Standwould see the light of day. And it has. I believe this book about friendship and perseverance will help children shine brighter in whatever dream or goal they may have.

Thank you, Allan, for providing such a great forum for writers to share their ideas and stories. I am so grateful for your support.

***You are most welcome, Sonia. Great guest like you make it all worthwhile.

About the Book:

Samantha is bored. It is summer and her friends are on vacation. When she sees a lemonade stand, she wants to open one but her father convinces her to sell something different: her mother's homemade Lebanese cream cheese and cucumber pita sandwiches. But can she convince others that her sandwich treat is just as refreshing and delicious as lemonade? When her friends return from their holidays and offer to help her, along with a very hungry eagle, will customers finally come and buy her sandwiches? Samantha’s Sandwich Standis an inspiring story about believing in yourself, accepting help from others when something doesn’t succeed at first, and celebrating each other’s differences.

About the Author:

Sonia Saikaley was born and raised in Ottawa, Canada to a big Lebanese family. The daughter of a shopkeeper, she had access to all the treats she wanted. Her first book, The Lebanese Dishwasher, co-won the 2012 Ken Klonsky Novella Contest. She has two poetry collections Turkish Delight, Montreal Winter and A Samurai’s Pink House. Her novel The Allspice Bath was the 2020 IPPY Gold Medal winner and the 2020 International Book Awards winner for Multicultural Fiction and a finalist in the 2020 Ottawa Book Awards. She is a graduate of the University of Ottawa and the Humber School for Writers. Many years ago she belly-danced her way across Northern Japan and taught English there, too. She loves eating labneh and cucumber pita sandwiches on hot summer days.

About the Illustrator:

Nathan Caro Fréchette is a queer transgender sequential artist, publisher, and author. He has published over a dozen short stories, both graphic and prose, as well as five novels, three graphic novels, and two works of nonfiction. He has taught creative writing over a decade, and has a degree in Film Studies and another in Sequential Art. He was the founder and director of the French Canadian literary magazine Histoires à Boire Debout, and an editor for the French Canadian graphic novel publisher Premières Lignes.

Website: https://soniasaikaley.com/

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Published on December 11, 2021 05:09

December 4, 2021

Returning Author Anna Dowdall of Montreal.

The Scribbler is pleased to welcome Anna back. This is her second visit and if you missed her interview, please go HERE.

Ashley’s Sense of Place

Readers and critics rarely fail to comment on the evocative settings in my three Canadian-based crime fiction books. The award-winning writer Melodie Campbell, for example, says of April on Paris Street (Guernica Editions, December 2021), “the real star of this novel is the city of Paris. Anna Dowdall is masterful at using all the senses to put you right on the streets of the City of Lights.“ Just as blushingly, Iona Whishaw says of the book, “the scrumptious mise en scène creates so lush a feel of Montreal and Paris that it is positively edible.” Lay readers are predictably a little less breathless, but one Amazon reader’s comment is typical: “a spectacular setting.”

I hope I haven’t lost you already. Few people read a mystery primarily for its setting. I’m like any other reader who wants engaging characters who draw us in, and plots that carry us forward. And yet, and yet…have you thought about just how subtly significant setting can be, how it invades everything, shapes the destiny of characters, informs their actions, and provides a pervasive point of view on the events taking place that nothing else can?

When, in April on Paris Street, Montreal private eye Ashley Smeeton falls in love with a dodgy character she’s met in The Au Pair (Wild Rose Books, 2018),this is how I describe it: “Two summers ago, apparently, she’d paid a visit to a strange bank in an unfamiliar part of the city, and there made an unremembered and sizeable deposit.”

As part of the crime plot, April on Paris Street takes Ashley deep into the unfamiliar reaches of eastern Montreal as well as through the underbelly of Paris, before all preconceptions including hers collapse. The defamiliarized city, in this way, is educative, both for the reader and for Ashley. You can’t fully get my tale of two cities plot, or the progress of its characters, without understanding this. Montreal and Paris, in their least known, labyrinthine aspects, are the space through which all must move to get to where they are going. And in the case of Ashley in love, for the lightbulb to come on.

For me, setting is an important fiction writer’s tool, to create atmosphere, to shape, constrain and comment on events, and to add dimension to character. In crime fiction in particular, it can be deliciously effective to hint at things, even while the writer must withhold critical elements. Not that my writing is driven by such abstractions. When asked why I invest so heavily in setting, I usually say something like, you can take the girl out of L.M. Montgomery but you can’t take L.M. Montgomery out of the girl. In other words, that’s just the kind of writer I am. I like to create a detailed and atmospheric world, and lose myself in it.

But enough about me and my obsession. Even more readers than comment on the sense of place in my books comment on twenty-something Ashley herself. She’s a mixture of potentially irreconcilable elements, an underdog and a working class heroine. She’s an everywoman to bond with, but whose profoundest feelings are sometimes a little mysterious. Despite or perhaps because of this, readers characterize her as highly likeable, even “utterly winning.” Beginning with my first book, After the Winter (Wild Rose Books, 2017), in which Ashley, a child living in time-warp rural Quebec, appears as an important secondary character, the reader learns about Ashley through her context.

Aged nine, she’s an odd little duck, a loner who already sees the world as a Nancy Drew story. She is half-Abenaki through a dead father; her mother struggles. She is friends with a twelve-year-old, justice-dispensing ghost who haunts a swamp near her home. In The Au Pair, having in the meantime highjacked my authorial purpose and taken over as protagonist, she reappears as an adult private eye living in Montreal. We can see that she’s made something of herself: she’s now the pal of cops, with an intuitive crime radar, awkwardly elegant but still Ashley—one foot in and one foot out of the everyday social world represented by the big city.

In April on Paris Street, finding myself with a part Indigenous character and no longer knowing quite how I should approach this, I took the plunge and had her reconnect with her Abenaki relatives, from whom the Smeetons have been estranged. The subplot links to the novel’s exploration of a world that I characterize as divided, split, fractured—dual in various ways. For Ashley, though, this duality of hers is central. The reader can decide at the end what her reconciliation might mean for her. It’s certainly not something I can pronounce on.

The point I want to make though is that this critical character dimension arises directly out of the historically-inflected space around Ashley, not just the space she’s in but the space from which she came. Now I’m going to mention the Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin, so please forgive me. He coined a term: chronotope. He was looking for a category to described literary space that is fundamentally defined by the instability of time. If you really want to grasp the complicating impact of setting as something more than inert backdrop, think of it as holding just under its surface the restless flow of history. A world—just like the world of crime fiction, in fact!—where narrative sequence is non-linear and where rival truths have a tendency to erupt from the time before and interfere with the present.

Where Ashley is concerned, there are multiple temporal layers to her unique setting. There are the mean streets of two modern cities that conceal and reveal, the precipitating crime being the moment when that clock begins to tick. There’s Ashley’s personal past, her family life, the relatives she knows and those she comes to know. And there’s the compressed historical setting, which is still intensely personal to Ashley’s identity.

Taking this approach to setting, we can therefore think of Ashley and her setting differently. She was born in an imaginary town in the Eastern Townships, and by book three is a well-established resident of Montreal’s Pointe St-Charles. But her personal place, the place that takes form in the books as she moves through them, is about 10,000 years deep.

So there you have it: come for the setting but stay for Ashley. Probably like you, I can only accompany her part way on her journey through her own unique space. But, even where I can’t follow her, I find it’s instructive.

Thank you, Anna, for your guest post. Wishing you continued success.

Please visit Anna’s website - www.annadowdall.com

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Published on December 04, 2021 03:22

November 27, 2021

Guest Author Miranda Oh.

Hello my friends.

Welcome to this week's post where you will meet Miranda Oh. She is sharing the good news of the third installment in her current Chin Up Tits Out series. Some words about herself. Plus, the synopsis and Prologue of Just Breathe.

Read on.

Chin Up Tits Out – Just Breathe

The third installment of the Chin Up Tits Out series reconnects you with Hadley after the devastating disappearance of her husband. Hadley takes you on a wild ride of hitting rock bottom when life throws her a few too many punches in the face, yet she somehow encourages herself to keep pushing forward, even though the next move seems impossible. This twistedly real journey embarks on how to heal and find balance when life is seemingly unfair. Hadley reels you in with humor in her darkest thoughts. It is the end of the fairy tale from a completely different perspective. Hadley embraces her tribe of loved ones, battles with her devious inner voice, drips with sarcasm, but still manages to find hope and exude love.

Book Two in the series.

A WEE BIT OF TELLING ON MYSELF

You know those moments when you tell yourself that you are totally right in your thinking, and you attempt to convince yourself, but really, truly, you know you’re wrong? The first week after Riaan left, no one could convince me that he wasn’t coming back. No one even dared.

Honestly, after he left, no one around me could handle it either, or at least that was the way I perceived it. They took one look at me and started to cry, not believing the fact that Riaan literally walked out after everything that transpired over the last five years. I didn’t believe that he was gone, I didn’t want to. Therefore, in my mind, I was convinced our love would prevail and he would come back somehow, some way.

I knew that I was wrong in believing that, but I couldn’t accept it, otherwise that meant I failed. How do you take marriage vows, until death do you part, fight so hard to be together, and then watch that person walk out willingly? He was still alive—we kept him alive—and I was just supposed to accept these circumstances and stop loving him? I was supposed to stop believing in a future with him? I was just supposed to give up?

My family remained silently supportive, but despite how mad and hurt I knew everyone else was, no one could understand the inner battle of love and hate in that moment more than I did. It was like a kick to the teeth, realizing that love isn’t easy and that you can’t love someone enough to make them happy. Obviously love isn’t enough!

Stupid Disney…I used to believe in fairy tales.

Let me tell you, realizing all this sucked big hairy sweaty balls; at any cost, avoid those.

PROLOGUE

I awoke slowly, struggling to become aware of my surroundings. I forced my eyes open and tried focusing on a small blurry square-shaped hole in the wall as I lay in bed. I blinked a couple more times trying to get my eyes cleared of the haze and blurriness that refused to subside. As I worked to gain visual focus, a sharp pain stabbed at my right temple, causing me to squeeze my eyes shut again.

Take a deep breath, Hadley.

I inhaled deeply until my lungs were filled to capacity, the way they teach in yoga class. On my exhale I opened my eyes once again to the hole, the pain in my right temple refusing to subside. This time, the pain made my stomach spiral as bile crawled up my throat. Afraid of throwing up in bed, I shot up into a sitting position.

Holy crap, Hadley…what have you done?

My head felt like someone had a jackhammer on my temple, my stomach was turning, and I once again tried to lock my gaze on that hole in the wall. I tried to focus, but a migraine had taken away my clear vision again. I reached for the wall to make sure it was real; feeling the hole with the tips of my fingers, I forced myself to focus. It was square(ish) in shape…OMG, it was a hole from a stiletto heel, but not mine. I looked down to my left and saw a sleek, muscled naked body passed out next to me. The stark contrast of my pasty white skin next to all this black muscle jolted me back to my reality.

Well, I guess I could cross that off my to-do list. My therapist kept telling me that at some point, I would be intimate with another man. I didn’t think it would ever happen, at least not like this, as the thought of being intimate with someone other than my husband was still raw and hurt to think about. Actually, come to think of it, what did I expect? Prince Charming on a strapping stallion carrying me off to a bed full of rose petals, romance, and chocolate-covered strawberries with champagne? I used to believe in fairy tales… WTF, guess I’m going to have to look to Disney for other wisdom. How on earth did I ever get to such a horrible place in life?

The pain in my head was agonizing—imagine an ice pick slowly slicing deep into your temple, and then as a sick joke, being pulled back out and then pushed back in over and over again. The pain was stifling and made it hard to breathe. All I wanted to do was climb over this unconscious body, find a bathroom, and vomit without humiliating myself any further.

I struggled to maneuver and find a way to get up, attempting to very gently step over all the sleek muscle of my date from the night before. He slid his leg out to the side just as I made my tentative step over him, and I successfully planted my foot on his junk.

Yup, his junk. As if this couldn’t get any more awkward… Seriously, you just had to move. I land right on it, the ONE place I shouldn’t step. Honestly, I think this is the cosmic universe’s way of punishing me. Hadley, get yo’ act together!

My date jumped up howling in pain—all that muscle and he screamed like a girl, go figure. It was high-pitched and painful to my ears, and especially to my poor sensitive head. I really couldn’t do much but hop down, gag once or twice, then full-on dry heave, as I ran out of the room hoping to find a bathroom nearby.

Seriously, they never talk about this stuff in fairy tales. Well that wasn’t remotely graceful… I’m sure I will think this is hilarious at some point in my life…just not now.

Once I finished hurling my guts out, I rinsed my mouth and ran my fingers through last night’s hairstyle in an attempt to make myself look less psychotic. As if that was even possible.

With my head still aching, I look up at myself in the mirror…CUTO (chin up, tits out), Hadley, just go in, collect your shit, and find a way out of here. ASAP! Be kind, smile, and find an excuse to GTFO (get the fuck out).

I cleaned up the bathroom a bit, took a deep breath to help compose myself, and walked back to the room with a new-found grace that sure as hell wasn’t there a couple minutes ago. There he was with all his muscles, bright-eyed, big smile, a genuinely kind human. He looked completely oblivious to my inner struggle.

Which I managed to keep on the DL the entire time. Self-high-five moment!

This was a bittersweet moment. It was an amazing feeling to see him look at me like he truly cared and was happy to see me, despite the “junk” incident five minutes prior. Unfortunately, the moment was fleeting; all of a sudden I felt like my mind was hovering above my body and staring down. It was like being in a bad sci-fi movie, except it had become my reality. I felt completely disconnected from him, from my body, and from my mind. Try as I may, I could no longer bring the two separate entities that I had become together. If I couldn’t connect myself and feel whole, how the hell could I connect with someone who was kind and gentle but had instantly become a complete stranger?

Imagine a big hole inside your chest. No feelings, just a vast empty hole devoid of emotion. Like seeing the world with no color, taste, or smell. Everything you thought you knew ceases to exist the way you remember it. You don’t know why, but somehow you no longer belong anywhere.

“Hey! Sorry about earlier, you know those morning pees. Sometimes you wake up and just need to go!” I giggled shamelessly, trying not to blush too much, praying to all the higher powers that he didn’t hear my retching and mini meltdown in the bathroom.

“No biggie, it happens, we just moved at the wrong time. I do know how you can make it up to me though,” he said, biting his bottom lip and reaching for my hips while still in bed.

Instantaneously fear gripped me and I pulled back and met his grabby hands with mine, squeezing them tight. “Sorry, I have to get going. I promised my cousin I would go to yoga with her this morning, and I completely forgot until I woke up. I mean, I didn’t expect to end up here last night.” At this point I was blushing, which I’m sure he found flattering. I had for sure turned redder than the life-size Manchester United flag pinned up to the wall behind me.

He politely smiled, pulled himself up, leaned in for a kiss, and nodded in agreement. “Did you need a ride somewhere?”

I smiled and nodded, finally feeling a bit of relief at the thought of escaping, the most relief I felt since I opened my eyes that morning.

“Alright, I’ll let you make it up to me another day then.” He rolled out of bed, squeezed my bum cheek, bit his lip, shook his head, then walked off to get his things.

I remember when Riaan was like that with me. He would look at me with so much love that I could not help feeling adored. Having Riaan by my side gave me fearless confidence. It was a strange feeling to have another man appreciate the naturalness of my body. It was also weird as shit to have a man I didn’t really know look at my body like that in general. Goddamn, so conflicting!

We gathered our things, and I texted my cousin Amanda to explain the situation and tell her I was getting dropped off at her house and we could still go to yoga. I also told her I needed a water bottle, yoga clothing, and the strongest pain meds she had in her cupboard. I hadn’t brought my migraine medication and was desperate for anything to help subside this throbbing pain in my head. Migraines have plagued my life lately, but as bat-shit crazyas this sounds, I couldn’t help feeling like it was some form of punishment.

Amanda, being the amazing woman she is, met us at the door of her condo with all the yoga stuff requested in tow. God, I love this woman.

My date winked at me, leaned in, and kissed me goodbye.

“Goodbye, Hadley, I had a really amazing night. Let me know when I can see you again, okay?” He smiled big with his eyes while smirking slightly.

As kind, gentle, and amazingly sexy as you are…hell no, this ain’t happening again! Hadley, you are not a masochist! Ha, um, nope. But thanks!

I smiled wide, closed my eyes, and nodded extensively, until he pulled my face in again for one last kiss. What. The. Hell.

His sweet sincerity was like a double-edged sword. I should have been flattered, yet this only caused me physical pain and anxiety, as I truly could not understand how someone could want to be with me. So I again closed off my heart to prevent any more pain.

Yes, pain is what happens when you love...

Book One

*For more of Hadley’s adventure visit: www.mirandaoh.com

Thank you, Miranda, for being our guest this week. Wishing you continued success with your writing.

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Published on November 27, 2021 03:41

November 22, 2021

A Short Story from A Box of Memories.

Welcome to the November 22nd edition of the Scribbler.

This week, you can read the first story from the best-selling collection of shorts.

A Box of Memories.

More information HERE.

Reaching the Pinnacle

Jeb Davis is almost out of breath. The last half a kilometer up the mountain had been at a twenty-five degree angle. And it was starting to get steeper. Mount Carleton in northern New Brunswick is not for cream puffs. He stops where the trail evens out for a meter or so near the exposed root of an enormous birch tree that has to be as old as his great grandparents would be if they were still alive. The bark on top of the root is rubbed away from countless soles. With one hand on the trunk, he stoops over to catch his breath. He adjusts his backpack with his other hand, hefting it a bit higher, and looks up the trail to check on his granddaughter. Thirty meters farther up, she is going full steam. He chuckles. It has always been so. Mindy Kane does everything at full throttle.

She doesn’t know he’s not behind her and she’s still talking. He can’t make out what she’s saying, but her voice comes back to him like vapor through the trees, a rhythm that’s part of the forest. A chorus of black-capped chickadees with their two-note song provides a natural harmony. Breathing deeply, he inhales the scent of damp, dying leaves that only autumn can bring and watches her as she hikes under yet another huge birch tree with a canopy of crooked limbs. Yellow and lime-colored leaves cling to more than half the outstretched arms. The stream of early morning light passes through the half-naked limbs, dappling her lithesome body and bulky pack. She must’ve asked a question and realized something wasn’t right when silence ensued. She stops and looks back. Jeb can see the teasing twinkle in her eyes even from this distance. She yells out, “Whatsa matter, old-timer? Can’t hack it anymore?”

He’s smiling when he scolds her.

“Watch your mouth, young lady. Respect your elders. Listen, Mindy, you said breaks every thirty minutes. We’ve been chugging up this ruddy hill for almost…”

Standing upright, he checks his watch.

“…forty-five minutes. Now get down here and give your Gramps a break.”

He looks around and sees another root growing out from the other side of the tree. It forms a knuckle about a meter and a half across, perfect for two regular sized bums. The ground is littered with fallen leaves – creating yellow and orange flooring. The sun shatters when it hits the tree, creating an inviting tumult of rays and shadows. He has to climb a small embankment about hip high, made of hard-packed dirt and smaller roots. When he finally plops on the exposed wood, he wiggles out of his pack.

Mindy drops hers, pulls a chrome water bottle out of a side pocket and jogs back down the hill. Scooting up the lip in a skip and a jump, she rounds the tree and spies the makeshift seat.

“Shuffle over there a bit, Grampy.”

Before he can reply she offers him the water.

“Ah thanks, Mindy, my mouth is as dry as the bark on one of these trees.”

Sitting, their sides touching, she leans into him as he takes a long swig.

“I’m glad you decided to do this, Gramps.”

Wiping dripping water from his chin with his forearm, he switches the bottle from his right to his left hand and gives his granddaughter a sideways hug.

“I’m so pleased you asked. It’s been a long time since just the two of us have been on an overnighter. What…maybe seven or eight years? You were at university.”

Jeb drops his arm to sit forward. He sets the water bottle on the ground, leaning against the root. Mindy huddles forward, placing her elbows on her knees. Her head is in a narrow ray of sun and she appears golden.

“Wow, I can’t believe it’s been that long. That was when we went to Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland. That was an awesome trip.”

With her chin in her hand, she turns her head toward Jeb, her wide smile radiates happiness. Jeb is sitting similarly, elbows on his knees. They’re about the same height, so they’re eye to eye. Jeb melts under her stare; she’s looked at him that way since she was a baby. He knows her. Fine lines crinkle his temple when he scrunches his brow.

“You’re up to something, aren’t you, Mindy?”

She frowns back.

“Of course! But you have to wait until I’m ready to tell you.”

Jeb is ready to offer a guess when she cuts him off.

“Don’t even try to guess or I won’t tell you at all.”

He stares at the ground, defeated.

“Okay.”

Changing the subject as he offers her the water, he says, “So, what do you think? Another hour to the top, right around noon? We’ve been at this for almost three hours now, and it usually takes an old duff like me about four or five, but you… you’re almost running uphill.”

They both laugh at his worn-out joke. He can see she’s raring to go. He’s amazed at her stamina – always has been – but as a police officer, she has to remain fit. He deems himself in damn fine condition for his seventy-one years, but he’s no fool and knows he can’t keep up.

“You take off, Mindy. Do the home stretch like you enjoy. I’ll meet you at the campsite. After we’re set up and eat, we can do the last half a kilo to the top. I think the old forest ranger’s station is still there.”

She jumps up, brushes a couple of vagrant leaves from her behind.

“Okay. You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I haven’t minded before. I’m good. I might stop once in a while to admire the splendor and beauty of our natural surroundings.”

She nods at his formal delivery, knowing she’s just been told that he’ll be taking his good old time. Ever since he’d seen The Lord of the Rings, he was always quoting Gandalf about how he “means to arrive when he should.” She, on the other hand, thrives on pushing herself. The solitude of the forested hillside absorbs her stress and she forgets about upholding the law. Truthfully, she doesn’t like putting the tent up with Jeb; he’s too slow. She can have it up in ten minutes on her own, whereas with him “helping” it usually takes a half hour.

“Yeah, you do that, Gramps. Watch out for killer squirrels!”

“Oh! And I have something to tell you, too! But…!”

He wags his finger at her, reminding her she knows the rest.

“You crafty old dog!”

“Don’t call me an old dog. Now get outta here.”

He turns back to the leaf-covered vista before him, where he sees the downward slope of the terrain through the thinly scattered trees. The brush is kept trimmed on each side of a narrow brook that flows on the other side of the trail. The path follows the rill for another fifty meters before it twists northeast on its way to the pinnacle. He pushes his pack out of the way, rises and turns on his seat so he can watch her go uphill. She’s already halfway to the large tree where she left her pack, at a serious strut. The way she carries herself reminds Jeb of her father; she has the same physique. Of course, that vision is from when he was younger; they haven’t seen him for twenty-five years. The lovely oval face and cinnamon-colored eyes that can be so intense are from her mother, Heather – Jeb’s daughter. The determination and grit are her own. Watching her shoulder her pack and latch the loose nylon straps, he can only think how proud he is of her.

Jeb’s mind drifts as he stands to shoulder his own pack. Thoughts of Mindy’s father trouble him even with the passing of time. He wonders where he is. The family hasn’t heard from him for such a long time. Couldn’t stay off the bottle; probably drank himself to death. As Jeb climbs down the short bank to head up the trail, he can still remember the last time he saw him.

Norton Kane was a self-employed carpenter, living in a rooming house down in the east end of Moncton. He’d work for seven or eight days and go on a bender for two or three. A highly skilled craftsman when he was sober, he was always in demand. All he owned was an old Ford truck, his tools and enough clothes to fill a medium-sized suitcase. A year earlier, Jeb’s daughter had had enough. Caring for two boys, aged six and five, and Mindy, only two, she had thrown him out for good.

Norton had stopped at Jeb’s place early one morning, a Saturday that was gray with an overcast sky. The first day of spring didn’t bode well. Norton’s knock on the door woke Jeb up. Opening the back door to admit his son-in-law, he had to step back from the reek of cheap booze. His hair and clothing were disheveled, his manner pleading and his swollen eyes filled with despair. He needed two hundred dollars. He was starting a new project on Monday, a set of stairs in a new house by the golf course, he’d pay Jeb back next week. Jeb knew he’d never see the money again, but he didn’t dislike Norton, who had started out an honorable young man. He gave him one hundred dollars and wished him an abrupt goodbye. Norton didn’t even say thanks.

Two days later, Heather got a call from an angry homeowner demanding to know where his carpenter was. The gentleman had arrived at his house late afternoon to find the work site empty. Norton’s truck was parked in the driveway, rear hatch and driver’s door open. Tools were set up in the garage, with the wide doors rolled up. Sawdust and building materials were lying about. The door to the house was open but Norton was nowhere to be found.

No one ever saw him again.

Jeb begins to speculate anew what might’ve happened to Norton when the skitter of a squirrel overhead disrupts his thoughts. He stops to look up. Standing under a large maple tree that has already shed its reddish leaves, with only a few here and there reluctant to let go, he finds it easy to watch the clever brown acrobat dart from limb to limb, chattering. Jeb soon loses sight of the critter when it darts up the trunk of a neighboring spruce tree. Turning his gaze uphill, he contemplates the sharp rise. He tugs on the straps of his pack, tightening them across his chest. Sniffing the cool air, so clear he can smell the trees, he pauses a few moments longer. Pleased with his situation, he heads out to rendezvous with his granddaughter.

Photo by Ramon Arizmendi

***

Eight hours later, Mindy and Jeb are sitting on a fallen log three meters from their tent complaining about their overworked muscles. Jeb is reminded of some he hasn’t used in years. A large fire crackles in front of them in a makeshift pit they made with odd-sized rocks. The surrounding trees provided the wood. A slight breeze from the north moves the sharp smoke away from them. The pleasing aroma of burning pine is therapeutic. The clear sky is black with a million pinpricks of light. It’s down to twelve degrees and both have donned heavy fleeces. The flames flicker in the dark, throwing off a welcome heat. Mindy uses a long slender sapling as a poker to prod the wood into flames. They talk about their day in gleeful rapport.

- How Jeb had bragged about his famous salami and Gouda sandwiches, which he’d made for their lunch, only to discover he’d forgotten to pack them. They’d had dry gorp and granola bars instead.

- Their astonishment when they had climbed above the tree line – nothing but gray, cracked stone the last two hundred meters – and discovered the whole valley and sister mountains to the south were visible. They both loved the sensation of height and had remained silent for many moments.

- The abandoned Ranger’s station at the very top of the mountain – a four-by-four square meter structure with a double-hip roof. Guy wires of thick twisted steel braced all four corners to solid rock. The fierce winds that streamed across the mountaintop at times would otherwise carry it away. Jeb scolding Mindy for trying to climb the structure with her exclaiming that the apex of the roof was actually the highest point in New Brunswick.

- The kettle of bald eagles that coiled about the sky on hidden thermals – updrafts created by the mountainsides – and how majestically they had soared. They had left Mindy wishing she could fly.

- The vivid orange and ovoid globes dotted with yellow patches: amanita flavocona – a poisonous mushroom they had found attached to red spruce the species favored at high elevations. Jeb showing off, telling Mindy the common name was “yellow warts.” Ugh! was Mindy’s response.

They shift into silent spheres on occasion, one pondering what the other has said. Jeb asks about her boyfriend. Is he taking the job out west? Is that what she wanted to tell him? No answer! So he talks about her experience testifying at court as a member of the RCMP’s Firearms and Tool Mark Identification Section. Her knowledge of firearms is extensive.

Jeb tells her how many of his acquaintances passed away in the last year. They argue about which team will win this year’s Stanley Cup. Even though they haven’t won a championship in her lifetime, she refuses to turn her back on the Maple Leafs. They touch briefly on the dead body she found last year. She chatted about the new Glock 19 Gen 4 handgun she purchased. Jeb told her about the marvelous young woman of sixty-eight he had met at dance classes, and asks if Mindy minds?

They both stare at the flames and become quiet. Jeb has a closed mouth smile; Mindy has a smooth brow and glad eyes. Yet they look uncannily alike.

Jeb’s stomach rumbles and he breaks from his trance.

“Time to eat, my dear. Open the wine if you don’t mind.”

He jumps up, hastens to his pack just inside the unzipped tent and removes two heavy tin foil plates – like supermarkets sell their pies in – each wrapped in a thin thermal towel. Mindy already has the wine, plastic glasses – his neon green, her’s bright pink – and the cork screw. She had taken them out when she’d unpacked her sleeping bag before dinner. With a practiced hand, she slits away the top foil, twists in the corkscrew and opens up the grape.

The coals are pushed into a heap, with two pockets shaped on top, into which the heavy tin plates fit. The coals glow with heat, manifested by pink, white and red flares. A lick of blue flame erupts around the edges, where the heat finds something solid. Jeb puts on his hiking gloves to place the plates on the fire and the heat singes the loose threads on the end. The burnt nylon stinks.

Once the homemade roasters are sizzling, with aromatic juices of garlic and butter scenting the air, Mindy says, “Oh, Gramps, those smell good. How long?”

“Probably twenty minutes. Why?”

Jeb can see her smile in the light of the flames. It couldn’t be any bigger

“I want to tell you my surprise now.”

Jeb is jubilant. He’s been thinking of every possible scenario since she informed him she wanted to tell him something earlier.

“Excellent.”

He grabs his neon green wine glass and tips it toward the wine, noticing she brought a bottle of Jacob’s Creek Select, one of his favorites.

“Good choice, young lady.”

“Yeah, I know how much you like it.”

“Must be something special.”

“Definitely.”

After filling their wineglasses, she touches the edge of her glass to his. Mimicking fine lead crystal, she chants, “Pa-tinnnnnng. Here’s to the best Grampy ever.”

Jeb blushes and clears his throat, soaking up the comfortable vibes.

“To my favorite granddaughter.”

“Hah! I’m your only granddaughter.”

“Okay then, my favorite grandchild… and don’t tell the boys I said that. I love your brothers just as much.”

Mindy winks at him and takes a sip of wine. The firelight makes the blonde highlights stand out in her short curly hair. He has a hard time seeing her as a cop.

“Well?”

Mindy balances her glass on the log beside her and reaches into her jeans pocket to withdraw a small bag the size of a book of matches. She holds it up so he can see it. It’s too dark to see it’s made of gray velvet and silk tassels as she tugs the puckered opening apart. Reaching in with two fingers, she withdraws an original Vera Wang engagement ring. The one-carat marquis diamond encased in an ornate band sparkles in the glow of the fire. She slips it on her left ring finger.

“Darrick asked me to marry him.”

Jeb can see how happy she is. He can read it in her eyes, the way they widen in delight. Jeb’s good with this turn of events. After all, Darrick’s a solid man who dotes on his granddaughter.

“And you said yes, of course.”

She happily nods her head while concentrating on her ring for a moment, the facets teasing her eyes when she turns her hand toward the firelight.

“That’s wonderful news, Mindy. I’m so happy for you. Congratulations!”

‘Thank you, Grampy”

They both stand to hug. Mindy gives him a loving squeeze. By Jeb’s reaction, she knows she’s made the right decision. He backs off and holds her at arm’s-length.

“What did your mother say?”

“I haven’t told her yet. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Me?”

Mindy is shy now and breaks away from her grandfather. Pointing at the roasters, she says, “I think those might be done now.”

Jeb turns to eye the sizzling platters, steam escaping from the holes he made in the tin foil with a fork.

“A little more will be okay; I cut those potatoes kind of thick. So, you didn’t plan this trip just to tell me that did you?”

“No, there’s more. C’mon, sit down again.”

She rests upon the dead tree and when Jeb sits beside her, she holds his arm close to her and leans her head on his shoulder.

“I want you to walk me down the aisle.”

Jeb stares at the embers as she tells him. His elation is complete, a pulsing sensation of love and happiness. The coals turn all bleary as he tries not to blink. His reaction confuses Mindy and she asks gently, “Well?”

Jeb can’t talk, scared he will blubber. He offers her a gentle wave, asking her for a moment. She leans forward and sees the gleam in his eyes. She knows he will say yes.

The glowing embers and tin plates fade away. In their place a little girl walks from the living room and approaches him in the kitchen. Jeb is standing with his back against the cupboard, arms crossed as he munches on an apple. Mindy stops three or four steps away. He stops chewing and looks down. She’s almost eighteen months old and only thirty-one inches tall. The face that looks up at him is a perfect oval, the eyes uncertain. Jeb can’t think of anything dearer. After a few seconds she blurts, “Panky!”

That was the first time she tried to say his name. The boys called him Gampy then because they couldn’t pronounce Grampy and that was the closest she could get. Jeb glowed with adoration, thinking nothing could make him happier.

Until the same little girl grew up.

Jeb untangles his arm and hugs her close.

“Thank you for this, Mindy. I guess I’m just about the happiest Grampy in the world right now. So… when’s the wedding?”

She replies nonchalantly, “In four weeks.”

Thank you for visiting the Scribbler. Do you have a favorite short story you would like to tell my readers about? Please leave a comment.

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Published on November 22, 2021 04:51

November 14, 2021

Six Great Books – Recommendations from the Scribbler.

Welcome to this weeks post - Book recommendations.

But first.........

Before we get start, I just want to say….

Thank you!

Thanks to all you fantastic visitors and readers for supporting the Scribbler – You’re the reason we exist.

I check my stats regularly and on average I have between 170-200 page views per day. Do they all stay for a while and read everything? Probably not.

Some come here via Google or Bing search and discovered it wasn’t what they were looking for and then there is – YOU.

You came here by accident and decided to stay or you came here intentionally. So Thank You, once more.

Here are six books I’ve had the pleasure of reading and enjoyed tremendously.

1. Amid the Splintered Trees by Heather McBriarity.

I had the opportunity to read this novel in its early development and I was wowed by the story. It was recently launched on November 6th. This is a terrific novel by a New Brunswick author. A great follow up to McBriarity’s debut non-fiction novel – Somewhere in Flanders: Letters from the Front. Read Heather’s interview on the Scribbler HERE.Review by Darrell Duthie, author of the Malcolm MacPhail series: From the author of Somewhere in Flanders comes a novel of love and loss during the First World War. "Dazzling in its historical details, and written with a spare beauty, "Amid the Splintered Trees" brings to life the First World War and the impossible romance of a young man and a young woman caught up in it."

From Goodreads: August 1914 - Emma has dreamed of becoming a doctor all her life, not an easy task for a woman. Will wants Emma as his wife, but she is worth waiting for. They both imagine a life together, a family, and a future of happiness - someday.

But suddenly, the conflict in Europe erupts into war, and they are asked to sacrifice everything. Nothing could have prepared Will for the death and devastation he faces in the muddy trenches of the Western Front. As his losses mount, he struggles to remain the man Emma knows and loves. Emma is forced to tackle her own obstacles as a woman in a man’s world of medicine, alone, without his support. From her patients to her classmates, it seems no one truly believes her capable. Just when she thinks things cannot get worse, a devastating explosion levels her city, and Emma is called to her own front line.

From the blood-soaked ground of Ypres, the Somme, and Vimy to the 1917 Halifax explosion, each of them are tested in ways they never could have imagined. Wounded in body and soul, can they find a way back to each other or will their future be destroyed by the Great War?

From the author of Somewhere in Flanders: Letters from the Front comes a sweeping novel of love, loss, and redemption during the First World War.

Buy it HERE.

2. April on Paris Street by Anna Dowdall.

This novel is getting a lot of attention and rightly so. It’s an enjoyable read. Dowdall, a Canadian author from Montreal, is a storyteller you’ll want to add to tour book reading list. Anna has been a guest on the Scribbler – read her interview HERE. She’ll be back on December 4th.

Review by Author Denis Coupal: Author Anna Dowdall gives us a rollicking, cross-genre mystery, featuring smart and irreverent Private Investigator Ashley Smeeton, as she unwinds a bird’s nest of a case. Bubbling with quirky, funny and dangerous characters, April on Paris Street is Sex-in-the-City and Murder-She-Wrote in Paris and Montreal’s Pointe-Sainte-Charles.

From Goodreads: 49th Shelf Fall 2021 Top Ten Recommended Mystery. Your basic damsel-in-distress gig sounds perfect to private investigator Ashley Smeeton, who’s got her own personal and professional struggles in Montreal. Against the backdrop of winter Carnaval, the job first takes her to Paris where she’s drawn into an unsettling world of mirages and masks, not to mention the murderous Bortnik brothers. When she returns to Montreal, a city rife with its own unreasonable facsimiles, the case incomprehensibly picks up again. Convinced she’s being played, Ashley embarks on an even more dangerous journey into duplicity. In a world of masks behind masks, it’s hard to say where the truth lies.

Buy it HERE.

3. Death Between the Tables by Alexa Bowie.

This is Book Two in the Old Manse Mysteries by noted New Brunswick storyteller Chuck Bowie, under the pseudonym Alexa Bowie. This is Chuck’s successful venture into cozy mysteries. Like the first one, it is an entertaining story and you won’t be disappointed. Chuck has been one of our most popular guests. See one of his posts HERE

From Amazon: Book 2 in the Old Manse Mysteries cozy series. Emma Andrews, newly returned from Toronto to her small childhood town, has confirmed her ownership of a Victorian-era Manse, newly converted to an arts and culture center. While hosting a house warming for the town's dignitaries, police and fire station teams, the entire group witnesses a woman dying by poison. Or did she? Of course Emma is viewed by the police with suspicion, but the Creatives at her center: the artists, musicians and chefs all vow to keep her out of jail, or keep her well fed in her cell, at the least. But Emma, with her best friend and aunt-namesake, will get to the bottom of things, no matter what the risk.

Buy it HERE.

4. The Sister’s Tale by Beth Powning.

Powning is one of New Brunswick’s preeminent authors. Her stories are captivating and highly entertaining. I discovered Powning’s writing when I delved into The Sea Captain’s Wife – a spellbinding novel. She carries on the tradition of historical fiction with A Sister’s Tale. You WILL NOT be disappointed. The Scribbler has been most fortunate to have Beth as a guest. read her interview HERE

Review by Genevieve Graham: “The Sister’s Tale” is an impeccably written, mesmerizing tale of loss and betrayal, and of the strength required not only to find hope amid the ashes, but to rise from them. Using pain-staking and what must have been heartbreaking research, Beth Powning’s lyrical style both soothes and disturbs. I found it very difficult to put the book down. Highly recommend!

From Goodreads: With murder dominating the news, the respected wife of a New Brunswick sea captain is drawn into the case of a British home child whose bad luck has turned worse. Mortified that she must purchase the girl in a pauper auction to save her from the lechery of wealthy townsmen, Josephine Galloway finds herself suddenly the proprietor of a boarding house kept afloat by the sweat and tears of a curious and not completely compatible collection of women, including this English teenager, Flora Salford. Flora's place in her new family cannot be complete until she rescues the missing person in her life, the only one who understands the trials she has come through and fresh horrors met since they were separated years before.

Reconnecting with characters of Beth Powning's beloved The Sea Captain's Wife, The Sister's Tale is a story of women finding their way, together, through terrible circumstances they could neither predict nor avoid, but will stop at nothing to overcome.

Buy it HERE.

5. Autumn Paths – An Anthology by Nine Authors.

This has been a wonderful project by a collection of storytellers who are united through the love of writing, with an introduction by James Fisher of The Miramichi Reader. Following the same them of Autumn Paths, each story is unique in its telling and the response has been fantastic. Read the Scribbler post HERE.

Review by Author MJ LaBeff: The short stories in this collection are a mix of genres, including mystery, romance, historical, sci-fi, and adventure. They share a common theme regarding life’s paths either taken or to be taken. Don’t let the turns Autumn Paths mislead you! These snappy, well-written tales are sure to delight no matter the season.

From Goodreads: Nine writers from both sides of the Atlantic, including best-selling and award-winning authors, have created this miscellany of stories.
These tales of family, mystery, intrigue, adventure, and suspense will take you across continents, through time and space in this world and others. With a linking theme of autumn, discover new landscapes, encounter new and intriguing characters, uncover secrets and lies, and witness the resolution of old enmities.
Take the first step on this roller-coaster of an emotional journey, and you won't be disappointed.

Buy it HERE.

6. On Being Welsh by Roger Moore.

An award winning novel by a distinguished award winning New Brunswick author. I truly enjoyed this and if you haven’t read Moore’s stories or poetry, this is a good place to start. Roger has been a welcomed guest on the Scribbler several times. See his interview HERE
Review by LB Sedlacek: Stories that seem true or maybe even memoir make up this winsome and often dark turn of tales in this new offering by Moore. Each story contains stories within the story. They start off in one direction, but you won’t be far into it before it turns in a completely different way. These stories take detours. These stories take moments and turn them into heartbreak and shocking discoveries.
Moore’s writing style is tough, tense, but welcoming. His approach is straightforward leading you right into what he wants to say. These stories go right to the edge, facing each character head on.
You can savor each story in separate readings or all in one sitting. They are brilliant and taut, nicely executed. Moore blends well-directed plots into multi-layered stories. His book offers insights into the trials, pain, and often what seems to be an incomprehensible family history.

From Amazon: No doubt, here in these poems we are impressed by the ease and strength of the rhythm. Several of these poems show the passionate flight of profound imagination. The poems have poignant force of true feeling. All poems are irresistibly powerful.

Buy it HERE.

Thanks for visiting today. What's your all-time favorite book? What would you recommend to our readers? Who's your favorite author?

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Published on November 14, 2021 02:04

November 7, 2021

Reflections.

What a year it has been!

I should say, the last 20 months have been… weird? Maybe not weird but certainly different.

Who could’ve foretold the changes we experienced? Covid-19. Isolation. Separation. Sick people everywhere – literally everywhere – all over the world.

One can only hope it is almost over, normalcy is just over the next hill. Is it possible?

Looking back at March 2020, I finished working on March 7th. Along with Covid came retirement. Not all bad, at least for me.

Being home everyday had its good points. Lingering over coffee with my wife, Gloria, watching the sunrise. Usually experienced only on weekends but suddenly it was every day. Ok, another good thing.

Gas prices dropped to the lowest prices in memory. It was good, but people weren’t going anywhere.

Then the housing market boomed. Eager buyers, low interest rates (another plus), not enough houses for sales. We (Gloria & I) had discussed selling our home and moving to the city. We made a decision to sell in the new year – 2021. We have a lot of personal reasons for moving, for giving up our terrific view of Cocagne Bay, our comfy home.

Gloria and I decided to take advantage of the market and listed our house on July, 2021. It sold at the end of September and now we have 9 more days to get out.

Are we happy? You bet! A new adventure.

Everything fell in place for us. We found a perfect new place to live. Now we are up to our ears in boxes, moving day is only 5 days away.

But it’s an emotional experience. What to keep, what to sell, what to donate to the Thrift shops? It is not easy to say goodbye to many of the things we’ve accumulated but it is getting done. Now they are only memories.

Memories. We have so many to take with us…. The grandkids growing up here in the country, sleeping over, going to the beach up the road, is likely the most significant.

And the best for me is so much time to write. A quiet writing spot. Since March 2020, I’ve completed and launched the third Drake Alexander novel. See Here

Autumn Paths.

I have been fortunate to work with eight authors I respect. I'm proud and humbled to be included in this anthology. Nine authors, nine stories. One theme.

See Here.

I have the first draft of the next Jo Naylor Adventure completed – Shattered Dreams. Jo Naylor is running from the law back in Canada. Her next adventure takes her to Paris, France where she’s always wanted to visit. But Jo being Jo, she can’t help but find trouble, nor can she neglect it. Remember – she was once a cop, a good cop. Maybe this time she has stuck her nose where it shouldn’t be? Maybe this time she finds love and understanding.

Hoping for publication early in the new year.

I have completed the third draft of my novella – Father. A story based on real events but told in a fictional account. In 1941, with the war raging in Europe, Tanner Hill is enjoying life. His extracurricular activities as a moonshiner will suddenly come to an end. He joins the army to avoid prison and serves three years in Sicily and Italy. When the war ends, he returns home. But nothing is the same. I hope to have this published in eBook format only by the end of the month.

I have completed the first draft of a new action novel with the working title of Scoudouc. It takes place during World War 2 at the Royal Air Force Station Scoudouc, New Brunswick. There are secrets at the station, secrets which can aid the allies in the war. A headless body is discovered on Air Force property and to keep everything hush-hush, the commander of the station calls in Warrant Officer Stefan Kravchenko – a former cop from Winnipeg. He has three days to solve the crime. It's not going to happen.

I have completed one half of The Alexanders Volume 2. 1921 – 1930. I hope to finish this coming winter for publication in 2022.

So not a bad twenty months. We've been lucky. It’s been good for me, good for us. I only wish the same for everyone when we look back at these weird times.

How about you? How has the last twenty months affected you and your family?

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Published on November 07, 2021 01:30

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