Allan Hudson's Blog, page 22
October 30, 2021
Author Jennifer Ann Gordon of New Hampshire.
Please welcome Author Jennifer Ann Gordon to the Scribbler.
Follow her guest post to discover her bio, her links and all good things about her writing.
Bittersweet Autumn Thoughts
I get sentimental during the autumn, not sure if it’s remnants of hopeful back to school wishes—the hope that this year will be different than the last one. Or perhaps it is seasonal depression creeping its way in with the shortened days and the cold frost covered mornings.
I love Halloween. I have as long as I can remember. I remember seeing myself dressed in one of those close-to-toxic plastic Halloween costumes that made the inside of my nose itch and burn with each stifling breath. I think I was supposed to be Aurora, but the photos from this time give off more of a bad seed or serial killer vibe. I remember my skin getting wet and clammy under that mask, smelling my own candy-coated breath as I snuck Sweet Tarts and Tootsie Rolls from my Halloween bag—my fingers would make the outside of my mask sticky with sweet grime.
I remember graduating from plastic costumes into real costumes. Made up of hand me down clothes and a red yarn wig for a Raggedy Anne costume. I remember the disappointment on my father’s face when he realized I wouldn’t be dressing as Raggedy Andy. I never could be the tomboy he wished me to. Not even for Halloween.
As some kind of halfhearted attempt to make him happy, I carried the Raggedy Andy doll he had given me for my birthday. My raggedy imaginary twin brother.
My sticky candy hands dropped that doll in a puddle filled with moldering fall leaves and by the time I got home it smelled terrible. I decided to play with the doll from now on outside. Raggedy Andy could live on our porch or in the garage as if he were a feral cat.
On a day not long after Halloween, Sandy, the neighbor’s boisterous golden retriever bounded into our yard and snatched it out of the makeshift swing I had tied to pine tree branch.
Part of me was relieved, that I wouldn’t have to play with this moldy boy doll.
My father looked at me with disappointment again when I told him of the great Raggedy Andy doll-napping of the neighborhood. I was always prone to crying, and there were no tears when I told him about what happened. Just wide eyes that silently begged for a new doll, this one Raggedy Anne.
I think of that doll now, now that it is fall and sometimes, I swear I can almost smell it’s muddy damp body. I miss it.
I miss everything this time of year.
Now when I think of that doll I cry.
***
My grandmother on my father’s side, Grandma Ruth, looked like Bilbo Baggins. I never saw a photo of her that my mother didn’t take, so she was always Bilbo in my eyes. Never her saw her in her youth, could not even imagine what she would have been like, had she ever been young? It seemed impossible. She was not quite five feet tall and had wiry gray hair, short and curly, and she wore plastic bonnets when it rained. I never understood how my tall lanky father was a part of her. She wore knee high nylon socks and sensible shoes and a navy-blue smock dress that made her look like someone’s maid.
I never saw her in anything but this, even though she spent every Saturday afternoon and night at our house for years.
She and my mother would play cards at the kitchen table, my father escaped to long weekend naps. My mother and Grandma Ruth would drink Tom Collins after Tom Collins. Their voices getting louder and slower as the afternoon crept towards dark. In my memory of this it feels like fall, it feels like the weeks before and after Halloween. It always feels like before and after Raggedy Andy.
I have no memory of my father sitting and talking with his mother, though he must have. Their family was always quiet and strange with each other. A family of strangers and shadows. My father was the oldest of ten children. Of his nine brother’s and sisters I believe I had only in my life met three of them. Though others would eventually show up for his funeral. They all blended into one blur, one whisper in my ear from my mother. “The Gordon’s are here.”
One of the Gordon’s, Pete, went missing in his late teens, a runaway perhaps, or perhaps not. He was never mentioned, never looked for in any kind of meaningful way. Once I asked my father about it, he said “Well there were ten of us, one going missing is still good odds.”
I wondered if my father and his mother would talk about him in some strange silent way that only Gordon’s could understand, but I somehow couldn’t.
I was always allowed to go with my father on the rides back to my grandmother’s small apartment above a hardware store, four towns away. The same town my father grew up in.
On the way there we would stop at the liquor store. My father would push the cart and my grandmother would just point at what she wanted. My father would take the large glass jugs and fill the bottom of the cart. I didn’t know how someone so small could consume that much liquid.
Gin, whiskey, scotch, and tequila. I didn’t understand what it meant at the time, but my mother told me that “Ruth drinks the tequila with the worm still in it, she even drinks the worm.”
I would have nightmares about that, during fall, during the times I miss my grandmother. Missing my grandmother feels like swallowing a worm. It feels like Autumn.
My father would bring the boxes of alcohol up the steep stairs to her apartment. It would take two trips, and this happened every Sunday afternoon when we would bring her home.
Her apartment was filled with paintings she had done. Her daily habit was to watch Bob Ross and follow along with him as long as she could until she could finish on her own.
Her mantle had framed photos of horses and a large house that I had never seen and never even been driven by.
The Gordon farm. It looked haunted even though there were nameless lanky children scattered in front. None of them looked at the camera. I wondered which one was Pete. But I never asked. I didn’t know how to ask silently, to talk silently like the Gordon’s could.
I don’t know what happened to the family that lived there, the family that was mine except they were not. A family of strangers that I miss, that I think about during autumn, before and after Halloween.
I think of them as ghosts, rattling around inside my head. When I think of them, I smell that old wet doll, I smell my candy breath, and taste the cherries from the bottoms of my mother and grandmother’s sticky Tom Collins glasses, and I wonder if it’s possible to miss a family you never really knew.
Jennifer Anne Gordon is a gothic horror/literary fiction novelist. Her work includes Beautiful, Frightening and Silent which won the Kindle Award for Best Horror/Suspense for 2020, Won Best Horror 2020 from Authors on the Air, was a Finalist for American Book Fest’s Best Book Award- Horror, 2020. It also received the Platinum 5 Star Review from Reader’s Choice as well as the Gold Seal from Book View.
Her novel, From Daylight to Madness (The Hotel book 1) received the Gold Seal from Book View, as well as The Platinum Seal from Reader’s Favorite, and When the Sleeping Dead Still Talk (The Hotel book 2) was released to critical acclaim and was recently announced as a semi-finalist for Best Horror/Suspense for the Kindle Awards for 2021.
Her latest novel Pretty/Ugly received the platinum Seal from Readers Favorite, as well as the Gold Medal from Literary Titan. The novel has been called “An exquisitely written horror tale” by Wendy Webb (NYT Bestselling author of The Haunting of Brynn Wilder)
Jennifer also had a collection of her artwork published Victoriana: The Mixed Media Art of Jennifer Gordon.
Jennifer is one of the hosts as well as the creator of Vox Vomitus, the top-rated video podcast on the Global Authors on the Air Network, as well as the host of “Let’s Scare Jennifer to Death”
As a podcast host Jennifer has interviewed authors such as V.C Andrews, James Rollins, Paul Tremblay, Sarah Langan, Mary Burton, Josh Malerman, Joe Lansdale, Shawn Cosby, Carol Goodman, Paula Munier, Wendy Webb, and Matt Ruff. She had been a contributor to Ladies of Horror Fiction, Horror Tree, Writers After Dark, Reader’s Entertainment Magazine, Nerd Daily, and Ginger Nuts of Horror. She is also a featured writer for Top Shelf Magazine, and Uncaged Magazine.
She is a member of the Horror Writers Association where she sits on one of the juries for the Bram Stoker Awards. She is also a member of New England Horror Writers and sits on the committee for the New England Crime Bake festival.
Jennifer is a pale curly haired ginger, obsessed with horror, ghosts, abandoned buildings, and her dog "Lord Tubby".
She graduated from the New Hampshire Institute of Art, where she studied Acting. She also studied at the University of New Hampshire with a concentration in Art History and English.
She has made her living as an actress, a magician's assistant, a "gallerina", a comic book dealer, a painter, and burlesque performer and for the past 10 years as an award-winning professional ballroom dancer, performer, instructor, and choreographer.
When not scribbling away (ok, typing frantically) she enjoys traveling with her husband and dance partner, teaching her dog ridiculous tricks (like 'give me a kiss' and 'what hand is the treat in?' ok these are not great tricks.) as well as taking photos of abandoned buildings and haunted locations.
She is a Leo, so at the end of the day she just thinks about her hair.
For more information and benevolent stalking, please visit her website at http://www.JenniferAnneGordon.com
For media and interview requests please contact Mickey Mikkelson at Creative Edge Publicity – mickey.creativeedge@gmail.com
Literary Rep – Paula Munier at Talcott Notch - pmunier@talcottnotch.net
Facebook Author Page - https://www.facebook.com/JenniferAnneGordonAuthor/
Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/jennifergenevievegordon/
Twitter - https://twitter.com/JenniferAnneGo5
October 23, 2021
Branching Out with Returning Author J. P. McLean of Denman Island, BC.
Jo-Anne has been a welcomed guest twice before on the Scribbler. On her first visit way back in 2015, we were treated to an excerpt from Book four in The Gift Legacy series. See it HERE. At that time, it was titled Penance.
The Gift Legacy series continued, BUT… changes were made to new and exciting titles and bold covers. The stories remain the same. In 2018, she returned to explain why. See it HERE.
This week she is back and has kindly agreed to a Branching Out Interview. There is a new book on the horizon, changes in her marketing strategy and lots of good news. She is also sharing an excerpt from just released novel—Blood Mark.
Let’s chat with Jo-Anne.
Allan: We are overjoyed to have you return, Jo-Anne. Thanks for taking the time to be with us this week. Before we talk about writing and your stories, please tell us about Denman Island, your homelife, and perhaps something we didn’t know about you before.
Sunset from JP's place on Denman Island.
Jo-Anne: Thanks so much for having me back! I’d love to tell you about the island I call home. Denman is one of the northern Gulf islands. It’s situated about halfway up the eastern coast of Vancouver Island in the Strait of Georgia. The island is 50 square kilometers (20 square miles) with a population of 1,100. It’s rural, comprised largely of farms, but there’s a thriving artist community as well. We’re ferry-bound, so living here isn’t for everyone, but it’s a popular summer destination for tourists.
Though the crossing from Buckley Bay to Denman is just 1900 metres (1.9 kms/1.2 miles) and takes a mere ten minutes, our ferry, the Baynes Sound Connector, is the longest salt-water cable ferry in the world (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MC1d_VA_hDk).
Denman has a 113-yr-old general store (https://visitdenmanisland.ca/listings/denman-island-general-store/), which is also the post office, the gas station, and the liquor/beer outlet for the island. We also have a bookstore (!) Abraxas bookstore and café (https://visitdenmanisland.ca/listings/abraxas-books-gifts/), and an artisan-run craft shop (https://visitdenmanisland.ca/listings/denman-craft-shop/). Denman has a medical clinic, a dental bus (yes, a converted bus), a fitness centre, two community halls, and much more. But I’m beginning to sound like the tourist bureau. You can read more about what else Denman has to offer through the website https://visitdenmanisland.ca/.
Islanders have ready access to freshly baked bread and pastries, organic vegetables, eggs, poultry, beef, lamb, and pork. Given the abundance of food available, we don’t need to make the trip off island often, but every two weeks or so, we’ll head into Courtenay and Comox. They are the closest cities to us at about a twenty-minute drive north on Vancouver Island. Most of the big-box stores are there, as well as banking, insurance, and anything else we can’t get locally.
What people may not know is that my husband and I have lived on Denman for twenty+ years (where does the time go?). The house was our cottage for ten years prior to moving over full time. When we first moved here, we thought we’d miss the bustle of the city; I’d been a city girl most of my life, first in Toronto, where I was raised, and then in Vancouver, where I attended university and lived for ten years. But as it turned out, we didn’t miss the city at all. When we have an occasion to be back in Vancouver, the few days of city life are wonderful. We get our fill of restaurants and shopping, and then can’t wait to get home to the quiet countryside again.
Allan: Exciting times, Jo-Anne. A new novel recently released – Blood Mark. Please tell our readers what to expect when they pick up their copy. Is there a dramatic change from your earlier series?
Jo-Anne: Exciting indeed! Although Blood Mark is my eighth book, it’s the first book outside of The Gift Legacy series. For that reason, it feels very much like my second book. I know readers will compare the books and I hope Blood Mark holds up to their scrutiny and they love it as much as the legacy series. What readers can expect is a wild ride with fresh and unpredictable plot twists.
This is the teaser: What if your lifelong curse is the only thing keeping you alive? Jane Walker survives the back alleys of Vancouver, marked by a chain of blood-red birthmarks that snake around her body. During her tortured nights, she is gripped by agonizing nightmares when she sees into the past. It isn’t until, one-by-one, the marks begin to disappear that she learns the deadly truth: Her marks are the only things keeping her alive.
E.E. Holmes, award-winning and best-selling author of The Gateway Trilogy has read it and says: “Featuring a fearless, badass heroine and plot twists that will leave readers breathless, J.P. McLean's Blood Mark is a gritty, sexy, fast-paced thrill ride from start to finish.”
Eileen Cook, award-winning author of You Owe Me a Murder calls Blood Mark “An explosive new series that combines mystery and magic into a can’t-put-down thriller.
What hasn’t changed with the new book is the contemporary Vancouver setting, and the inclusion of supernatural elements. But Jane Walker, the protagonist in Blood Mark, is very different from the protagonist in the Gift Legacy. Jane walker is a scrappy orphan who’s been raised in group homes. She’s had to cope with the stigma that comes with looking different and struggles to make ends meet. Likewise, the best friends in the two books are quite different. Sadie is Jane’s best friend and roommate in Blood Mark. Sadie is a beautiful woman who works as a waitress by day, and a hooker by night.
Allan: I’ve had the pleasure of reading Secret Sky, Book One in the Gift Legacy series and I’m anxious to get into the series again. You have published seven other novels. I won’t ask you to pick a favorite because it’s a tough question but I’m curious of which was the most difficult to write? The most emotional?
Jo-Anne: You’re right about how hard it is to pick a favourite. As for the most difficult book to write, I’d have to say it was the first, Secret Sky. Not only was it difficult from a writing perspective, because I was learning the craft, but it was the first time I’d exposed my creative work to public scrutiny. It felt a lot like stripping naked in public.
The most emotional book to write was Burning Lies because in it, the protagonist loses something very dear to her heart. I left my own tears on the keyboard writing that one!
Allan: Please share a childhood memory and/or anecdote.
Jo-Anne: When I was very young, perhaps six or seven years old, I loved windy days. I remember racing with the wind at my back and my arms held wide and jumping into the air, hoping against hope that the wind would lift me off the ground and I would fly. I’ve long been captivated by the notion of flying. In fact, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had recurring dreams of flying—dreams I have to this day. I can’t wait for personal flying aircraft to become a reality. It’s no wonder my first series centers around a secret society of people who can fly!
Allan: Is there a bit of Jo-Anne McLean in any of your characters? Do you find inspiration from real people or is every character a total figment of your imagination?
Jo-Anne: The protagonist in the first series, Emelynn, had two of my foibles: zero sense of direction and unruly hair. I didn’t plan it that way, it just evolved. Using something I was so familiar with made it easier to bring the character to life. For example, I was able to describe what it felt like to get lost, or the frustration of map reading. Likewise, I knew Emelynn would need hair elastics and a big-toothed comb.
Most of my characters have bits and pieces of real people in them. Sometimes it’s just a physical trait, like the way a character flips their hair away from their face, or an unsteady gait. Other times, it’s a personality characteristic I’ve observed, like genuine empathy, or callous indifference.
It’s a challenge to keep the characters fresh and different from one another. That’s why people-watching is so fascinating to me. My observations often end up as character details in my stories.
Allan: What draws you to the supernatural or paranormal genre?
Jo-Anne: It’s the possibility that these phenomena might exist. Like that little girl inside me that was convinced I could fly if only I could run fast enough. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could move objects with your mind or communicate with your thoughts? It may seem far-fetched, but scientists are actively working on these possibilities.
The supernatural or paranormal genre is also the genre that I most enjoy reading. For me, its pure escapism, an indulgence. I readily suspend my disbelief, get lost in the story, and lose all track of time when I’m reading.
Allan: You have recently signed on with the publicity firm, Creative Edge with Mickey Mikkelson. Can you tell us about this new direction?
Jo-Anne: Publicity is a necessity if you want to find and grow your readership. It’s one of the building blocks of a writer’s career. But I always felt out of my depth with publicity, not knowing who to reach out to, or how. So I was very excited to learn about Mickey and Creative Edge (https://www.creative-edge.services/). He’s taken a huge weight off my shoulders. I’ve been working with him since January. Not only has he gotten me interviews with influencers and put me in front of people who are interested in my genre, but he’s organized reviews for my books. He’s helped me up my game and I’m tremendously grateful.
Allan: Favorite book? Author? Movie? Dessert?
Jo-Anne: Haha! Favourite book? I’ve got dozens—I read a lot—so if you ask me tomorrow, it will change. Today’s favourite is Spirit Legacy by E.E. Holmes. It’s an interesting take on ghosts. The intrigue just kept building with unanswered questions, dubious motives, and strange phenomena. Is it the ghosts who have deadly intentions? Or the protagonist’s friends, her family? Holmes kept me guessing right to the end.
One of my favourite authors is Charlaine Harris. She wrote the Sookie Stackhouse books which became the True Blood TV series.
She also wrote the Midnight Texas books, which became a TV series, and the Aurora Teagarden books, many of which have been made into TV movies. Harris writes with a keen sense of humour, which I love, and her characters are people I’d like to know and hang out with.
As for movies, I’m at a bit of a loss. I’m not a movie buff. My husband and I have different tastes, so what we watch are movies where our interests intersect, which are thrillers and action flicks. My favourite of those is probably the Bourne Identity based on the Robert Ludlum book and starring Matt Damon.
My favourite dessert? SO many to choose from. In winter, I’d say butter tarts or butter-tart bars. In summer, it would be ice cream (mint chocolate chip, or chocolate-peanut-butter ripple).
Allan: Anything else you’d like to share with us?
Jo-Anne: Just my thanks, Allan. I really appreciate the care you take to elevate the profile of authors and champion their work. I feel very lucky and grateful to be included.
***Thank you for saying that, Jo-Anne. It’s great guests such as yourself which makes this all worthwhile and so enjoyable for me.
An Excerpt from Blood Mark.
(Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)
Blood Mark came out on October 19th. It’s the first book in a brand-new supernatural thriller series that I’m excited to share with your readers.
Following is an excerpt (you can also download the excerpt here: https://jpmcleanauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/Blood-Mark-Sneak-Peek-for-website-preview-2021-06-02.pdf)
1 | Jane
August 8
Jane Walker might have been the only person in Vancouver not afraid to be in a downtown alley at half-past midnight. Shadows clung to fissures and corners, morphing into nightmare shapes as she passed. A warm breeze stirred the scent of rotting garbage along with her gag reflex. Rescuing Sadie was getting old. One of these nights, Sadie’s unique way of punishing herself would be the death of them both. And maybe Jane’s bike.
She parked next to Ethan’s Fat Boy in the hopes his reputation would spill over and protect her cherished Honda 500. But the caged bulb above the back door worried her. It bled a weak circle of light that pooled near the bikes. It was a toss-up whether it would draw attention or act as a deterrent. She said a prayer for the latter and removed her helmet. A slamming door punctuated a heated argument drifting down from a nearby apartment. She raked her long hair forward to hide the worst of the birthmark on her face then walked around the corner, bypassing the dregs of Riptide’s nightly queue.
A bouncer she knew manned the door. His steady gaze slid sideways at her approach. Boos from the lineup he held at bay prompted him to inhale, emphasizing the girth of his chest. He flexed biceps larger than her thighs, tipped his chin, and let her pass.
She nodded her thanks and stepped inside. A cocktail of perfume and stale sweat assaulted her. Thumping music reverberated in her chest as she scanned the bar for Ethan Bryce and found him pouring shots. A seasoned bartender, he worked the room like a ringside bookie at an illegal fight, smiling with one eye and watching for trouble with the other.
“Thanks for calling,” Jane said, pressing into the bar. “Where is she?”
Ethan held her gaze a moment longer than necessary then swiped his head to the left. Jane followed his line of sight to the dance floor, where her roommate swayed out of step with the music. Sadie had gone with tasteful tonight, wearing her LBD, as she called her little black dress. Her client must have been a high roller—unlike the ’roided-up jockstrap now keeping Sadie upright with a hand on her ass and a sure-bet smile on his face.
Jane strode through the dancers and stopped short of her. “Sadie?” she shouted over the music.
Sadie lifted her head from Jockstrap’s shoulder and struggled to focus. “Narc?” She blew at a stray blonde curl. Jane winced at the nickname Sadie rarely used in public.
“You know her?” Jockstrap asked.
“Shurr. Tim, meet Narc. Dance with us.” Sadie reached for Jane. Her mascara had smudged, leaving charcoal shadows under her eyes. It’s what two lines of coke and a few too many vodka chasers looked like.
Jane took her hand. “Let’s go home.”
“She’s with me tonight, honey,” Jockstrap said, tugging Sadie’s arm away from Jane. He looked down to Sadie with a smarmy smile. “Aren’t you, baby?”
Sadie squinted up at him. When she looked back at Jane, sparks of awareness surfaced. She pushed against his chest. “I gotta go.”
“You don’t gotta go,” he said, dragging her back. “Stay with me, baby. We’re having fun, aren’t we?”
“How about I bring her back tomorrow?” Jane said. “When she’s not wasted.”
Sadie stumbled as Jockstrap twisted to put himself between the two women. “I’ve made an investment here.”
Charming, Jane thought, recoiling from his stale-beer spittle. She was quick in a fight and had the advantage of being sober, but Jockstrap had a hundred pounds on her and a hard-on with a destination.
She knew Ethan wouldn’t tolerate her pulling a knife in Riptide, so she’d have to dissuade Jockstrap some other way. She looked to the floor. For Sadie, she’d expose her marks. Only for Sadie. An eyeful of ugly often gave her a split-second advantage. He was already wobbling—shouldn’t be too hard to knock him on his ass.
She shifted the grip on her helmet, widened her stance, and drew in a calming breath. Then, in one swift motion, she swung the curtain of hair away from her face. “She’s going home,” she said, pressing upward into Jockstrap’s personal space to ensure he got a good look at the thick blood-red birthmark that slashed an angle from her forehead to her temple. It looked like the work of a medieval battle-axe.
He shrunk back with a familiar snarl of revulsion. Already primed, Jane was ready to launch when a firm hand landed on her shoulder, halting her.
“Everything all right here?” Ethan asked, squeezing harder than he needed to. Jane felt a pinch of resentment at his interference.
Jockstrap’s gaze darted to the figure standing behind Jane. Ethan wasn’t big, but his reputation was. You didn’t cross him unless you had generous sick-leave benefits.
Jockstrap’s nostrils flared. He pinched his lips. Neither man moved. Long seconds later, Jockstrap faltered and blew out a deflating breath. His bravado and sure-bet attitude faded along with his hopes of getting laid. He released Sadie with a little shove. “Go on then,” he said. “Take out the trash.” He stalked away and called over his shoulder, “And it’s Tom, not fuckin’ Tim.”
“Yeah,” Jane mumbled, “not fuckin’ Tom, either.” With a shake of her head, Jane settled her hair back into place. She wrapped a steadying arm around Sadie’s shoulder and turned her around, bumping into Ethan, who stood in their path.
“You okay?” he said, but his expression was a warning. She’d forced his hand and he didn’t like that.
“Yeah. Watch my ride? I’ll come by in the morning to pick her up.”
“Jimmy’ll keep an eye on her,” Ethan said, before he swaggered back to the bar.
Ethan’s faith in the stubble-faced panhandler who hung around the bar was a mystery to Jane.
She opened Sadie’s purse and fished out her keys.
2 | Rick
Rick Atkins kept his back to the dance floor and gazed at Sadie’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Not that Sadie would recognize him in glasses and a full beard, but vigilance had served him well to this point. He wouldn’t tempt fate when he was so close to his endgame.
He watched the woman who called herself Jane flash her markings like a blowfish in the face of the predator shark who groped at Sadie. Jane had no inkling of the damage she was capable of inflicting. But not for long. Rick downed his beer and slinked out the door.
Thank you for being our guest this week, Jo-Anne. Wishing you continued success with your writing.
For all you cool readers and visitors wanting to discover more about Jo-Anne and her writing, please follow these links:
Website: https://jpmcleanauthor.com
Newsletter: https://jpmcleanauthor.com/mailing-list-signup-form/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JPMcLeanBooks
Twitter: @jpmcleanauthor https://twitter.com/jpmcleanauthor
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jpmcleanauthor
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/jpmclean
BookBub:
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/j-p-mclean-cd5829f0-6e0d-4189-b561-44651ad67b9e
October 16, 2021
Branching Out with Poet, Lecturer and Writer Amita Sanghavi of Oman.
I was introduced to Amita by New Brunswick poet, Richard Doiron, who suggested Amita would be an ideal fit for a Scribbler visit and a Branching Out Interview. I couldn’t agree more. Amita has kindly agreed to be our featured guest this week.
What I visited Amita’s website, I was greeted by the following:
Ordinary day, extraordinary possibilities. Reflections, Poetry, Musings and more.
It is a warm and friendly greeting and we are happy to have Amita share her thoughts and her writing.
Let’s chat with Amita.
Allan: Welcome to the Scribbler, Amita. Before we chat about writing and related topics, please tell our readers about you & family, where you were born, where you reside and home life.
Amita: Thanks Allan, for this wonderful opportunity of the interview. I am born and raised in Mumbai, India, and reside in Oman since the past 17 years. I live in Muscat with my daughter, and we are a single parent family of mother and daughter. I live on campus, and teach at Sultan Qaboos University.
Allan: You have an impressive body of work, featured in various publications and participated in numerous events. Congratulations on your many successes. Is there one such accomplishment you value the most?
Amita: I most treasure Diego giving me the title, ‘Maple Leaf’ on my poem ‘Mapled Me’ that I read on the show. That poem I treasure a lot, and is my favourite, as time and again, it seems to be most popular; it gave me the title ‘Maple Leaf’ from such a notable, remarkable veteran poet Diego Bastiannutti, that for me it is the greatest motivation ever, that too on Live Radio of Vancouver, home to British Columbia University. The poem got selected in an anthology published in the UK ‘‘Daffodils’’ where I was chosen as the Featured Poet! And last but not the least, Jeannette Skirvin, well known Canadian novelist, so beautifully made a video poem ‘Mapled Me’ that it has had almost 400 views, and counting.
Allan: Your website tells us of upcoming publications. Can you tell our readers what to expect and when it is all taking place?
Amita: I have several poems coming in anthologies; and single poems in journals. But what’s exciting is by December 2021, I am publishing my second book of poetry, “Astad Deboo: Poetry in Dance”. This is ekphrasis written on watching his dance. He is India’s most cherished Contemporary Dancer awarded the highest civilian awards including the PADMASHRI.
I also have three more books of poetry coming in 2022 and 2023, three of them on three photographers in Oman and Italy, and their work which inspired the poetry and one on a famous painter, but I have not yet given them titles.
Allan: Please share a childhood memory and/or anecdote.
Amita: I knew since grade 7 that I only wanted to study poetry! Our school principal once walked into the class and taught us “Daffodils” by Wordsworth. The moment she recited it, the impression was so deep in my mind, that I returned home and asked my mother if I had to study only poetry what should I do? She said, Masters in English Literature. I pursued just that! I have MA, M.Phil., B. Ed from Mumbai, and one more MA from UK. I waited to see real daffodils till I was 29! It was after 16 years, I joined University of Lancaster and finally visited the very spot, the Dove cottage, and saw 10,000 at a glance!
Somehow, that journey, from the classroom of grade 7 to the Lancaster classroom of Poetry taught by Professor Emeritus Mick Short, is a conspiracy of the Universe! Time and again, it has been a very unique experience when it comes to poetry- I have had several experiences of coincidences, serendipity, opening of doors most miraculously- but will elaborate on them some other time!
Allan: You were honoured by World Poetry Canada as poetry Ambassador to Oman. Can you tell us about this?
Amita: In my journey as a poet, my most memorable moment is when Ariadne Sawyer responded to my poetry submission online, and went on to include my poetry in her website, this was the best thing that happened to me in 2018. Then, I did my radio show with Ariadne Sawyer, and Diego Bastianutti at World Café Poetry. I am indebted and a great admirer of both these great poets and personalities of Vancouver, and see them as my role models. The radio shows were a wonderful opportunity to talk about myself, how my poetry evolved from my life experiences.
Allan: Who has been a major influence in your writing? Do you have a mentor? Favorite writers or poets?
Amita: I think I followed my own Voice. Poetry that was simple always appealed to me, reached the core of my heart, spoke to me. I especially loved reading Maya Angelou, and definitely regard her as one of the best. As a mentor, I feel the long years of work of Ariadne Sawyer are very inspiring to a younger poet like me, and give my love for poetry a concrete example of how the sense of purpose and the varied possibilities are available, as I see her in her multiple roles as a poet and so much more! She has taken poetry to an all-new level, and her entire lifetime is about encouraging, bringing together and promoting poets. What’s absolutely astonishing and very pleasantly so, is how she has a new feather in her cap now, with poetry of Youth!
Before you bat an eyelid, Ariadne has an all-new role and a concept and she is off with all her love and light, pursuing it. This gives me direction, and purpose to what I should set out to do more, and how.
Ariadne Sawyer will always remain my role model, my inspiration to work harder and with dedication and also my mentor; so, will Richard Doiron remain a great role model and inspiration. His interview on your blog and his poet laureate speech are something I re-visit many times. If there is someone who ought to be awarded a PhD on their volume of body of work of prolific poetry, it is Richard Doiron. In fact, I discovered your blog while I was searching his works on Google.
**I’m glad you did, Amita. Richard is a fine gentleman.
Among older poets, Rumi, Robert Frost and William Wordsworth, and William Blake are my favourites, and among Indian poets, there are far too many in Hindi/Urdu/English/Bengali language, like Gulzar, Rabindranath Tagore, Jerry Pinto, Sudeep Sen, Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca, Naomi Shihab Hye, Ashok Bhargava, and yes, my all-new favourite, Zayra Yves, to name just a few. Ah, and Richard’s poetry comes back to my mind time and again, what more can I say!
Allan: You have recently been involved with the release of Impressions & Expressions. An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry. Can you tell us about this?
Amita: I used to read poetry online and like them a lot, and found that if I had wanted to read again, I had to go to each poet’s Facebook and scroll and hunt for the one I liked, and re read it.
Over a year, I found this really a huge hassle, and then decided, well what do I want? I want all my favourite poems from several poets put in a single book, that I can reach out and read as and when I like. So actually Allan, I made that anthology just for myself! And then come to think of it, readers and poetry lovers would certainly want to read more than one poem of a poet. I always feel as a student of Stylistics, that it is always desirable to be able to read at least 6 to 8 poems from a single poet in order to know and understand their style, their philosophy and their uniqueness.
Thus, this collection boasts of twenty-four very contemporary poetry ranging from YouTube and Instagram mentions to ‘I can’t breathe’ and post pandemic and during pandemic afternoons spent at the kitchen window. Each poem contributes a distinct flavor to the book by being ‘different’ from the poetry of the other poets in the collection. I also repeatedly read the 150 poems and struggled to give a title to the collection that initially I had called, ‘Power of Poetry’. I meditated deeper into what is poetry, and what makes poetry be born, and the ideal one I came upon after careful deliberation was that poetry is the Expression of the impressions of life each poet carries in having met and lived their life experiences; so, I felt there could not be a more apt title than IMPRESSIONS AND EXPRESSIONS: AN ANTHOLOGY OF CONTEMPORARY POETRY.
By the time the edition was ready, I was madly in love with some of the poetry and have decided that in the lockdown, it was the best gift I have given myself!
Allan: Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about?
Amita: Yes, just a note on why poetry is an Art we ought to bring back in this digital age, with a whole new enthusiasm especially post pandemic. I feel people will have undergone a whole gamut of emotions and been overwhelmed, and poetry will play a vital role in being able to open up very complex emotions and suppressed feelings. Poetry will prove therapeutic to readers who will find their emotions resonate with the poet’s and also cathartic to those who write it. I would like to end with this note:
The function and purpose of poetry is about life here and now; of our universally faced common experiences as human beings, our IMPRESSIONS, expressed in a succinct and imaginative way in poetry. Poetry is the only form of Art that resonates and retells each and every human experience musically, imaginatively, metaphorically, visually, emotively, explicitly, implicitly and aesthetically!
Writings of Amita Sanghavi.
Amita's Blog - https://amitasanghavispoetry.blog/
AmitaSanghvi YouTube
. https://youtu.be/Fj332mXKbMY
AmitaSanghvi Amazon Publications
SANGHVI/e/B073JVF6M5%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share
AmitaSanghvi profiles
https://www.instagram.com/sanghvi.amita/
https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.researchgate.net/profile/Amita_Sanghvi/amp
AmitaSanghvi Newspapers
https://timesofoman.com/article/15100...-
poet-based-in-Oman
A book review in Oman’s national daily:
https://www.omanobserver.om/article/917/Local/on-looking-upon-prof-eugene-h-johnsonsstorimagesA
October 9, 2021
Branching Out with Photographer Sylvie Mazerolle of Moncton, NB.
It’s a treat to have Sylvie back for a Branching Out interview. She has been a guest before, once on her own – see it HERE. The second time she shared an interview with her author partner, Jason Hamilton – see it HERE.
There has been a lot going on since Sylvie’s last posting. New photographic series, a new picture book, a new website and beautiful new photos. Needless to say, I’m a big fan of Sylvie’s photos and I’m proud to say I own several prints of her work. Don’t ask me to pick a favorite because it would be too difficult to pick just one.
Let’s have a chat with Sylvie.
(Copyright is held on all photos. Used with permission)
Allan: What made you get into photography?
Sylvie: I tried other medium a few times (acrylic, watercolors, sketching) but I could never get it to look like the vision I had in my mind’s eye. It drove me nuts. Having worked in fashion and beauty as a makeup artist, fine art photography and editing photograph is very similar to the process of makeup application: Start with a basic image, remove the blemishes, enhance the beauty with light and shadows as well as colour combining. Photography brings me back to that meditative flow that I missed so much from makeup artistry.
Allan: What is your favourite subject to shoot?
Sylvie: A slice of LIFE. Something or someone with a past, a story to tell, character and textures. Things like crackled paint, weathered faces, pots and pans that have a patina from years of baking stacked in a mess, a farmer’s hands. Beauty is all around us.
Allan: What does photography mean to you?
Sylvie: It’s a form of therapy, escapism, meditation, documenting, creating, storytelling…it’s everything.
Allan:
What is the most rewarding part of being a photographer?
Sylvie: Slowing down and connecting with my subject and/or viewers. With so much visual stimulation in our lives for someone to pause and feel your image enough to stop scrolling, it means you've captured something. Having someone see things or themselves in a different light (no pun intended) is so satisfying.
Allan: Provide me a quote from an artist (whatever medium) and tell me why it represents you.
Sylvie:
"Nothing is impossible -The word itself says I'M Possible." ~ Audrey Hepburn
I really connect with this quote because when I set my sight on a goal that I truly want, I
fully believe it can be done. I go all in with F.A.I.T.H: Fully Anticipating It to Happen.
I try to not force things but more allowing things to present themselves.
Allan:
What else would you like to mention?
Sylvie:
Concept around you spin me:
I created these images on a trip to the amusement park with my son. I wanted him to experience all the wonders that this place had given me all those years ago. I hold those memories dearly.
The nostalgia of going to the fair as a young girl makes me smile. I can close my eyes and smell the cotton candy as its sweet scent travels with the cool nighttime breeze. Sipping out all the flavour and colour from the endless slushies with what seemed like a foot long curly straw.
I remember it so vividly.
I didn't go with the intension of creating for an exhibit but once I saw them all lined up, I really wanted to share them. I think they are fun.
Those endless evenings were some of the best parts of summer.
(Copyright is held on all photos. Used with permission)
Thank you, Sylvie, for sharing your thoughts and magnificent images. Wishing you continued success.
Please drop by her website - Sylvie Mazerolle Photography
October 4, 2021
The Crimson Stain. A short story by Allan Hudson.
Thank you for visiting the Scribbler. I hope you enjoy the story.
The Crimson Stain
When Victoria opens the door, it gripes every inch. The hinges haven’t been oiled since John Turner resigned as the Liberal leader in 1989, twenty-five years ago, the same day her grandfather died. The first level of the three-storey building has been closed, sealed and forgotten ever since. The two upper levels, divided into four apartments, have their own entrance. Last year Victoria became the new owner when her father passed away. But since she had no time then to manage a hundred and fifteen-year-old edifice, she had it boarded up. Sentenced it to solitary confinement. Tenants evicted. There were too many memories for her to part with it though so now the boards are down.
Victoria’s father was an only child and his father’s death took a heavy toll on his well-being. She remembers the days her father walked around in a miasma, sunken cheeks and a faraway look. After enough time passed, he was able to deal with what remained of his father’s legacy. The merchandise was removed from the store, the first level locked and forgotten.
A whiff of lost time snags her senses as soon as she steps in. Musty scents stir in the open door where fresh air barges in with no resistance. She hears something skitter in the corners, probably mice. Looking around gives her shivers. Cobwebs hang from corners like small kites. The early morning light gives the ones in the window edges a yellowish hue. Thickened by years of dust, the small dark bodies of the spider’s victims dot the surface like pepper. She hates spiders. The only thing she dreads more is seeing the stain on the worn wooden floor. She hasn’t thought about it for years. Only when she decided to renovate her grandfather’s haberdashery did she realize that she’d have to look at it.
Four tentative steps into the old store takes her to the base of a circular rack of dull and unpolished chrome which once held a selection of men’s hats. Victoria recalls trying them on when she was a kid and her grandfather teasing her about looking like a little boy with her short hair and the oversized hats resting on her brows. For a moment, the ghost of his memory shimmers in the light. His bushy eyebrows, the gap between his front teeth and the half-rim glasses perched on the tip of his nose is how she remembers him. Now she must face an unkind memory. The crimson stain.
She had come home for the funeral although she was living in another city when her grandfather died. Right here in the store. Right where the faded blotch on the floor remains. Struck on the head by someone, he laid unconscious and bled out. An undignified death. All for the seventy-five dollars in the till. The details in her memory can’t reach around the fact that her grandfather’s life was only worth such a measly amount of cash. No one has ever been apprehended or held responsible for the terrible deed.
Motes flitter carelessly in the dim sunlight which penetrates the dirty patina of the windows. Victoria takes another three steps and she’s beside a counter. Close by lies the stain. Visible still, under a soft layer of dust the color of baby powder. Its irregular shape looks like an odd shaped boot with a small foot. Victoria bends to sit on her haunches and wipes the dust away, covering her mouth with her other hand. The blood puddled on the left, thick and hard. A round bare spot in the center where her grandfather’s head may have lain. Thinking of all the times he let her play in the store, she misses him so much. Tears come in a gush. They drop to make plop marks on the gritty floor.
A firm voice from the open door startles her and she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Mrs. Delvecchio. Is that you?”
Victoria rises to face a rough looking character, lanky frame in bib coveralls which looks like they’re trying to swallow him. A lower tooth is missing but the smile could generate electricity and the eyes are enthusiastic. This man doesn’t look anything like she expected but he comes highly recommended.
“It’s Ms. Devereaux now. And you must be Hector?”
“Hector Hastings at your service, Ms. Devereaux. How about you call me Heck? Everybody does.”
“Fine then… uh, Heck. Call me Victoria.
“I’ll do that, Victoria. Gosh darn but that’s a lovely name.”
Victoria eyes him with an amused smile. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard the words gosh, darn and lovely used in the same sentence before.
“Thank you, Heck. Now, do you have a writing pad?”
He smiles widely again and sticks out his chin.
“Don’t need one.”
Taps his head.
“I don’t forget things, Vicky. I mean Victoria. See.”
He looks around, smug with his recovery.
“So, what we doing here, Victoria?”
She takes a deep breath and with one hand behind her back and her fingers crossed, she waves him toward the center of the store. There are several clothing racks where they stop. Fixed displays line the two side walls and part of the back wall where another door opens into a room that looks cluttered with more racks. Victoria waves her hand around to encompass everything.
“I want all of this, and I mean all of it, gone. As part of our earlier conversation, Hect… Heck, whatever you take must be inventoried and we’ll decide if anything has value. Then I want the whole space spotless. I want to be able to eat off the floor.”
Hector is waving both hands and his head is shaking.
“I ain’t no cleaning service Victoria. I mean… “
Victoria was meek once, but her ex-husband fixed her of that. She turns to face Hector direct, her dark eyes as forceful as her voice.
“Are you or are you not a project manager, slash contractor? I was told you were a man to get things done.”
“Yes, but… “
“Well then manage it, Heck.”
She doesn’t like being pushy. So, she offers him the brightest smile to win him with charm, and softens her voice.
“The basement will need the same treatment as well. Except a room in the back. That was my grandfather’s get away when I was younger and I want to do that myself. I’m actually starting on the room tomorrow. When your people are done up here, you and I will meet and decide what renovations to do. Now follow me upstairs and I’ll show you the changes I want in the apartments. The top floor can wait until the fall or winter.”
On the second level, she gives Hector the tour of the two units that will be turned into one – to create a large enough space for her to live. She points out the walls she wants down, the carpets she wants removed, the floors she wants sanded. Repairs to drywall and plaster. One kitchen removed and refinished into a den. They’ll discuss painting the rooms later. When they return to the sidewalk where his truck is parked, he digs through the center console looking for a business card.
The day is mild and she removes her jacket to fold it over her arm while she waits. Looking up at the building, she feels a sudden rush of warmth as she thinks of the joy her grandfather would feel at her being here. She’s doing the right thing. She only hopes she can be as honest and thankful with her clients as her grandfather was.
The sunlight adds gold streaks to her auburn hair and a shine to her face. When Hector sees the glow emanating from her, he can tell how happy she is.
“Here’s my card, Victoria with my email address too.”
“So, when do you think you can start?”
He’s looking off into the sky, rubbing his chin.
“Let’s see now. I can get a truck and I have a couple of men I can spare tomorrow morning so I’ll send them early, around seven-thirty and they can empty out the basement. That way you can be sure they don’t take anything you don’t want taken. Know what I mean?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer and Victoria is thrilled. She didn’t expect help so early. She’s smiling and bobbing her head.
“Today’s Thursday, so how about I get the cleaning and moving people here on Monday. I’ll put all the contents in my warehouse for now. Then you and I can meet here again on Wednesday and have our sandwiches off the floor. And I can have a gang working upstairs in another week.”
“I hold you to that Heck and I’ll bring the sandwiches.”
“Same here. And if you do bring sandwiches, bring baloney with ketchup, that’s my favorite.”
And then he’s off. Victoria moans softly and shakes her head as she watches him go. She can’t remember the last time she ate baloney, as he calls it. She shrugs and says to nobody, “What the heck?”
She’s laughing at herself as she locks up. Two old ladies strolling by look at her oddly and hasten their step.
The next day, she meets the two men. They surprise her by bringing her a coffee with sugar and creamers in a paper bag. They’re sipping their own steaming cups as they listen to what she wants done. She likes them already. Daryl is the younger one, with the flirting eyes, kinda cute. She guesses he’s in his early thirties, a few years younger than her. Pierre, about ten years older, is married with two little girls and a Doberman. She chats with them for a few minutes. She loves the curiosity of small city people but offers nothing of her background and evades any personal questions. They leave their empty cups on the counter and proceed toward the basement.
To get to the basement, they proceed to the back of the store and maneuver through a room where there was an area for a tailor and a seamstress, a pressing station, a small office and storage. Then they go out another door, which leads to a covered porch at the rear of the building containing stairs going to each level. Where they are standing in the back porch, there is a wide exit door that leads to a parking lot and delivery area. A set of steps lead to the underground room.
Unlocking the door, Victoria enters first and from memory reaches into the darkness on her right and finds a light switch. Four, hundred-watt bulbs hang naked from the ceiling. The glare makes them blink until their eyes adjust to the bright lights. An odor of furnace oil and old cardboard drifts toward them. A quick scan makes Victoria realize that the basement is for things that nobody wanted or had nowhere else to put them. The only thing clear of dust and debris and cobwebs are the oil furnace in the center, the electrical panel on the right and a path leading to both. Clutter everywhere else. She waves around the room as she did with Heck yesterday.
“Everything goes, gentlemen. Sort it out later. Keep what you want and toss the rest in the dump. Don’t touch anything beyond that door in the back until I see what’s in there.”
She’s pointing to a wooden, six panel entry to another room. There is a path cleared to the door amidst the debris. No footprints disturb the dust near the door and she guesses no one has been in there for a long time. The men don gloves and start removing the junk. Victoria makes her way to the back and stands in front of the door, staring at the glass knob. She’s never been in there before. She recalls, quite clearly, her grandfather telling her he was the only one allowed in the room, not even her grandmother had access. Through all the years of curiosity she assumes it to be locked. After reaching for the knob, she turns it to find the door opens easy. Entering slowly, she has to bat away small spider traps to clear the doorway. The hinges hum a similar tune as the front door does. Assuming there is a switch close, she reaches in and finds one on the right to reveal only a table lamp to brighten the room. Stepping in, she stares at the contents with a blank look. It’s not what she expected.
The room is the size of an average bedroom, maybe a little bigger, she thinks. All the walls are bookcases, except the one with the door. That one has pictures, posters, newspaper clippings, pages torn from magazines stuck on the wall with dozens and dozens of thumb tacks which look like a small brass army of beetles.
Hardly any of the light blue wall right up to the ceiling is visible. The photos catch her attention and she shuffles over to look closer. Set in groupings, the middle one is of him and her grandmother. One larger section is dedicated to her father. Another assemblage is of her and her younger brother. There is only one of her brother’s funeral. Her grandfather was not a huggy-huggy person but she always knew he loved her. She feels flushed at the display, and feels his presence so real it disturbs her enough to look around. She only sees remnants of her grandfather: the chair, the pipe, the no-nonsense lamp and the books.
All the walls are a continuous set of shelves and they’re full. In the center of the room is a large, overstuffed chair that would look fine in a rich man’s living room. The cushion is the only part that looks used. It’s indented in the center and lumpy like the bottom of an egg carton. On the right is an end table with the lamp which is a spindle of burnished wood and a plain beige shade. It rests beside an ashtray the shape of a frog with a Briar wood pipe in its mouth and a box of wooden matches. A coffee table with a blue glass bowl, empty except for a few dried-up popcorn kernels that looks like dead insects, and several magazines. Everything sits on a dark blue area rug.
She strolls along the book titles, not recognizing most except for the Ernest Hemingway, Aldous Huxley and Ray Bradbury novels. Considering her grandfather, Bradbury is a surprise.
Running her finger along the spines as she walks by, she leaves a narrow trail of parted dust. As she’s doing so, an idea hits her. Going back to the main room, she sees Daryl leaving with a couple of boxes.
“Daryl, can you set that down for a minute and come here?”
The young man, puts his load aside and joins Victoria in the room. She passes him a ring of keys.
“Can you and Pierre start here next, please. Leave the furniture. Take all the books to the third level, apartment number four. Set them anywhere.”
“You bet. It won’t take us long.”
“Thank you, Daryl.”
At ten o’clock, Victoria leaves for coffees and doughnuts, asking what the men want. By the time she’s back, the books and back wall in the basement has been cleared. After the refreshment, she walks back into the room. Something seems odd. She steps back into the basement and looks at the wall where the door is located. It’s at least several feet longer than the same wall inside the room. She didn’t notice it before when there was so much debris in the corner. Going back inside she walks up to the wall left of the doorway. It’s just shelves. No openings or hints of anything behind them. She goes back out and checks again. Definitely a difference. Returning to the shelves, she studies them closer.
The wall is divided in three sections, three cases side by side. Victoria scrutinizes each one. Nothing seems out of place until she gets on her knees to look closer at the bottom shelves. In the center one, close to the right side, is a hole, three-quarters of an inch wide. Worrying about what might be in there, she pokes her finger in cautiously up to the second knuckle. A hard surface denies any further entry. She pushes against the blockage and she hears a clicking sound. The center cabinet moves forward by an inch. She jumps back, startled by the sudden shift in the shelves. Standing up to see better, she grabs the exposed sides and finds that the shelving unit slides freely ahead toward her until it stops when the back portion is even with the front of the others. She still can’t see behind. Trying different grips and motions, she finally finds a release switch on the side panel and the shelving unit creaks open to her right.
Dust particles and a blast of cold air encompass her and she backs off, coughing. She only sees shadows inside the cavity. The table lamp doesn’t have enough cord to bring it closer. She checks to see if one of the men has a flashlight. Pierre nods at her when she asks.
“Yeah, there’s one in the truck. I’ll go get it. Back in a sec.”
When he returns, he gives her the flashlight and tells her that he and Daryl should be done in an hour or so. She returns to the room. Flashing the light into the opening, she sees more cobwebs and an old trunk. The kind with a rounded top, a large latch hanging down.
It looks ominous and out of place, like a hammer in a first aid kit. Metal corners and wooden slats make up the frame. Two heavy leather straps are riveted to the sides. Why was the trunk hidden? A rushing thought visualizes a dead body. Imagining the gruesome image of a skeleton pimples the skin on her arms.
Setting the flashlight down on the table, she balances it so it will shine in the opening. Tugging on the straps, she is able to slide it out into the middle of the floor. Dust everywhere. She waves her hands to clear the air. The smell is stale and makes her think of moldy bread. She steps back for a moment and gapes at the trunk, leery of what she might find. Even more puzzling is that her grandfather would hide something. Bolstering up her courage, she gives herself a pep talk.
“No sense fretting over it. Can’t be anything dangerous. Get it done, Victoria.”
The clasp has a keyhole and Victoria worries she wouldn’t know where to find a key. There is a perturbance on each side of the circular latch. She squeezes them and the latch pops open. At first glance, the trunk appears empty. Victoria has to lean forward to see inside. Standing upright and propped against the lock side is a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper. A brownish twine hugs all four sides with a tidy bow in the center. She handles is as she would a new born. The paper is old and crinkles when she lifts it. Turning it over, she discovers an envelope attached to the brown paper in the center. She brings the package out closer to the lamp. Wipes off the cushion with her free hand and sits in her grandfather’s chair.
About the size of an opened three-ring binder, the packet has perfect square edges. The letter is glued to the paper and with a light tug, it comes off. She sets in on the table and unwraps the package. The paper is brittle and flakes on the edges where she unfolds it. Inside are two paintings, canvases stapled on narrow wooden frames. She holds them up to the light. The images look familiar to her, the style of painting. What surprises her the most is they are of a similar image and yet different. Fluctuating light patterns spill over what looks like a tree with hanging branches. It reminds her of Impressionist paintings she saw last year in a travelling display at the museum in Ottawa. Why her grandfather would hide works of art for so many years is an enigma. She scratches her head and studies the paintings for a few moments before she sets them on the carpet and opens the envelope.
Inside is a single page. She recognizes her grandfather’s neat script. It’s written in fountain pen and the words have faded over the years but still legible.
January 13, 1939.
I hope I am dead when you find these paintings, whoever you are. I can only hope it is one of my relatives, someone who cares enough to clear my name. Rather, I should say, to right the wrong I have done.
The paintings are originals by Claude Monet. I expect this will come as a surprise to you, dear reader. Would your first question be, why are they similar? Monet often painted the same scene but with different light patterns or in different seasons. These two were never publicly displayed. Titled Weeping Willow, they were completed during the First World War as an homage to fallen French soldiers.
Your second question, no doubt, will be, why are they locked in a trunk and hidden behind a bookshelf? The answer is simple, I stole them when I was a teenager, back in France, before I moved to Canada. Are you shocked? This coming from a man that honored his word, made sure his child knew right from wrong, a man who was known as an honest upstanding individual. (At the very least, I hope I was regarded as such). I have no answer as to why I stole them. The opportunity arose and Monet was quite famous when he died in 1926. On impulse, I had to have them.
But what good has it done me. Not a moment has passed since then when I don’t hang my head in shame when I think of what I’ve done.
Whoever you are, it is now your duty to restore them to the rightful owners. Let your conscience be your guide.
Clarence Devereaux.
Staring at the letter, she trembles with the thought of her grandfather’s admission. It seems impossible. The letter falls to her lap. Sitting back, she sighs heavily and glares at the paintings at her feet. The first thought that comes to her mind is how valuable they must be. If she remembers correctly, one of Monet’s paintings sold a few years back for over eighty million dollars. How could she possibly restore them to their owners without implicating her grandfather? Worse yet, how could she explain their presence on a property she now owns? Where would she take them?
Sinking down in the chair, she contemplates what she must do. An hour passes as she remains like a statue, the rising of her chest the only movement. The paintings create a dilemma. Only when Daryl knocks on the door to tell her they are finished, does she rise from her deliberations. Before responding to Daryl, takes the time to remember the look of joy and satisfaction as her grandfather’s clients walked out his shop sporting a new hat, the respect they all paid to him for his skills. She then recalls the crimson stain on the main floor, and wonders: hasn’t her grandfather suffered enough indignity? Gathering up the paintings and the letter, she sets them gently back in the trunk, slides the trunk back in the empty space, resets the inner shelf, shuts the light off and closes the door.
As she climbs the stairs to the first level, she feels someone is watching her. She pauses and looks back. A vapor, ghost-like, rises from the edges of the door, and dissipates.
I enjoyed writing this story. It was an idea that stuck in my mind for a long time before committing myself to it.
Do you like short stories? Tell me what kind you like in the comment box below.
Don't forget this anthology, now available from Amazon. Check it out HERE.
September 25, 2021
Branching Out with Author, Mentor & Teacher Lauri Schoenfeld of Utah, USA.
As part of our ongoing series of Authors represented by Creative Edge of Saskatoon, this week the Scribbler is fortunate to welcome Lauri Schoenfeld.
I visited Lauri’s blog page – see it here – and discovered open and heartfelt dialogue of things that are important to her and her followers. A brave writer, she shares intimate moments of pressing issues and answers, encouraging readers to “…embrace your fears…” “…learn to love yourself after abuse…”
The following was taken from busy-mom.com:
Her goal and focus is to turn a negative experience into something positive, through writing, speaking, and teaching. Changing the cycle in unconditional love and healing for generations to come.
It’s a true pleasure to have Lauri as our guest, so, let’s chat with her.
Allan: Welcome to the Scribbler, Lauri, and thanks for taking the time to share your thoughts with us. Before we get into the interview, can you tell us a bit about yourself, family and life in Cottonwood Heights, Utah.
Lauri: It’s my pleasure, Allan. Thank you for hosting me! I’m a mom to three amazing teenagers, two of which are the same height as me. My hubby and I are high school sweethearts. We met in chorus class, and history was in the making when I asked him out on our first date. I’m a Nancy Drew enthusiast and like to pretend that I’m her sidekick, solving my own mysteries with her still leading the way. I’m a child abuse and Scoliosis advocate. I love writing and interviewing people, a beautiful blend of my curious, talkative, introspective, expressive, and passionate self. I learn a lot about myself and other people through writing, creating stories, and hosting The Enlightenment Podcasts.
Lauri: Little Owl is about an unstable woman, Adaline Rushner, who wants to create safety and consistency within her home and life, but is spiraling from childhood trauma and PTSD. She wants to change but has no idea how to do this. She’s essentially coasting, pretending to put on a happy face while she’s caving with crippling depression and anxiety, but her family is the one thing keeping her grounded. When her two daughters are kidnapped from their front yard and pronounced dead, Adaline can’t accept that this is her reality and searches what happened to her daughters. As she goes down this dark path, Adaline begins to see the lies she’s told herself and the secrets those around her have kept from her, too.
A true event inspired the story. I grew up in an abusive household and have experienced and still go through PTSD episodes and panic attacks. Right after I had my second baby, my fears were extremely heightened that something terrible would happen to her. My PTSD kicked in full gear where I was mama bearing her all the time and wouldn’t let her out of my sight. One morning, I decided to take a shower. I lasted for three minutes before that distance of not seeing or hearing my girls set me off in full panic mode. I got out of the shower to check on them, and they were completely fine, but the intense fear sat with me. I had to place that fear in a spot where I could try to understand why it was there, and this is where Little Owl was born.
Allan: Please tell us about your role as Inner Enlightenment Show Host. Sounds interesting.
Lauri: A few years ago, I had an idea that I wanted to interview people and hear their stories about things that they struggle with, or a moment in time where they hit rock bottom. But, also talk about the different steps they’ve taken to move forward within their life to find joy, wonder, and creativity that’s helped them be where they are today. I would say this is the Nancy Drew/Chicken Soup for the Soul part of me that wanted to open a safe space for truth, understanding, and inspiration. When I started it, I had no idea if it would be something that I’d do for an extended period as it was a fun test while getting to know an amazing human. After a few months of the show, I knew that this was something that I wanted to do for the rest of my life. The stories, experiences, and people I talk to each week have greatly inspired me and brought so much heart and voice to the show. People are fascinating, unique, and radiant!
Lauri: Yes!! I was asked a few years back if I could write a short story for this beautiful Christmas anthology. During that time, my grandma was dying. She was one of the only people who validated my experiences as a kid and always told me how special and amazing I was. She saw me in a way that no one else did, and it meant everything to me. Losing her around the holidays felt devastating, but as I was unpacking Christmas boxes and putting up decorations for my little family, I found an ornament that she gave me when I was a teen that said, “Treasure every moment.” Christmas Treasure is all about the grief and pain of losing someone you love during the holidays and treasuring the moments you had with them.
Allan: Can you share a childhood memory and/or anecdote.
Lauri: Sure. I liked to hide under pine trees and collect pinecones. It was a safe space where no one could see me, and I could hide, but it felt magical being hugged by the branches and also felt sleuth-like, wondrous, playful, and fun.
Allan: You are a Creativity Coach. Please tell us about this role.
Lauri: I teach people how to enjoy the moments of creativity away from judgment, perfectionism, shame, and guilt. When you have PTSD or childhood trauma, there’s this natural part that becomes very much a piece of you to shield and protect yourself at all costs. When that occurs, vulnerability and creativity leave the building. That’s often where the term “writer’s block” comes in. As a creativity coach, I teach people how to let those walls of protection come down, step by step, by using art and music as a connective form of expression and voice to break those barriers.
Allan: Favorite authors? Novels? Movie? Dessert?
Lauri: Love this! My favorite authors are Carolynn Keene, Mary Higgins Clark, Gillian Flynn, Paulo Coelho, Maggie Stiefvater, John Green, Harlan Coben and Julia Cameron. My favorite novels would be The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho and The Artist Way by Julia Cameron. I’ve read those two books multiple times and highlighted many sections filled with nuggets of wisdom.
Favorite movies: Nancy Drew, Shutter Island, The Fault to Our Stars, Little Women, Beaches, Fried Green Tomatoes.
My favorite dessert is, hands down, cherry cheesecake!
Allan: Tell us about your writing habits. Do you have a favorite spot to write? Do you prefer silence or background music?
Lauri: My writing habits change depending on what writing stage I’m in. When I’m writing my first draft, I prefer silence. But when I’m in my editing stages, I’ll listen to background music. Editing to me is like a giant puzzle, and I love puzzles. Having music on and putting the pieces together feels mysterious and adventurous to me. It also sets the tone for me, which gives more depth and richness to my setting and characters. My two favorite spots are in my downstairs office, surrounded by lights and toys, or under our beautiful tree in the backyard.
Allan: Anything else you’d like to tell us about?
Lauri: We all have a valuable and important story to tell that will speak to someone out there who needs to hear the very things you’re placing on paper.
Thank you, Lauri, for being our featured guest this week. Wishing you continued success in your writing and creative endeavors.
For all you wonderful visitors wanting to discover more about Lauri, please follow these links:
www.laurischoenfeld.com
Amazon.com: Little Owl: 9781735233116: Schoenfeld, Lauri: Books
www.instagram.com/laurischoenfeld/
September 18, 2021
Breaking news – Introducing an exciting Anthology – Autumn Paths - by the Seasonal Collective.
Autumn Paths
Coming in October!
I am so pleased to be part of a dedicated group of authors who have worked diligently over the last nine months to create a unique compilation of short stories following the theme of autumn paths.
We all travel different roads, share different stories but the love of writing brings us together and we are beyond pleased with the final results.
Now we want to tell everyone.
“these well-crafted works of short fiction will whet your appetite for more”
James Fisher -Editor in Chief – The Miramichi Reader.
Nine writers – Seasonal Collective – 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.
All the authors have been guest on The Scribbler and you can learn about them and the genre they write in by following the links below.
Sandra Bunting
Sandra’s publications include two books of short fiction, a poetry collection, a non-fiction book besides articles, poems and stories in numerous literary magazines. Sandra is on the editorial board of the Irish-based literary magazine, Crannóg, and worked at NUI Galway where she set up the Academic Writing Centre and taught Creative Writing and TEFL teacher training. Now living in Atlantic Canada, she is a member of The Writers Union of Canada, New Brunswick Writers Federation, Words on Water Miramichi, the Grand Barachois group Women Who Write and the Galway Writers’ Workshop. http://sandbunting.com
Scribbler visit – go HERE.
Pierre C. Arseneault
The youngest of eleven children, Pierre grew up in the small town of Rogersville New Brunswick. As a cartoonist, Pierre was published in over a dozen newspapers. As an author, he has five titles published so far.Dark Tales for Dark Nights (2013)Sleepless Nights (2014)Oakwood Island (2016)Poplar Falls – The Death of Charlie Baker (2019)Oakwood Island - The Awakening (2020)
Scribbler visit – go HERE.
Chuck Bowie
Chuck graduated from the University of New Brunswick in Canada with a Bachelor Degree in Science. His writing is influenced by the study of human nature and how people behave. Chuck loves food, wine, music and travel and all play a role in his work.
His publisher has just launched his latest novel, set in Ireland and England, entitled Her Irish Boyfriend, fifth in the international suspense-thriller series: Donovan: Thief For Hire. He has just completed and published the second novel in a new cozy mystery series, set in a fictional town in New Brunswick, and is now finishing the follow-up in this series.
- Chuck recently completed tenure on National Council of The Writers’ Union of Canada
- Acted as Writer in Residence at Kingsbrae International Residence for the Arts, 2019
- Acknowledged as an author of note in the Miramichi Literary Trail installation, 2021
Scribbler visit – go HERE.
S.C. Eston
Steve always had a conflicting love for the fantastical and the scientific, which led him to write both fantasy and science-fiction. He has three published books: Deficiency, The Conclave and The Burden of the Protector. He lives in Fredericton with his wife and children. www.sceston.ca
Scribbler visit – go HERE
Angela Wren
Angela is an actor and director at a theatre in Yorkshire, UK. An avid reader, she has always loved stories of any description. She writes the Jacques Forêt crime novels set in France and is a contributing author to the Miss Moonshine anthologies. Her short stories vary between romance, memoir, mystery and historical. Angela has had two one-act plays recorded for local radio.
Scribbler visit – go HERE.
Monique Thébeau
Monique is retired and lives in Riverview, NB. She has published a murder mystery ‘In the Dark of Winter’ (which she is currently translating) and a French historical novel of her hometown, Saint-Louis-de-Kent. She is as passionate about building suspense in her stories as she is about gardening and being a grand-parent.
Scribbler visit – go HERE.
Jeremy Thomas Gilmer
JEREMY is a writer of short fiction and nonfiction. He has been longlisted for the CBC Canada Writes Short Story Prize, won the inaugural Short Story Day Africa Flash Fiction Prize and was selected as the writer-in-residence at the KiRA residency in 2018. Jeremy is the Art and Literature editor-at-large for The East magazine.
Gilmer has spent over twenty-five years as an Engineering Consultant on environmental, energy, and mining projects. Born in New Brunswick, Gilmer grew up in Nigeria, Northern Ireland, and Canada and has lived and worked in over forty countries. He splits his time between Eastern Canada and Brazil.
Scribbler visit - go HERE.
Allan Hudson
Allan was born in Saint John, New Brunswick. Growing up in South Branch he was encouraged to read from an early age by his mother who was a school teacher. He lives in Cocagne with his wife Gloria. He has enjoyed a lifetime of adventure, travel and uses the many experiences as ideas for his writing. He is an author of action/adventure novels, historical fiction and a short story collection. His short stories – The Ship Breakers & In the Abyss – received Honourable Mention in the New Brunswick Writer’s Federation competition.
He has stories published on commuterlit.com, The Miramichi Reader, The Golden Ratio and his blog - South Branch Scribbler.
www.southbranchscribbler.ca
Go HERE.
Angella Cormier
Angella grew up in Saint Antoine, a small town in south east New Brunswick, Canada. This is where her love of reading and writing was born. Her curious nature about everything mysterious and paranormal helped carve the inspiration for her passion of writing horror and mystery stories. She is also a published poet, balancing out her writing to express herself in these two very opposing genres.
Previous titles include: Oakwood Island - The Awakening (2020), Oakwood Island (2016), A Maiden's Perception - A collection of thoughts, reflections and poetry (2015) and Dark Tales for Dark Nights (2013, written as Angella Jacob).
Scribbler visit – go HERE.
Watch for more news about Launch, Book Signings and where you can purchase the paperback or eBook.
September 11, 2021
Branching Out with Poet/Author Linda Barrett of Florida, US
It is with great pleasure the Scribbler presents this week's guest, Linda G. Barrett. A shout out to editor Karin Nicely (a regular contributor to the Scribbler -- see here) for introducing us.
When you take a peek at Linda’s website -
Author of Release Me – Linda G. Barrett (lindagbarrett.com)
one sentence I was impressed with is as follows:
Linda Barrett delves into the soul's journey toward peace and examines the human reaction to pain, grief, love, longing, and despair in her unique mix of captivating, poignant poetry and genre-bending short stories.
Linda has kindly agreed to a Branching Out interview and is sharing some of her writing.
Let's have a chat with Linda.
Allan: Thank you for joining us this week, Linda. Before we begin, please tell us about yourself, where you live, your rescued pets and home life and anything you’d like our readers to know about you.
Linda: I live in North Central Florida with my husband, two dogs, and one cat—all rescued. I am a firm believer in giving love, hope, affection, and a better quality of life to an animal, either young or old, that needs us. I love seeing them happy and “smiling” with their wagging tails.
I have been told I’m an enigma: deeply spiritual, inspired by the wonder and beauty of life, intuitive and ‘sensitive’ to the soul or spirit, while also intrigued by the occult, all things gothic, witchy, and other wonderful topics. All of these themes are woven into most of my poems or short stories.
Allan: I'd like you to address the following statement taken from your website: My books are about the soul's journey through despair, pain, grief, and love, struggling to find peace.
Linda: Release Me created a way for me to purge my own pain and feelings of being alone, unseen and unheard. Others are often too caught within their own pain to notice yours. The intention of this book is for the reader to, upon reading these written words, realize they’re being given a lifeline to hold onto and know they are not alone on their journey.
I have always walked the road to that dark place within us all, looking at it, feeling the emotion, and deciding if there is a desire for healing. Or not. Living through the deep purging from within the core of my own being, choosing the path of light or darkness. Sometimes it’s both. I know the pain and anguish of those choices.
Save the Sinner’s title was influenced by a personal event. Its poetry continues with similar themes to those poems in Release Me. But the short stories in this book feature many different types of characters who deal with their own unique situations and internal struggles, whether in this world, other worlds, or even other dimensions.
Allan: You also mention how much Karin Nicely was instrumental in your decision to publish. There is nothing more encouraging than having someone tell us how much they enjoy our writing. Can you tell us about this experience?
Linda: As fate would have it—literally—I met Karin through one of my marketing networking meetings. What are the odds that I would know an editor! I told her my story; she looked at my work, and said my writing was unique and print worthy. Karin has given me her insight, encouragement, guidance, and mostly her patience. She is remarkedly talented.
Even though my style of writing is distinctive, what interested many of my readers the most is the ‘why’ I began my journey. Not only was I so relentlessly compelled to write Release Me to save her life (with her referring to a particular girl, one I did not recognize and one who was in obvious distress, that I had seen in a very vivid vision), but in so doing, saved mine as well. www.lindagbarrett.com
Allan: You have two books published. The first being a book of poetry--Release Me--and the second a collection of poems and short stories--Save the Sinner.Please give us a brief glance at what to expect when we pick up our copies.
Linda: Release Me is a small collection of poems that allowed me the freedom to release those raw emotions I had held so tightly for so long. When you are in that lonely, dark place within your heart, this book can be the catalyst for your own healing.
In Save the Sinner, I continued with more poetry but also included six short stories. All of my stories are deeply personal to me. As I write, I don’t just tell a story. I was there with each character, becoming them, to learn who they really are.
For example, with “The Forest,” I sat in Crow’s mahogany chair and felt the cold hardness of the seat. I felt Shadow’s feathers when he gently stroked them while she sat quietly on his shoulder as he gazed out over his vast, dead forest. I went deep into his heart to feel his desperate longing and lost love for his beautiful Genevieve, the vengeance that it created, and felt his guilt and grief for what he had done to the Ancient Ones.
Allan: Please share a childhood memory and/or anecdote.
Linda: I grew up with airplanes as a part of my everyday life. My dad was an aerobatic pilot for fun and an airline captain as his profession. My favorite childhood memory was flying with him in his open-cockpit biplane, his favorite being his 1930s Great Lakes. I could look above and see the top wing close enough to reach up and touch it, and I always did. Then right below me was the other wing. The entire outer skin of the plane is fabric, by the way--special, but it’s fabric that I could feel when I ran my hands over any part of the plane. Very cool. There just isn't any other experience like flying in the open air, slow and close to the ground, with the wind in your hair. There’s just no other feeling like it.
Oddly enough, however, even though I have flown my entire life, over time, I have become terrified to fly…and I have no logical reason for this. But in keeping with these memories, I can still feel the wind in my hair, and I still smile.
Allan: If you could only write either poems or short stories, which would be your choice and why?
Linda: Definitely short stories. I love having an idea of a story, creating the characters, and seeing how the adventure unfolds. My fictional stories are wide-ranging and uncommon, as I try to open my imagination to endless possibilities. Even more exciting for me!
Allan: Again, from your website, you tell us: My interests are varied and diverse. I studied with a Native American teacher for many years, learned from Tibetan monks, met with Orthodox priests, and studied with a Shamanic teacher. I've been fortunate to have met diverse cultural leaders from around the world, and I love a good philosophical conversation. Will we find evidence of this journey in your writing?
Linda: Here are a few examples.
“Ancient Dance of Women,” in Save the Sinner, is directly dedicated to my shamanic teacher, who taught me to remember my ancestors and showed me there can be trust rebuilt from hurtful and negative experiences. This was a profound awakening for me. I hold her in my heart with the greatest respect and in honor of her wisdom.
The short story “The Forest” (Save the Sinner) conveys the intensity of the power of love and loss. There is a depth of despair so strong my heart aches with Crow, yet there is also the promise of hope.
Allan: You are working on your first novel -- Soul Collector -- inspired by one of your short stories. Is it nearing completion? Can you tell us what to expect?
Linda: I’m still in the creation process, but I will keep you updated as I get closer to its release! I’ve introduced new characters, added many twists and turns, and we learn much more about the motivation and background of Breena, the dark protagonist of the story.
Allan: Favourite book? Author? Movie? Dessert?
Linda: Always start with dessert first! Hot fried donuts (glazed, of course) with chocolate and raspberry sauce drizzled over them and topped with a ton of powdered sugar. Now that’s a dessert!
Apollo 13 is my first go-to movie. My favorite line is when Lovell’s mom says, “If they could get a washing machine to fly, my Jimmy could land it.” I hold my breath every time as I watch them come home.
My second favorite would be Independence Day. I mean, defeating the evil alien while your spaceship is stuck into their mother ship! How can you not like that!?
Then would come The Bird Cage--It’s light, it’s fun, and it makes me laugh.
My attention is drawn to many different topics and styles of writing. Some of my favorite writers include Anne Rice, Kim Harrison, Laurell Hamilton, Dan Brown, Dean Koontz, and Jacob Nordby, to name a few. World mythology and religion, especially of indigenous tribal cultures, fascinate me, and I’m intrigued by gothic and Renaissance art. My interests may be unusual, but I’m never bored!
Allan:Anything else you'd like to tell us about?
Linda: I saw Release Me as timidly dipping my toe into the vast ocean of authors, Save the Sinner as slowly putting my whole foot into that ocean, and now with my first novel, Soul Collector, I’m jumping in headfirst! These books, albeit very different, have allowed me to spread my wings and fly. I am having the best time ever!
Linda is sharing samples of her writing.
(Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)
I feel my poem, “The Lies of Childhood,” speaks for itself. (Release Me)
The lies of childhood / Stories continue in life / If there is a God / I've been forgotten / A life of solitude / Standing within many / Love fleeting / Happiness scarce / Heart broken and bleeding / It hurts to be forgotten / Just wanting to be loved
And here is a short excerpt from “Soul Collector” (Save the Sinner):
“Jack!” Billy gasped, out of breath. “I saw him! He’s dead, Jack! She killed him!”
“Billy, what the heck are you talking about? Who’s dead? Come on. Are you telling tales again?”
“You have to believe me! Please.” He gulped in some air. “Just listen. I swear it’s the truth.”
“Okay, Billy-boy. This better be good,” I said.
“You know those big old oak trees behind Breena’s house that have all those jars hanging in the branches?” asked Billy.
“Sure,” I said. “Everyone does.”
“Have you ever wondered what those screams are that everyone hears at night?” asked Billy.
Some people say that the screams heard from the old house at night are from the jars that hang from the old oak trees’ branches. Folks say when the wind blows, those jars bump against each other, causing that unholy screeching that can be heard through the whole town.
“It’s just the wind,” I said.
“No, Jack. It’s not the wind. I’ve got to tell you…” Billy trailed off as he started to sob.
But not everything I write is dark and soul searching. There are also some elements of romance, as in this excerpt from my short story, “The Crow,” in Save the Sinner:
At the same time, Crow emerged from the dust cloud and stopped when he caught sight of his lost love. Their eyes locked. Her beauty and his undying love for her overwhelmed him, and he dropped to his knees beside her. They held each other tightly, both sobbing deeply, purging all their pain, allowing the old memories and emotions to wash away what had been held for so long.
Thank you, Linda for being our guest this week. Wishing you continued success with your writing.
For all you devoted readers wishing to discover more about Linda and her writing, please follow these links:
Facebook https://LindaGBarrettAuthor
Website www.lindagbarrett.com
Email linda@lindagbarrett.com
Photo copyright belongs to Linda Barrett.
September 4, 2021
Branching out with Award-winning Author Diana Stevan of West Vancouver.
The Scribbler is pleased to welcome Diana back as our featured guest this week. It will be her third visit, and hopefully, not her last.
If you missed the previous visits, please go HERE to read an excerpt from her debut novel – A Cry From the Deep. Her second visit was an interview and an excerpt from Sunflowers Under Fire. Please go HERE.
Today we are going to be discussing Diana’s captivating new novel – Lilacs in the Dust Bowl. A terrific follow-up to her successful novel - Sunflowers Under Fire.
Please go HERE to read my review on The Miramichi Reader for Lilacs in the Dust Bowl.
Let’s chat with Diana.
Allan: Welcome back Diana and thanks for taking the time to share your thoughts this week. Before we chat about your novel, can you tell our readers a bit about yourself, hometown, family, what makes you happy.
Diana: Thank you for inviting me to be on your blog again. I live with my husband, Robert, in Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. It’s a lovely community of about 35,000 overlooking Discovery Passage and Quadra Island. As well, beautiful walks in forests are only a ten minute drive away. It’s a great place to write. I’ve been a member of a writers’ critique group here ever since we arrived 24 years ago.
I was born in Winnipeg, a great cultural city, and that was where we raised our two daughters. We were both trained as clinical social workers, and when the opportunity came to move west came in 1979—great jobs were opening up in Greater Vancouver—we took the leap. I worked for twenty-five years, counting my time in Winnipeg, as a family therapist in a variety of clinical settings. Because I’m such a curious person, and also because I burned out twice in my profession, I took breaks and developed some other skills, like becoming a professional actor and a freelance sport reporter for CBC television. I feel blessed to have dipped my toes in various fields of work. I have much to draw on for my writing.
What makes me happy now is doing things with Robert, whether it’s golfing with friends, cycling together, stretching with yoga and pilates workouts, walking in the forest, travelling, or watching a movie or sports on TV. And I sprinkle time in with our two wonderful daughters and families. My passion is writing, but I also enjoy painting, playing my violin and gardening. I feel very blessed.
Allan: The real treat of the two novels is the fact that the stories are a fictional account based upon your grandmother’s plight at the turn of the century, the difficulties she faced, the heartbreak and the love of family and resilience which kept her going. Has this been an emotional experience for you?
Diana: Yes, it’s been very emotional for me on so many levels. Baba—the Ukrainian word for grandmother—shared a bedroom with me for the first fifteen years of my life. She never talked about her past, so I only learned about what she went through from my mother, who was a natural-born storyteller.
Mom didn’t know everything that went on in Western Ukraine (then Russia) and later in Canada so I had to research those times. What I discovered—through Mom’s stories and the history I uncovered—was my baba’s incredible spirit and how much her faith had supported her in her quest to ensure her family was safe and secure. I recall crying at the computer when I wrote certain scenes. It was as if she was talking to me, guiding me to tell the truth of what she’d experienced. I also found myself laughing for she was a woman who had a good sense of humour.
Allan: Please tell the readers what to expect when they pick up their copy of Lilacs in the Dust Bowl.
Diana: This is Book two of Lukia’s Family Saga, but it can be read as a standalone. It’s an immigrant story and picks up where the first book, Sunflowers Under Fire ends.
In 1929, Lukia Mazurets and her remaining children make the arduous journey from their village in Volhynia (today’s Western Ukraine) to Winnipeg, Manitoba, just before the stock market crashes and the Great Depression begins. She’d been lured by the promise of rich and abundant farmland for a tiny fraction of what it would cost in then Polish-occupied Ukraine. Though she and her children are met with hardship, they persevere in what to them is a strange land with strange customs. Lukia also discovers love again, which takes some interesting twists. As well, her children, now grown, face new challenges of their own. Another love story brews, one triggered by an old folk tradition.
Lilacs in the Dust Bowl gives the reader a sense of what it means to be an immigrant in a new country, one facing its own questions of survival. It’s a heartwarming tale of one strong woman who keeps going, aided by her faith, because of her love and desire to take care of her family.
Allan: Is there a third installment in the life of Lukia Mazurets coming?
Diana: Yes, I’m working on the third installment now. It continues Lukia’s family saga on the Manitoba prairies as the world enters into World War II. The Great Depression comes to an end, but in its place, a new uncertainty arises with young men going off to war. As Lukia and her family grapple with these changes, problems on the farm threaten all that Lukia has worked for.
Allan: When we visit your website – www.dianastevan.com– and read the About section, we discover the varied and interesting life you’ve led. Considering your stories, are there characteristics of Diana Stevan in any of your characters? Do you see yourself in your novels?
Diana: Absolutely. I don’t know of any writer who doesn’t convey some of their feelings and thoughts into their characters. In my first novel, A Cry from the Deep, my concern about the environment showed up in my protagonist’s thoughts and actions. As well, her questions about faith were questions I’ve had myself. And in The Rubber Fence, the passion that Dr. Joanna Bereza shows for her work is a passion I had when I worked as a family therapist.
However, Lukia’s Family Saga—Sunflowers Under Fire and Lilacs in the Dust Bowl—took me in another direction. I felt at times that I was channeling the voices of my grandmother, mother, and uncles. So, there’s less of my voice in these stories.
Allan: We know when you are not writing, you are an avid gardener. Let chat about your Work-In-Progress (WIP) – Along Came a Gardener. Your website tells us – It combines her thoughts from her career as a family therapist with her love of gardening.
Diana: This is a book I’m anxious to get back to. I’ve discovered so many lessons in my garden, lessons that complement the ones I learned and imparted in my years as a family therapist. I’m fascinated by what Nature is trying to teach us. If only we would listen. We could learn much from the way plants co-exist—how and why they thrive or wither is very informative.
Allan: Favorite novels. Authors. Movie and dessert.
Diana: Ah, there are so many great books. Some of my favourites: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maude Montgomery, Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates, Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx, Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens, and You Went Away, a novella by Timothy Findlay.
Some of my favourite Movies: Casablanca, Pride and Prejudice, Moonlight, Moonstruck, Mudbound, The Godfather, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Terms of Endearment, Dr. Zhivago, The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, Scrooge with Albert Finney, It’s A Wonderful Life, Gone with the Wind, Cinderella, My Fair Lady, and my grandson Michael Stevantoni’s Salton Sea (available on Amazon Prime 😊)
Dessert: I’m not a big sweet person, but I like tapioca pudding and enjoy small pieces of cheesecake, pie and I love dark chocolate.
Allan: Anything else you’d like to tell us about?
Diana: I feel so grateful to have had a life, that exposed me to all kinds of work and people. It’s made me appreciate the diversity in our country. As we head into an election, I’m hopeful that we will continue to grow in kindness and tackle the problems in front of us with courage and ingenuity for the sake of our children and grandchildren.
Excerpts from Lilacs in the Dust Bowl.
(Copyright is held by the author. Use with permission)
The first excerpt takes place during the throes of the dust storms, when Lukia and her children and living on a Manitoba farm, in a house with two other families.
By April, the worst of the winter was over. A gentle breeze, coupled with the fresh smell of the earth awakening after a long sleep, brought renewed hope for a better year. The Karpinskys, who had threatened to leave in the spring, decided to stay. Prospects in the city were no better, they said. But as the days got longer and warmer, the three families faced new challenges. The improvement in weather also brought unexpected dust storms. Thick clouds of black dust swirled across country roads and through farmhouses. The air was so bad, Anna and Elena worried about their children’s lungs. Especially when one started coughing. It got so dark in the afternoon; lamps were lit two hours ahead of time. It seemed the sun had taken a holiday and wasn’t about to return until the dust clouds dispersed.
The three families did what they could to keep the dust outdoors. They covered up the edges of windows and doors with any rags they could find. Venturing out to feed the livestock, they covered their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs. Trips to the outhouse involved going with heads lowered to avoid eating debris as it flew around. Their eyes smarted from the dirt flying in, and they often had to stop and get the specks out before their eyes turned red.
Lukia found the air so foul it was impossible to work in the garden and the fields. The dust continued to blow until midnight.
After days of flying dust, the storm abated but left behind dirty houses, dirty barns, dirty chicken coops—in fact, dirty everything that stood in its way. Lukia held her head in her hands and bemoaned her lot. What hell is this?
The second is later in the novel when Lukia is surprised by a visit from a local farmer.
Lukia was coming out of the chicken coop with a basket of eggs when she heard a car drive up their road. Harry, who was at the pump filling a few jugs with water, turned towards the sound of the approaching engine. It was a car she didn’t know. Her youngest son, always excited about any vehicle, picked up the jugs and hurried back to the house.
As the car came to a stop, Lukia recognized Orest behind the wheel of the shiny blue automobile. She was thankful that, having gone to church that morning, she had her good dress and beaded necklace on.
“Good day, Orest. What brings you here this afternoon?”
“I promised you deer meat.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.”
He opened the trunk and pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a thin rope. It was as neat as his dress. He wore a white starched shirt with a striped tie, wool gabardine trousers, and a matching tailored jacket; even his shoes were polished.
Lukia said, “Orest, this is my son. Harry, this is Pan Parochnyk.”
Harry couldn’t take his eyes off the car.
Smiling, Orest said, “It’s a 1933 Chevrolet.”
“Harry’s learning how to be a mechanic. He’s working as an apprentice at a garage in Winnipeg.”
“Can I see the motor?” asked Harry.
“Harry, Pan Parochnyk’s only arrived and he has his hands full. That can wait.”
“It’s fine,” Orest said. He gave Lukia the package and opened up the hood for Harry to have a look.
Lukia clucked her lips, but Harry didn’t notice. He was busy inspecting the engine.
“Will you stay for lunch?” she said. “We just got back from church. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Thank you. I could use a bite.”
“Were you at church today?”
“No.”
“You’re so nicely dressed.”
“It’s Sunday,” he said with a grin.
He followed her into the house, with Harry close behind, and took off his straw hat at the threshold. She took a quick glance in the mirror by the door. She fixed some strands of hair that had come undone from her bun, then went to the stove where a pot of borscht was simmering.
“Orest, please sit down at the kitchen table.” She took the pot off the stove. “Harry, unwrap the meat Pan Parochnyk brought.”
Lukia quickly wiped the crumbs off the oilcloth-covered table and got a bottle of homebrew out from the cupboard and some shot glasses. As she set the table for lunch, she noticed Orest glancing around the room. Breakfast dishes were stacked by the sink and a pot with bits of porridge on the bottom was on the stove. Tiny clumps of dirt speckled the floor by the door where they’d taken their boots off. She hoped he wasn’t judging her too harshly. What with feeding the livestock and getting dressed for church, she hadn’t tidied up beforehand, but that was the least of her concerns. Rather, she wasn’t used to men calling on her. The last time she’d had a man come around was in the old country. Mike had become so agitated when he learned his uncle wanted to marry his mother that he’d stood in the doorway, shaking. Now her son was seeking a girl of his own, so surely, he wouldn’t protest in the same way.
Thank you, Diana, for being our guest this week… and thank you for your stories. Wishing you continued success with your writing.
For all you wonderful visitors wanting to discover more about Diana and her novels, please follow these links:
https://www.facebook.com/dianastevan.author
https://www.twitter.com/dianastevan @DianaStevan
https://www.instagram.com/diana.stevan diana.stevan
https://ca.linkedin.com/in/diana-stevanhttps://www.pinterest.com/dianastevan/
August 28, 2021
Branching out with Award-winning Author Anna J. Walner of The Uluru Legacy
The Scribbler has the pleasure of working with Creative Edge publicity firm of Saskatoon and this week we bring you news of author Anna J. Walner.
Anna is the International Bestselling Author of the Award-Winning debut novel – Garkain. Book one of The Uluru Legacy series. Reading her latest press release it was interesting to read a few of the reviews the story has received. This one sticks out the most –
"Defying expectations, this award-winning debut novel by Anna J Walner, begins the Uluru Legacy Series, and leaves you craving more. A remarkably new experience, that doesn't disappoint." - Book Trib
Anna has agreed to a Branching Out Interview and sharing the synopsis of the story.
A girl in search of her family finds more than she ever dreamed possible. Blending myth with reality, this award-winning debut provides a truly unique and realistic spin on the genre you love.
Enter a world hidden to human eyes for over three centurie . A safe haven for both Vampire and Werewolf. She'll become something she never thought existed, agree to things she never thought she would, and find a life worth dying for.
Let’s chat with Anna.
Allan: Welcome to the Scribbler, Anna. Before we chat about books and writing, please tell our readers a bit about yourself, home & family.
Anna: I began my journey to becoming an Author at a young age, escaping into the world of books. Visiting faraway places and going on thrilling adventures, while dealing with Social Anxiety.
Over time my own voice as an Author began to take shape. The Enrovia Series was my first series, establishing my own company, Silver Dawn Publishing, and venturing out for the first time.
I am now an International Bestselling Author of The Uluru Legacy Series, “Garkain”. My journey as an Author is only just beginning, with three more books in the series, and a new work in progress always at the ready.
Allan: There is an interesting comment in your bio. “She began this quest for her daughter.” Tell us more about this.
Anna: The Enrovia Series was written for her, with her in mind. I wanted to give her the kind of young girl I enjoyed reading growing up, strong and fearless, even when tested by impossible odds. I wanted to give her a series and a main character that was an inspiration.
Allan: Please tell our readers what to expect when they pick up their copy of Garkain.
Anna: Something entirely new when it comes to Vampires and Lycanthropes. An enjoyable read that is focused on the character and not the scenery. You truly get to know Amelia, Roan, Anatole, and Ambrose. It’s immersive and blended with a bit of factual science and history to weave a tapestry of believability into the world of The Colony.
Allan: The novel has garnered many positive reviews but even more exciting is the Literary Titan award it received. How did that feel?
Anna: Like I was on the path to something special. That what others kept telling me, might in fact be true. The book, the series, the idea was good. Unique, and different. Exciting and enjoyable.
Synopsis for Garkain.
Amelia was dropped at a hospital in Houston 25 years ago. After searching for her biological family for years she receives a vague text: “It’s time for you to come home, we need you, the Colony needs you.”
The Colony is a secret society in the Outback of Australia, driven from Europe in 1788 to the prison colony of New Holland to begin anew. Her mother is Garkain, her father Larougo. Two different bloodlines, two different societies. One Vampire, one Werewolf. Given away instead of killed, she’s being called home for a purpose.
She’ll agree to things she thought she never would, become things she never thought existed, and agree to a bargain that will change the Colony forever.
The vampire rule book has changed in this imaginative series that defies expectations. Blending worlds together as a delicious escape in a new and unique way.
Welcome to your new obsession.
Watch for Book two of the series.
Thank you, Anna, for being our guest this week. Wishing you continued success with your stories.
