Allan Hudson's Blog, page 34

Guest Author Arianna Dagnino of Vancouver, British Columbia.

Arianna Dagnino ’s cultural and professional experience crosses many borders and five continents. (Quoted from website)



The Scribbler is most fortunate to have Arianna as our guest this week, certainly one of our most interesting invitees. I discovered her novel – The Afrikaner – on Twitter and was immediately drawn to the story and the author.  She has kindly agreed to a 4Q Interview and to share an excerpt from her novel.





In her career as an international reporter, literary translator and academic researcher, Arianna Dagnino has lived in many countries, including a five-year stint in South Africa. The author of several books on the impact of global mobility, science and digital technologies, she holds a PhD from the University of South Australia and currently teaches at the University of British Columbia.  Her novel The Afrikaner has just been published by Guernica Editions in Toronto. 
Arianna Dagnino in the Kalahari Desert, South Africa, 1998





4Q: Let’s start by talking about your novel. Please tell us about it and what inspired this story.



AD: In a nutshell, the Afrikaner is an on-the-road adventure story that blends history, scientific research and politics in a plot set between Johannesburg, Cape Town, the Kalahari Desert and Zanzibar. Set in newly post-apartheid South Africa, the book is inspired by the five years (1996-2000) I spent there as a foreign correspondent for the Italian press. The main character, Zoe du Plessis (33), is a young female scientist (paleontologist) of Afrikaner descent. A conflicted woman struggling with group guilt and a dark family secret, Zoe embarks on a field expedition into the hot plains of the Kalahari Desert in search of early human fossils. Her journey of atonement and self-discovery will lead her to memorable encounters with a troubled writer, a Bushman shaman, and a Border War veteran.  The conclusion spirals the reader into a new perspective, where atonement seems to be inextricably linked to an act of creative imagination. 



4Q: You have an impressive CV, world traveler having lived and studied in many countries, a doctorate degree in Comparative Literature, a published author, a lecturer at the University of British Columbia, translator & interpreter and citizenship in three countries. How does writing fiction novels fit into all this?



AD: I have always thought that a writer needs to live intensely, harshly, wildly before s/he can put anything on paper. Combine this with an unquenched love for hard travelling and deep immersion in other cultures/languages and here I am. My fiction writing emanates from my multifarious experiences across the globe.  I re-entered academia later in life and this allowed me to further explore my use of the English language within a literary context. For this reason, my book Transcultural Writers and Novels in the Age of Global Mobility (Purdue UP, 2015) starts with a creative non-fiction piece. In it, I recount my encounters with five internationally-renown authors (intercutting them with my own diary entries)using the harbour city of Istanbul as a fictionalized setting. 







4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.



AD:If you allow me, I would like to share an anecdote of my youth (I was 21, then) – rather than of my childhood – that happened to me in 1985 while I was living in former Soviet Union at Moscow’s Pushkin Institute as a student of Russian language. The passage is an excerpt from my travel diaries:
“In Moscow in 1984 I read Dostoyevsky, I read about the miseries of the Russian people, then as much as ever. I sent letters to my family, writing with a pencil on the coarse paper that they used as table- cloth in unauthorized basement taverns. For six months I was almost cut off from the outer world. To phone abroad from a public place was an enterprise that demanded long hours of waiting among hundreds of ethnic proletarians assimilated by the empire: Turkmens, Kazaks, Georgians, Kyrgyzs. The news from abroad was metered out with a dropper.

Dimitri was my guide to the Russian underground. He kissed me and sang Vysotsky to me—the songs of this anti-establishment singer-songwriter ostracized by Soviet authorities spoke truth in their own oblique way. One night, he led me where no foreigner—least of all a fortuitous tourist—would ever get to: a street, a nineteenth-century building, a front door, a cold entrance hall, one landing. In the silent darkness that smelled of bygone affluence, my poet lit his cigarette lighter and brought it closer to the wall. Then, through our condensed breaths, I saw, at first indistinctly, then more and more clearly: tens, hundreds of writings running up those walls encrusted by time and memory. Dimitri read out loud some of them, interpreting them with his warm actor's voice. They were all passages from Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita. He told me that the authorities regularly covered those writings under a layer of whitewash but—relentlessly—those surreptitious traces kept reappearing. The magic of the initiated. The words that lived on, at all costs. ‘Manuscripts don't burn’ (Bulgakov, The Master, p. 287). It was an exemplary lesson.




 

4Q: Is there a special time or place where you sneak off to write?



AD: I like getting up very early in the morning, around 5.00 am, have my cup of rooibos tea and sit at my desk while everyone else in the house is still asleep. Possibly, while I write I love being able to peek at the sea (any sea). As a woman of the sea, born by the sea, I am always inspired by the line of distant horizons.




4Q: In the world of fiction, what’s next for Arianna, the author?



AD: With my husband Stefano Gulmanelli we are exploring the idea of writing together a fiction set between Vancouver, Canada and Genoa, Italy in two different time frames: the now (21st century) and the year 1796 (at the aftermath of the French Revolution). The two main characters are a modern Vancouverite woman doing research on an 18th century Genoese painter, and Carlo Rivarola, a fallen Genoese nobleman living in contemporary Italy. 

Carlo RivarolaWe would obviously capitalize on the thorough understanding we have developed of both countries and their related societies. Through engaging story-telling we would use the intersection of these different cultural spaces and time frames to explore issues of national identity, cultural prejudice, and the quest for self-determination (both at the individual and collective level). We think this would make the work both timely and topical.  










An Excerpt from The Afrikaner 


 (Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)




Kurt moves to the kitchen to prepare their drinks.
As she looks around, Zoe notices another window-door, slightly ajar, leading into a studio. She peers inside. Three of the walls are covered with books; in a corner facing the window is a sturdy desk of what looks like reclaimed wood; a computer and a stack of black leather notebooks are the only objects on it. She enters, walks over to the closest shelf and runs a finger over the spines of the books: they’re arranged in alphabetical order. She pauses at the V and reads the titles of his works.
“Here, Zoe,” Kurt says, handing her a tumbler. She jumps slightly: He has come from behind, catching her by surprise.
“I’m sorry, I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not to worry,” he says perching himself on a stool by the window: “A fossil hunter can’t help being snoopy.”
“I guess so,” she says, listening to the ice tinkle against her glass. “Most of the time with few rewards, though. I mean, Mary Leakey found her first hominid footprints after she had wandered in the desert like a mad woman for thirty years.”
He seems to wait for more. She can’t suppress a smile. “Is something funny?”
“I’m sorry. With your high-neck fisherman’s sweater, whiskey in hand and unshaven stubble you look like a real writer. I mean, the way anyone would imagine, say, Hemingway in his study.”
“Putting on weight, with greying hair and ready to shoot himself in the head. Too much like the old man, right?”
“I see you have most of his books.”
“We never stop imitating our models, for better or for worse.”
Out there, the sky has suddenly turned blood red. Below them, the Atlantic waves keep beating on the shore with dogged insistence.
As she turns again toward the shelf, Zoe makes eye contact with a young woman framed within a picture. She is of unusual beauty, with shiny black hair wrapping her shoulders like a silk shawl, slightly almond-shaped eyes and the golden-brown skin of the Cape Coloured.
Kurt stands up rather abruptly.
“You’re going to miss the sunset,” he says laying a hand on her hip, leading her gently through the window doors onto the terrace.
They reach the others in time to pick up what Cyril is saying: “He built this house with his own hands, soon after he came back to South Africa three years ago.”
Zoe looks sideways to check Kurt’s reaction, but he seems lost in his thoughts, perhaps in his memories. He keeps his eyes not on the fireball in the sky but down, at the relentless surf under their feet. Once again, he has retreated behind a curtain of cold detachment. Even his dwelling, so apparently open to the sun and the sea breeze, is standing within invisible walls – the ones he has erected between himself and the rest of the world.











Thank you for being our guest this week Arianna. I’ve recently purchased your novel and am anxious to “dig in”.


For you readers that would like to discover more about Arianna and her writing, please follow these links:


Book website: https://blogs.ubc.ca/afrikaner/
Book trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXmKFWMLgKM
Interview in the “Vancouver Sun": https://vancouversun.com/entertainmen...
Review in the Ottawa Review of Books:  https://www.ottawareviewofbooks.com/s...
Review in BC Bookloook: https://bcbooklook.com/2019/03/31/som...
Amazon Usa: https://www.amazon.com/Afrikaner-Essential-Prose-Arianna-Dagnino/dp/1771833572
Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/Afrikaner-Arianna-Dagnino/dp/1771833572/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1546617911&sr=8-2&keywords=arianna+dagnino

Guest Author Steven Spears of Shediac, New Brunswick.

Poetry and Stories by Steve S.






That’s the heading when you visit Steve’s Facebook page where you will find lots of interesting material about Steve and his books. He has kindly agreed to be our guest this week on the Scribbler, as well as share an excerpt of his writing.






Steven Spears is a 49 year old Forester and Biologist, who spends his evenings writing and trying to figure out his head. He is still trying.  He is a pagan, who investigates and studies his faith by writing. His poetry takes a look at different aspects of being pagan and what its like to be pagan in today’s society. He also writes erotica, sensual, horror, fantasy and his own brand of fairy tales. He has two self published books “A Journey with the Lady” and “Under the Red Sheet”.






4Q: Let’s talk about Under the Red Sheets first – a collection of short stories and poems about tantalizing subjects.


SS: Under the Red Sheet started out as a collection of poems and stories, mostly around relationships and sex, but as time went on it grew into something else. Yes sex is still part of it, but the book itself goes through the cycle of flirting, dating, shyness, relationships, sex, and loss and breakup. The short stories are just another way to look at these subjects, and oh yes there is a fair amount of humor in there as well.






4Q: A Journey with the Lady has received some very pleasant reviews. What’s it about and what inspired this  story?




SS: A Journey with the Lady is my first book of poetry and prose and it deals with paganism. The poems in it look at how it is being a witch in today’s society, how it’s like to “come out of the broom closet”. It also has teaching poems, chants, and poems relating to ritual. Some of the poems have been used in Wiccan rituals. Also there are more fanciful poems, including a whole chapter of poems on a theme of humor, a poor gentleman who keeps bumping into supernatural creatures.  Journey was a way for me to explore and study my faith more closely, one in which I continue today.




4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.



SS: The past is the past, though it does tend to make us what we are, I do not try to dwell on it. Having said that it was not that my childhood was bad or horrible, it is behind me.  Though if there is one thing it would be this, when I was 11 days old it was found out that my esophagus was not fully formed. It took an immediate operation to correct the situation, and due to complications I nearly died three times in those two weeks that followed.





4Q: Where’s your favorite place to write and please share what gets your creative juices flowing.




SS: I am a bit weird when it comes to writing. I tend to write where ever I am or any time. Basically, it comes down to if something strikes me, I tend to write about it. I could be at home, work or on the road. I even have in meetings, wrote poems when something has come to mind. 





4Q: Anything else you’d like to add?




Photo credit: wiccanspells.infoSS: I would suppose it would be this that I write not just in one genre. I write poetry and short stories around paganism, erotica, sensual, horror, fairy tales, fantasy and general poetry. In a way they all revolve around the theme of paganism, that of life, fertility, imagination and death. 












An Excerpt from Under the Red Sheet
(Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)



One Last Dance

Out on the floor the young couples twirl,

Tonight is the night of the old barn dance,

To the young ones it is all for a chuckle or a giggle,

Not for all for old memories are again once alive.

He sits in the corner and watches the kids dance,

Old he is that is true but in his mind still young,

She is gone now having passed just last year.

Here he sits forgotten in a corner,

His kids, now adults with kids of their own have left him there,

But as he watches the couples dance he relives his time with her.

They would dance the night away in each others arms,

Remarked it was that they made such a perfect couple.

And in his mind he dances with her still and always will,

His love has gone and he knows he soon will join her,

But right now he sits and watches the youngsters.

His little granddaughter asks him to dance; smile at her he does,

But he must decline for his old legs will not let him anymore.

Instead he holds her and she rambles on about all she has seen this night.

Soon she is off again chasing her brothers and he is again left alone.

She is always with him; for he can feel her nearby like he always could,

So he watches and taps his foot to the music and relives the past,

Tapping with the beat his foot goes, but then his foot stops.

Later they find him sitting in the corner with a smile on his face,

Crying and sobbing they say oh why has he gone?

He has gone to join his love for one last dance.



By Steve S 08/09/2016







Thank you for being our guest this week Steve. For all you readers that would like to know more about Steve and his writing, please follow this link:



https://www.facebook.com/StevenSPagan...

Guest Author Vanessa Hawkins of St. George, New Brunswick

“Vanessa Hawkins has quickly become one of my favourite authors. Her ability to weave plot lines is nothing short of remarkable, overshadowed only by the depth of her characters. This book is only the beginning of a long, prolific career.”

— Sean O’Gorman, author of Issues With Etiquette





How’s that for a splendid review? Our guest this week writes in the horror genre and has three books published. I was introduced to Vanessa at a recent writer’s group meeting in Fredericton where she joined us by phone. She has kindly agreed to a 4Q Interview and to share an excerpt from one of her chilling tales.







A life-long lover of horror, Vanessa wrote her first story in the genre when she was only in grade five. It was titled Mutilated and it warranted her a trip to the school guidance counsellor. A lifetime later, she continues to write about anything gruesome, terrifying, paranormal and erotic, though she has since found herself enthralled in the world of fantasy steampunk and realistic fiction.



4Q: I believe the first novel you published is Gloryhill.  Tell us about the novel and what inspired it. Is it part of a series?


VH: Gloryhill was inspired at the apex of the vampire craze. Really you could say it was a knee jerk reaction to all those glittery vampires who plodded around in superficial angst with pseudo undead problems looking for fresh human poon. Needless to say I wanted my monsters back. I created Gloryhill as a foil for all the vampire romances that was infiltrating the market back then. There was no lovey-dovey romance, instead it was a reflection of what it meant to be a monster. Turns out humans are just as good at being horrible douche-bags as supernatural blood suckers are.
Gloryhill is kind of a series? The second book The Sinister Portrait of Cherie Rose takes place in the same universe, but you don’t have to read the first book to follow along with the story. Mostly it’s good for locating some neat Easter eggs.  



4Q: Please tell us about your writing journey, when did it start and what do you love about it?


VH: I started writing at a young age, which is the clichéd response, I know, but for what it’s worth it’s true. My first real story I wrote was called Mutilated and as the bio describes, it prompted a visit to the elementary school counsellor. I guess they just wanted to make sure I was alright in the head. But really… is anyone?
I didn’t start to take writing seriously until much later. It had always been a dream of mine to see a book I made on the shelf, and so when I was fresh out of university I endeavored to make that happen. I love seeing the finished product—even if it’s eternally frustrating to pick out a spelling error after publication. With every new book that comes out with my name on the cover, I see a creative growth spurt, and it’s a great feeling of accomplishment to see all my work displayed on a bookcase. Kinda like when your mom displays every school picture of your life on the front foyer stairs and you get to see the development of your awkward years—bad hair, braces, and all—to your present self. Or… maybe that’s just my mom…
 I’m an only child.  




4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.


VH: When I was young I drove around a lot. Especially to and from school. I was actually one of the last kids off the bus, which sucked because I never got home until like four o’clock and then I had homework and supper and yadda yadda blech!
Anyway, on the long ride home I used to fantasize that a person was running alongside the bus, jumping over bushes, tight roping the powerlines. Sometimes they would be chasing other people, or being chased by monsters, and usually these characters were people from stories I had thought up in my head or read about.
How creative and weird I was, I thought! Until later on I realized that a lot of people do this. Now I figure that we’re all a little strange, so I don’t mind sharing my work with others, even if it’s a bit unconventional at times.


4Q: Most creative people have a “special spot” where they perform their magic. Tell us about yours.


VH: The best place for me to write is in bed, where I’m not too cold and there are pillows for the taking and all my stupid, beady-eyed stuffed animals are staring at me with cold indifference. I had a desk, a real nice one in an office with notebooks and post-it notes and fancy pencils. But for me inspiration comes with comfort. Although funny enough I always have to get ready to write like I’m getting dressed for work. If I don’t have some makeup splashed on and something nice to wear then I can’t seem to commit seriously. I guess I toe the line between professionalism and a sloth.




4Q: Tell us about your latest work.


VH: My latest work is a piece of realistic fiction that I’ve been pouring over for a while. It has to do with a child murderer and it takes place in my hometown of St. George, New Brunswick. Also child murderer… so I mean a child that is also a murderer. Words are hard, even for us writers...
Anyway, it’s been really fun to write but also one of the most difficult pieces for me because there are no paranormal elements that I can fall back on like I did before. For someone who writes fantasy, it can be a tad difficult to write something believable that adheres to actual laws and societal standards, but so far I’m pretty happy with how the story has progressed. A lot of ‘me’ has actually been written into the story, which I’ve never done before. Though I am not literally in any parts of the story. I’m not a child murderer… by which I mean a child who is also… ah you get it.  




An Excerpt from Alice in Horrorland
(Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)




Alice’s eyes widened. In the brier, stuck through the chest with a butcher knife, was a duckling, half hatched with a hat upon his head.
“Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, placing the lantern on the path. The brier’s thorns: large, shining butcher knives, were bloody now as they stuck the bird who was half alive.
“Let us help you,” she said, moving towards it, unsure of how she could aid him.
But the duckling coughed, looking at Alice with eyes the color of pond scum.
“I am Nobody, fear me not. Death and torment, Nobody sought. Nobody remembers, Nobody knows, Nobody’s friends with Nobody’s foes.” Blood began to leak out the duckling’s bill. Alice reached forward to touch him, to perhaps help him from the brier, but the knives resisted, growing up around the duckling, turning their blades towards her and cracking his shell till it fell away.
“Nobody dies without a friend, Nobody truly loves the end.” The duckling smiled, and Alice found herself pulled away, back into the path as the knife pierced into the duckling’s belly, killing him.
“We could have helped him.” Alice cried, watching incredulously as the Caterpillar sighed, breathing out a peal of three bells.
“Nobody can help himself. Let’s go.”





Vanessa recently had one of her short stories published in Canadian Dreadful and the anthology is "flying off the shelves".



Thank you, Vanessa, for being our special guest this week.

For you readers that want to discover more about Vanessa and her writing, please follow this link:

https://www.facebook.com/vanessa.brown.587

One Bedroom Ark - Part 2 continued.

Welcome back to the Scribbler and the “rest of the story”. If you missed the beginning of this short story that was posted last Sunday, go HERE







“I know what you’re worried about. Eventually you’re going to have to let your parents see Anna. They’re suing you for visitation rights. You can’t keep them away forever, not matter what happened in the past. It’s time to let it all go Clair. You don’t have to have anything to do with them. I mean I agree with you, but they are her grandparents and they want to make it up. They admit they were wrong. The courts are going to allow it Clair; you remember what your lawyer said.”

Clair wasn’t thinking of that but it adds to the burden she already carries only this is a lot more serious. She resents her parents still, for telling her to leave when she told them she changed her mind and was keeping her baby. Anna’s father wouldn’t have anything to do with them. She was homeless and broke until Noah came to her rescue. It was almost a year before her parents found her but Noah sent them on their way with a tongue wagging that embarrassed everyone. The letters from her mother have been continuous but she throws them all away. The bitterness they cause is too much. Reluctantly, she has come to understand that Anna should be given a chance to know them.

“Well Noah, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about but I’ve decided that I’m going to tell the court they can see her, short times in the beginning to see how they treat her. But I don’t want any contact with them so I’m going to ask you a big favor. Will you be the liaison between them and Anna? I’ll okay it.”

She may as well have given him the new plasma TV he covets; she’s never seen such a happy face. He’s almost blubbering.

“Why, yes… yes, Clair. I’d be honored.”
“You’ll have to stop telling them off, alright?”
He answers with a laugh and agrees.
“Ok, then, what did you want to tell me.”
He sees the indecisiveness in her eyes.
“Bad news, isn’t it? C’mon Clair, what is it?”
Clair finishes her coffee and sits straighter, looking Noah in the eyes.
“I can’t get you a ticket to Anna’s kindergarten graduation next week. It’s parents only and because I’m not married, I can only get one. I’m sorry Noah.”
Noah dons a cheerless face and nods.
“Oh darn! I’m saddened but those are the rules, I guess. Maybe I’ll just crash the party, make a fool of myself, how about that?”
“Don’t you dare, you rascal.”
Noah holds up an open hand.
“Anything else?
Clair decides there’s no sense pussy-footing around the issue.
“I’m giving you my notice for the apartment. It’s just not big enough for us anymore, Noah. I hate to tell you because I know how attached you are to Anna but I’ll try and find something close by.”
Noah is rubbing his chin, the crease lines on his forehead read discontent. Clair lets the idea ferment before she says anything else. The only sounds are Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd arguing in the living room and Anna giggling. It’s a short while before Noah answers.
“I expected this someday but was hoping it wouldn’t be right now. You’re still going to manage the store?”
“Oh yes, I’m thankful for the work and I love the store. You know you can count on me.”
 Noah gets up and takes his cup and Clair’s to the sink to rinse out.  Clair watches him, waiting for a word of encouragement.
“Ok then. If you and Marsha are all right for the day, I’m going watch cartoons with Anna and I’ll mind her until… is it Jeff working the store tonight? ”
“Yes it is. I’m sorry Noah but you understand, don’t you.”
“Of course, of course I understand.”


Jeff Abernathy is in his last year of high school and saving his pay for community college where he wants to go to go after graduation to be an electrician, like his father. He is always early for work and greets Clair with his usual happy attitude. When he enters and says hi to Clair, she is studying something behind the cash and doesn’t respond. Jeff sees the frown on her face and notices the newspaper spread out on the counter in front of her.
“Hey there Clair, you looking for a new job? Hope not.”
“Hi Jeff. No not a job, an apartment for Anna and I. The one upstairs is too small. I’m flabbergasted at how high the rents are for a two bedroom apartment, I don’t know if I can afford one right now. I was hoping to buy a car soon and I have a good down payment saved up but it may have to wait.”
“Did you already give your notice to Noah?”
“Un-huh.”
“Bet he wasn’t too happy. He’s quite fond of that little girl of yours. And I know he thinks a lot of you. I’m sure he’s going to miss you.”
Clair closes the paper and folds it up, placing it under the counter. Glancing at the wall clock, she sees it’s almost time for supper and she must go take Anna off Noah’s hands. It’s Friday and Noah plays cards with several of his drinking buddies.
“Look Jeff, it’s a half hour earlier than your shift starts but do you mind going on the clock now so I can go make supper for Anna and me.”
Jeff places his backpack behind the counter.
“Sure, go ahead.”
Several customers come in and Clair makes her way upstairs to knock on Noah’s door. Hearing a voice to tell her to come in, she hears Anna tittering and wonders what’s going on. When she steps inside she puts her hands to her mouth and stares wide eyed at the two of them. Noah is wheeling a pushcart around the living room and Anna is standing on it. She has one of Noah’s old pale blue shirts on and it hangs to her knees, as well as a pair of Noah’s work boots that look like clown’s feet. Her hands are clad in a large pair of work gloves which are Noah’s also and she’s hanging on to the side rails of the pushcart which is tipped back on its two wheels. Noah is also clad in work gloves and an old hard hat and his old blue coveralls. They are laughing and stop suddenly when Clair enters. Almost as if on cue, Anna jumps off the dolly and turns her back to Clair. Noah swiftly stands at her side with his back to Clair as well. Scrawled on the backs of their respective garments, in black marker and wide childlike printing is Anna and Noah’s Moving Company. Clair relaxes, drops some stress. Everything will work out with the move. Momentarily she  forgets about the high cost of rents that was getting her down. She can’t help but start laughing.
“What are you two up to?”
The loose shirt furls around her like a flag  when Anna runs to her mother and hugs her legs.
“Momma, Noah and I have a surprise for you.”
“I’m surprised already but what is it?”
Anna looks back at Noah.
“Can I tell her?”
Noah has a smile a foot wide and nods his assent.
“Grampy Noah wants to trade houses with us.”
The word houses throws Clair off for a moment until she gets the full picture, he wants to trade apartments.
“You mean trade apartments?”
Both Noah and Anna are bobbing their heads. Noah adds in a bonus.
And the rent will stay the same because I know you’re saving for a car, and well… “

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. Everything goes blurry for her and she rushes to embrace Noah, slipping her arms around his thick chest and resting her head on his shoulder. In loving whispers she thanks him a dozen times. They’re startled by a little girl’s screech of delight. Anna is jumping up and down, the boots not moving under her. The gloves go flying from her waving hands.  Her chubby cheeks are pink and puffed up with the widest smile. Noah and Clair start laughing at her antics.  Soon Noah and Clair are jumping up and down in rhythm with their leader. The gaiety comes to a quick stop when the buzzer down stairs announces a visitor. Anna rushes out the hallway where the intercom is and jumps up on an old chair Noah has put there for her. Short index finger pushes the speak button. Her sweet voice could melt an iceberg.
“Grampy Noah’s house. I’m  Anna.”
The reply causes a delightful chuckle from the other end.
“Well Anna, I’m Joshua, and I’ve come to see Grampy Noah. He’s my Grampy too.”
Anna looks over at Noah who is coming down the hallway, his eyes shining. Clair one step behind, curious to see the visitor, she knows he just turned twenty-one so they’re the same age Noah showed her pictures of him. He reminds her of Rob Lowe, an actor she adores.  Noah nods to Anna and she pushes another button to release the door. Noah opens his apartment door and sees Joshua ascending the stairs. Anna and Clair are close behind on the landing separating the two apartments.
“Welcome young man, how wonderful to see you again. Your timing couldn’t be better. We need a strong arm for the next couple of days.”
“Good to see you too, Gramps.”

They do the fist bump, elbow rub. Same greeting they’ve been doing since Joshua was two. Then a bear hug from Noah. Noah is laughing like he won a prize and Joshua was also but goes quiet. Noah sets Joshua down and frowns at his silence until he sees where the young man is staring. Clair and Joshua are locked in orbit. Noah can almost see the vibes caroming back and forth. He studies the look in Clair’s eyes and for one blissful moment, remembers when he met his wife, Vanessa. Her eyes were dappled with the same desire. 


The End




Thanks for dropping by the Scribbler. Hope you enjoyed the story. I appreciate you taking the time to visit. Please feel free to leave a comment.

One Bedroom Ark - Part 2 by allan hudson

Like short stories?   
 I do too. One of my favorites is The One Bedroom Ark, which has recently been published in my latest book – A Box of Memories – which is a compilation of short stories I’ve written over the years. I had the pleasure of reading this story at my recent book launch. It seemed like it was time to do a follow-up story and Part 2 was born.   
** Please note that this is an unedited version and I would be happy to hear any comments.
 
The beginning is posted today. Watch for the second and last installment on Wednesday, July 3.
 
One Bedroom Ark – Part 2
(Copyright is held by the author)
 
 
Clair Callahan begins her day by counting the float. She’s running a little late and Coyne’s Confectionary always opens sharp at 8 a.m. The flashing of the crosswalk light on the corner causes her to look up. Her reflection in the store’s front window outlines her slender face, a loose strand falling on her forehead, the sharp nose and wide happy eyes of the faintest green, stare out at the busy street in front of the store. The pavement, wet and slick from a drizzling rain, shines yellow and black, yellow and black, until the warning light suddenly stops. She wonders if the person crossing the street might be coming this way – the first customer of the day.
The float balances. She shoves the cash drawer shut and grabs the Specials sign to prop it outside where it’s squatted for sixty-three years. She had to replace the chalkboard last summer much to Noah’s chagrin, said it was fine. When she first started working for Noah, she pestered him for new hinges, reminding him that it might fall over. Appealing to his sentimentality, she hinted that his father wouldn’t have liked that. Extending the board open until a chain holds it in a perfect triangle, she takes a piece of chalk from her jeans pocket and with sweeping curves and precise letters; she marks the day’s specials on both sides.
Welcome to Coyne’s
Bananas
$0.52 / lb.
New!
Fresh bread from Bonnie’s Bakery
Sliced and unsliced - $0.89 / loaf
 
She’s only wearing a short sleeved blouse, her favorite pink one, and the first of June is still cool. Rubbing her arms, she looks up and down the street, thinking she’s glad the drizzle has stopped and the sun is blinking on the horizon. There’s not as much traffic since the city built the bypass. She prefers it this way, safer for kids and business is still good. She likes the smell of wet asphalt the rain leaves behind. The couple that crossed the street are heading this way. She squints because she needs glasses for distances and recognizes the Barclays, Fred and Diana.   Since Clair convinced Noah to add a small breakfast nook, they come every morning for what they call their treats, as does Bobby Belliveau and the Gillespies. Coffees, tea for Joanne Gillespie, Bobby and Fred will each have a donut or a Vachon cake, Diana has toast and cigarettes, so slips out back a couple of times for a smoke. They chatter like myna birds on uppers. Bobby’s the joke teller and usually brings two or three so there’s always gaiety in the gathering. They stay for roughly an hour, eyeballing, and no doubt, criticizing the other patrons.
Normally Noah looks after the café but this morning, Marsha Kershaw, their part-time helper looks after it. A retired widow, she comes whenever they need her. Anna woke up with sweats and a high temperature this morning and Noah offered to look after her. He looks for every chance to be with her, spoils her rotten. Walks her to kindergarten and picks her up every day. Clair can’t imagine what she would’ve done without Noah. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to when Anna was a baby, Noah took her in, gave her a roof, gave her a job, gave Anna a home. Her heart is heavy this morning because she has to tell Noah that she needs to find another place to live because the one bedroom apartment is too small. She has other disappointing news for him and hates to tell him but knows she must.
The first lull in the store traffic comes around 10:30 and she straightens up the cash in the register, wipes the fingerprints off the glass on the counters, stocks the shelves with new product which came in yesterday. She can hear Marsha emptying the dishwasher; the pinging of the glassware pleases her. A calendar hangs on the narrow wall to the left of the cash register. Compliments of Eddy’s Service Station, it has a new picture of the Maritime Provinces every month. The Rocks at Hopewell Cape remind her that it’s not May anymore. In fact it’s the first Monday of the next month. She flips it over and clips it on a brad nail protruding from the wall. The white sand of Cavendish Beach in Prince Edward Island glows orange in a glorious sunset over New London Bay on the new page.1990 is looking good she thinks.
She glances up when she hears the ringing of the bell by the front door and sees Noah and Anna coming in. Anna is wearing her butterfly costume with the small wings sticking from the back. It’s her favorite dress and always gets Noah to dig it out for her. She can mostly dress herself now but needs help with the buttons. Noah is beaming as usual. Once inside she releases Noah’s hand and rushes to her mother.
“Hi Momma, Grampy Noah let me wear my butterfly dress today. He told me he would teach me to fly but I told him only birds and angels can fly. Isn’t that right Momma?”
Clair hugs her daughter, holding her tiny body close.  Noah has a big grin.
“Yes, that’s right honey. Don’t you believe everything Grampy Noah tells you. Are you feeling okay?”
Anna’s already focused on the lollipops and not listening. Her nose and hands on the glass front.
“She’s feeling much better now Clair. I gave her some scrambled eggs and orange juice, didn’t affect her appetite it seems. I don’t know where she tucks it all in.”
Anna turns to the two of them.
“Can I have a purple one Grampy Noah?”
Noah raises his brows at Clair who smiles and nods.
“Sure sweetie, c’mon in behind the counter with me and you can pick one out.”
Clair watches them. Noah takes out the glass jar full of colored sweetness and holds it while Anna digs in. She has to take out two or three and even though they are all the same, she makes an issue out of picking the right one. Anna’s short brown curls flounce around when she shakes her head or nods at Noah. She can’t help but marvel at the two of them, Noah with his gray wavy hair and gentle lines around his eyes, the darkest blue she’s ever seen.  A warm and gentle man, he’s still as handsome as ever. His grandchildren are young adults now and live so far away. She knows he misses his daughter and the two kids but travels to Vancouver every six months for a couple of weeks and always says that’s about as much as he can tolerate his boastful son-in-law. Clair has never met them but she will meet the grandson soon, he’s coming to spend a week with Noah. Her thoughts are interrupted by customers.  Noah, Anna and a purple sucker wave goodbye.
When Clair questions him with open hands, he says, “Going to the park on Dufferin Street, Anna wants to go on the swings. I’ll bring her back at lunch time.”
The customer is a regular, buys his smokes here often, and knows who Anna is and how much Noah dotes on her. Clair is shaking her head as she bags the purchases.
“I swear if Anna asked for a purple dragon, I think Noah would find one for her.”
 
At noon, Marsha takes over in the store so Clair can go eat. The café is self-serve for the rest of the day. Clair will keep the coffee fresh. To access the apartments, you have to go out of the store.  A door to the second level is on the far left of the building. The large windows of the store are separated by the main entrance, where the sandwich board is perched. When Clair comes out, she sees Noah and Anna at the crosswalk waiting for the light. Anna must be telling Noah a story because her little hands are waving and circling in the air. She’s laughing when she looks up at Noah and Noah gives her his full attention, his shoulders moving in the quiet way he laughs. Clair waits for them.  She meets them at the doorway to their apartments.
“Oh Momma, I was flying on the swings, Grampy Noah was pushing me real high.”
This causes a frown and Clair confronts Noah.
“I asked you not to push her so fast, she might slip off.”
Noah looks like a boy being scolded for peeking in the girls’ room, he knows he’s guilty.
“I just did it for a little bit, isn’t that right sweetie?”
Anna is looking up at them with open mouth knowing when her mother is upset. She doesn’t want Grampy Noah to get in trouble. Puts on a pretend smile and nods.
“Un-huh. Just a little.”
Clair purses her lips and tsks at them.
“You two, one’s as bad as the other.”
She wags her finger at them.
“No more high pushes. Now Noah what are you having for lunch?”
“I put minestrone in the slow cooker this morning when I got up and it’ll be done now. You two can join me if you like. I made lots.”
Anna makes a puckered face.
“What’s Missusstrony?”
“It’s a soup dear, you like soup. Okay then Mr. Chef, we’ll do that.”
Unlocking the door, she lets Anna head up the stairs first and she turns to Noah.
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
Noah sees bad news written all over Clair’s face. He thinks he knows what it’s about and has a solution.
“I have something to tell you also. Let’s go eat. I’ll put cartoons on for Anna after and we can talk, ok?
Later Clair and Noah are sitting at the kitchen table in Noah’s apartment sipping their coffees and finishing up the blueberry pie Clair made yesterday. She’s comfortable here, likes the way he decorates, lots of orderly clutter. Rooms are large, holding many antiques. She puts on her best smile and starts to tell him what’s on her mind. Before she starts, Noah holds up his hand.
“I know what you’re worried about. 




………… to be continued Wednesday, July 3.    Thanks for visiting and leaving a comment.   
  Coming soon! A new detective series - The Shattered Figurine.        
 

Guest Poet Donna Allard of Aldouane, New Brunswick.

  International Beat Poet Laureate
    An impressive achievement and recognition. The Scribbler is beyond pleased to have Donna as our guest this week. She has agreed to a 4Q Interview and sharing some of her work.
 
I am the voice of my life.
Donna Anne Allard is a Canadian author based in New Brunswick, Canada. Beginning at a young age, Donna began to explore her rural countryside―first on road trips with her parents, then on her own by van. The landscape, with its roadside truck stops, restaurants, and wanderers, figure prominently in her poetry. She is the author of 8 books of poetry.
 


Donna Allard’s poetry has appeared for the past thirty years in literary publications across Canada, as well as a number of other countries around the world. She is the founder and organizer of the Sojourner Literary Festival - next festival 3rd weekend July 2020 theme - “perfect vision”.
 
Donna Allard: “acadianrose”—Acadian-born, New Brunswick-based poet, and peacemaker. She became inspired by Canada's Peoples' Poet Milton Acorn, and poet-editor Libby Oughton. Her mentor was poet-activist Valerie LaPointe.
Donna can be found at https://riverbonespress.wixsite.com/beatpoetlaureate .
 
 
4Q: It is wonderful to have your work recognized by the National Beat Poetry Foundation whose roots go back to the 1940’s. Tell us about this Donna.
 
DA: Well Allan I was surprised, shocked, and humbled to be nominated by such a prestigious organization. Apparently, they were watching my every move online for a few years. When the Co-founder Colin Haskins wrote I said yes without hesitation. It is very difficult to get recognition in our own country so I jumped like a salmon for the fly! On Valentine's Day 2019 I received an email stating I was accepted. What a lovely gift! I cried because I was about to quit writing 100% by March 1st.  I cannot say how proud I am to be the 1st and maybe the only person to represent Canada, and of course, my small fishing town of Richibucto. Even now I am still in disbelief lol.
 
National Beat Poetry Laureate Foundation Inc., CT, USA http://nationalbeatpoetryfoundation.org/
 
4Q: You will soon be publishing your 7th book of poetry titled Ghost in the Window, a poetic journal.  What can you tell us about it?
 
DA: Yes, my 7th book of poetry and a few more manuscripts awaiting to be published. ‘Ghost at the Window’, was difficult to write, since I usually keep my personal life private. There maybe another two books to follow this one with the same theme. I am too close to it to say how I feel so here are my editors' words...
In this personal collection Donna Allard provides her readers with a snapshot of her years growing up, time missed with parents while away at high school during her mother’s battle with cancer and the continuing love that both demonstrated during moments of reprieve. There is a sense of the everlastingness that comes from moments when her memories flood in and then abate repeatedly. She doesn’t shy away from addressing the awkwardness of youth or the feeling of sometimes being talked about and watched, perhaps judged, by people who have no business doing so.
The entire collection can be read as a chain-work of thought as life progresses and is presented in an interesting mixture of poems and prose that read much like a journal.
As the editor, I found this book a joy to read and work through, very nearly coming to tears of my own at one point where I not only related but experienced a certain depth of the despair Donna must have felt at that point in her life. It’s a very intimate offering!
~ Ronda Wicks Eller journalist & publisher
 
 
 
4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.
 
DA: Summer excerpt:
...She was a very strong woman with a dry wit, clever as a
fox, loving and kind and a great cook. It was difficult
to see her in her favorite chair– she used to tower over it
at 5’ 10” but now she sat like a child awaiting an abusive
Father.
That is what cancer is…
 

4Q: You are the founder and organizer for the Sojourner Literary Festival. The next festival is scheduled for 2020. What can you tell us about this?
 
DA: Yes Allan, 3rd weekend in July - Sojourner Literary Festival 2020 “perfect vision”. Held during the Scallop Festival. I received a lot of slack for picking these dates, as I see it scallops, fireworks, arts & crafts, music... poets and writers from around North America can see what we have to offer and savor the deliciousness of our piece of God’s country.
Sojourner Official Website(best viewed on a laptop/computer):
https://sojournerliteraryf.wixsite.com/sojourner-home
 
4Q: Who is your favorite poet(s) and who or what inspires you?
 
DA: Canada’s Peoples’ Poet Milton Acorn who I met when I lived in Charlottown, PEI. After he passed away, I was asked by the National Milton Acorn Festival to be a board member, I said YES...  that salmon & fly thang....
I met so many poets it is hard to pick just a few but I will try: Rita Joe, Harry Thurston, Richard Doiron, bill bissett, Yukon Poet Laureate PJ Johnson, Poet Laureates George Wallace & Ron Whitehead, Paulette Dube, Nicole Brossard, Sheree Fitch & Ronda Wicks…. I can go on and on lol. GG Award winner Don McKay (I attended a workshop with him in the 90’s), editor Libby Oughton and poet-activist Valerie LaPointe inspired me.
 
 
Donna’s Poetry
(Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)
 
war musket grasses (Bay of Fundy)
1st Place Award Canadian Poetry Association 2006
 
I see no soldier’s uniform as I walk along these shores
but fresh blood cliffs, musket grasses,
and a labyrinth of our relics,
the unfolding of this puzzle to figure out a broader picture,
as rose clashed with la fleur de lys…
like an arcane shared by a friend
who said to follow water trails
like a pirate in search of chest, as magnet speaks closer to sand…
He said many have found treasures under the sheet of their own graves.
Yet I favour its peaceful clay to dye denim & origin,
as I connect with those who fell for their flower & sleep inside
this bay of mud.
 
Today hooves flirt in Fundy sun,
safe & watchful over my eyes
and I wonder if that story was ever passed to their offspring's,
since man conquers on a saddle.
Come walk with me, sense a presence, their memory
dancing with tides, like a final oratory
along red cliffs & grassy shores.
 
Let me retreat from time & fog, as I fear ghosts & bellwalkers,
they swear the land still smells powder.
 
 
Ma Soeur Océanne
Dedicated to my sister Victorine who passed away 2008
 
Tu as vu ma soeur dans la mer
Ses yeux bleus et verts
Sa bouche boit l'océan
un soleil se glissant dans le feutre des
rivages déserts rouges
Tu as vu ma soeur explosive
Ses yeux oranges et rouges
à présent un oiseau [pohénix?]
garde le ravage
 
Ma Soeur Océanne © 2009 Donna Allard
 
 
Thank you, Allan for this opportunity to share to my community.  So many have wondered what I have been up to so now they know.
 
Thank you, Donna, for taking the time to be our guest. Wishing you continued success with your writing.  
For you readers interested in knowing more about Donna and her work, please follow these links;
 


https://riverbonespress.wixsite.com/beatpoetlaureate.
https://www.facebook.com/donnaallard
https://sojournerliteraryf.wixsite.com/sojourner-home
 
 

Six Great Books - Six Great Authors

Who doesn't love a good story?






There are so many great books to read, so many great authors that love telling stories. 

Here's a few I recommend. These authors have been featured on the Scribbler and you will find links to their interview.

I did this a few months back and if you want to check those out go HERE



#1 - Messandrierre by Angela Wren.



A cozy mystery by Angela. I discovered this book on a reading recommendation page from Susan Toy on FB. I like the main character and I love this series.

Goodreads - Sacrificing his job in investigation following an incident in Paris, Jacques Forêt has only a matter of weeks to solve a series of mysterious disappearances as a Gendarme in the rural French village of Messandrierre. 

But, as the number of missing persons rises, his difficult and hectoring boss puts obstacles in his way. Steely and determined, Jacques won't give up and, when a new Investigating Magistrate is appointed, he becomes the go-to local policeman for all the work on the case.

Will he find the perpetrators before his lover, Beth, becomes a victim?

Messandrierre – #1 in a new crime series featuring investigator, Jacques Forêt.


See Angela's visit to the Scribbler HERE



#2 - Guilty Innocence by Maggie James

I like thrillers and this one won't let you down. Twists and turns that are unexpected. I'm looking forward to reading more from this author. 

Goodreads - A letter that reveals a horrifying truth…

Natalie Richards finds more than she bargained for when she snoops through her boyfriend’s possessions: evidence that Mark Slater was once convicted of a brutal killing. Heartbroken by what she’s discovered, Natalie’s dreams of a future with him collapse.

Only the other person jointly sentenced for Abby Morgan’s murder, the twisted and violent Adam Campbell, knows the truth. That Mark played no part in Abby’s death.

Meanwhile, circumstances have thrust Mark back in contact with Adam, who, aged twenty-five, is more domineering and chilling than ever. Can Mark rewrite history and confront his nemesis?

A gritty novel examining child murder and dysfunctional families, Guilty Innocence tells of one man’s struggle to break free from his past.


See Maggie's visit to the Scribbler HERE



#3 - The Conclave by S. C. Eston.





This is a captivating story by a exceptionally talented author. I enjoy fantasy and this one is a fine example of this genre. I highly recommend it.



Goodreads - It all came down to this. A traitor. ~

The city of Telstar has been freed and the enemy defeated. In the streets, the townspeople is celebrating, singing and drinking to the promise of better days to come.

Yet, at the top of an abandoned tower, a secret meeting is about to take place. Although victory was attained, questions remain unanswered. Some of Telstar’s deepest secrets got out and the impregnable city almost fell. It is unclear who betrayed the city and some will not sleep until the culprit answers for the betrayal.

Onthar, a high warrior dedicated to Tyr, deity of courage, takes it upon himself to call on emperor and queen, wizard and warriors, elf and orc, all heroes of the battle, to meet in secrecy and find out who among them betrayed his city.

But these are serious charges and these are powerful individuals. The meeting could easily turn into a confrontation, and if it does, it could achieve what the enemy could not: destroy the very city they all want to protect.


See Steve's visit to the Scribbler HERE


#4 - Harbinger by Ian McKinley.




I read a previous novel by Ian and was hooked. I wanted to read more of his work and it led me to Harbinger which I truly enjoyed as much as his earlier book. I am looking forward to his next one and will be first in line to pick it up.



Goodreads - Rulla, Dealer of Fates, has seen fit to bestow Her blessing on four babes - Cairn, Lars, Lora and Thay - for they are all born on the same night to different mothers. None of the folk of the Darnok clan have ever heard of such a thing. The birthing is made even stranger yet, for once they are safely delivered, the village seeress falls into a trance and chants a verse that hints at future glory. The mothers, finally lying asleep after their ordeals, might have tried to strike a different bargain with Rulla, for She is known as a hard bargainer who stains each rune of glory She hands out in blood.

As the children grow, the townsfolk see only hints of a possible remarkable fate. At sixteen, they are finally accepted into the rite of passage to adulthood; they are offered in tithe to the Sea Wolves, the clan that defends the folk, sails the world’s seas, raids foreign shores, and brings back plunder. Their spirits are high as they venture through the Demon’s Teeth and discover the world beyond the Boldring Mountains.

Ah, but other Gods also have a role to play in any great saga and Tanat the Rogue turns their world on its head one afternoon. The youths are cut-off from their new clan and must survive on their own wits. As they make for home, they encounter Elkor, a mis-shapen outcast who forces them to re-evaluate everything they ever understood about their identity.

Pursued by Korgash, a Straelish lord whose hatred of Elkor and Thorn People (what the Straelings call the Fjordlanders) is only surpassed by his ambition, they discover that they are ill-equipped to inherit the fate supposedly reserved for them and they wonder if prophesy is not all lies.


See Ian's visit to the Scribbler HERE




#5 - One Woman's Island by Susan Toy.




I've enjoyed Susan's short stories since we first met online. She's been a guest several times. I enjoyed this novel very much. You can't go wrong with any of Susan's stories.



Goodreads - Running away from Canada, Mariana hopes to forget a failed marriage and the death of her husband by embarking on a whole new life. She moves lock, stock, and two cats to the small Caribbean island of Bequia. But the move brings more than she could have imagined. New friends ask her to help solve a recent murder in the expat community. And then there’s the problem of her neighbours, a young woman and her children. Seemingly abandoned by family and friends, Mariana believes they need her help! By becoming involved, Mariana is carried along from wanting to simply “live with the locals” to being overwhelmed by their culture, one so vastly different to what she had left behind in Canada that she doesn’t know who among her expat friends she can turn to for advice. So she carries on regardless and discovers that Bequia isn’t exactly the tropical paradise it had promised to be.

One Woman’s Island is the second novel in the Bequia Perspectives series that picks up again a few months in time after the first novel, Island in the Clouds.



See one of Susan's visits to the Scribbler HERE




#6 - The Hummingbird by Stephen Kiernan.





Mr Kiernan is a wonderful read. All his books are highly entertaining. I featured one of his other novels previously and this story is probably my favorite. I recommend anything by him and you won't be sorry.



Goodreads - From the author of the acclaimed The Curiosity comes a compelling and moving story of compassion, courage, and redemption

Deborah Birch is a seasoned hospice nurse whose daily work requires courage and compassion. But her skills and experience are tested in new and dramatic ways when her easygoing husband, Michael, returns from his third deployment to Iraq haunted by nightmares, anxiety, and rage. She is determined to help him heal, and to restore the tender, loving marriage they once had.

At the same time, Deborah's primary patient is Barclay Reed, a retired history professor and expert in the Pacific Theater of World War II whose career ended in academic scandal. Alone in the world, the embittered professor is dying. As Barclay begrudgingly comes to trust Deborah, he tells her stories from that long-ago war, which help her find a way to help her husband battle his demons.

Told with piercing empathy and heartbreaking realism, The Hummingbird is a masterful story of loving commitment, service to country, and absolution through wisdom and forgiveness. 

I've not had the pleasure of a visit by Mr Kiernan but please follow this link to his website. https://www.stephenpkiernan.com/





Pick one of these up when you have a chance, or better yet, pick them all up.

Thank you dear reader for visiting this week.

Guest Author Wendy Clarke of Sussex, Great Britain.

When you visit Wendy’s website, you are first greeted by a friendly smile and an intriguing novel. Grabs your attention right away. The Scribbler is most fortunate to have Wendy as our guest this week. She is sharing her thoughts in a 4Q Interview and agreed to share a sample of her writing.


Wendy Clarke started her career writing short fiction and serials for national women’s magazines. After having over three hundred short stories published, she progressed to writing novels. With a degree in psychology, and intrigued with how the human mind can affect behaviour, it was inevitable that she would eventually want to explore her darker side.
What She Saw is her debut psychological thriller, published by Bookouture. Her second, We Were Sisters, comes out in August 2019.
In her previous life, Wendy has published three collections of short stories and has been a short story judge for the Chiltern Writers Group, Nottingham Writers Group and The Society of Women Writers and journalists.
Wendy lives with her husband, cat and step-dog in Sussex and when not writing is usually dancing, singing or watching any programme that involves food!




4Q: Let’s talk about your novel – What She Saw. Great cover, interesting setting.


WC: Thank you, I’m glad you like it. A lot of readers think that authors choose their own covers but in a lot of cases this isn’t the case. My editor and the cover designer spent a lot of time discussing possible ideas: motifs and colours that would work well with the storyline, the genre of ‘Psychological Thriller’ and the title. When they were happy, they emailed it over to me to see what I thought. Luckily, I loved it, especially the red shoes which start you asking questions – who do they belong to? What happened to the child? The novel is set in The Lake District which is one of my favourite parts of England. It’s beautiful, yet haunting. In other words, the perfect setting for a psychological thriller.




4Q: Your website tells us about your writing journey and the numerous stories you’ve written and that you are working on your second novel. What can you tell us about that?


WC: My second novel is called ‘We Were Sisters’ and is about an over-protective young mother, Kelly, who is struggling after the birth of her third child. One day, she finds a locket in her baby’s pushchair, but when she looks closer, she recognizes it as the one her foster-sister Freya had been wearing when she died. The find brings back haunting memories of Kelly’s lonely childhood and she fears someone from her past wants to harm her family. Slowly but surely, her well-ordered life begins to unravel


4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory.


Photo Credit: Annette Batista Day - Unsplash.WC: Whenever I’m asked this, a particular one comes to mind from when I was about six years old. Each year, the town where I lived had a fete which, along with coconut stalls and a dog show, held a fancy-dress competition for the children. In the past, I’d never come close to winning but this year my mum had made a big effort with my costume. I was a mermaid complete with shell headdress and a green tail covered with silver milk bottle tops. I felt a million dollars. What’s more, the judge was the current ‘Miss World’ which, for a child in those days, was the equivalent of meeting a Disney princess. When I won and received a kiss on the cheek from this beautiful lady along with my rosette, I couldn’t have been happier.




4Q: Please tell us about your writing habits and do you have a “special place” to write?




WC: Every January 1st, I tell myself I will have a proper writing schedule and a serious ‘writerly’ place to produce my work. Every year I fail. Basically, I’m a writing nomad. I write in the living room, in the conservatory and on the swing chair in my garden. Anywhere except in the ‘writing room’ my husband lovingly created for me. The same goes for my writing habits. I sometimes write in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon but never at a regular or set time.






4Q: Anything else you would like to add?


WC: I would just like to thank you for inviting me onto your lovely blog and to leave your readers with this message. If you believe in your writing, don’t give up… You just need to find that one person who believes in you.





An Excerpt from What She Saw.
(Copyright held by the author. Used with permission)




“Beautiful day, isn’t it.”
Graham leans his back against the shelves of cigarettes and nods across the small parking area towards the distant peaks. I hear the soft click-click of the window vent as it turns and notice the way the sun streams through the window, picking out the cracks in the wooden counter.
“It is lovely, yes.”
“Scott out today?” He scratches the side of his cheek, his fingers rasping on the whiskers that grow there. His weekend stubble he calls it, even though the weekend is yet to begin.
“He’s taking a party of four out to Castle Crag this afternoon. The nearer it gets to Easter, the busier he’ll be.”
“Well, it’s certainly the perfect day for walking.”
I wonder if Graham Hargreaves ever walks. I doubt it. Like many of the people who have lived in the Lakes all their lives, a walk to him is a Sunday afternoon stroll along the flat path beside the River Brathay. The people Scott takes out are tourists seduced by pictures in the cottage brochures of majestic peaks and sky-blue tarns, the clouds reflected in their mirrored surface. I don’t say any of this to Graham, just check my list.
“Hold on a sec. I’ve forgotten the frozen sweetcorn.”
Leaving the basket, I walk to the tall freezer cabinet and as I do, the bell above the door tinkles, making me turn. A young woman backs into the shop, struggling to drag a pushchair over the threshold but, as the wheels get stuck on the step, Graham lifts the flap of the counter and comes to her rescue. Shouldering the door to keep it open, he grasps the front wheels of the buggy with his free hand and lifts it over. I hear the woman thank him. She’s not from round here – I can tell by her accent. Her back is to me, but I can’t stop staring at her long dark hair. It’s like a magnet to me.
Dragging my eyes away, I reach out a hand to pull open the freezer door. I hear the woman’s footsteps in the aisle and that’s when it happens. In one heart-stopping moment, Ria’s face is reflected in the glass – just as I remember it. She’s standing behind me, her dark hair falling to her shoulders, her eyes wide in terror. The shock is like a fist to my stomach.
Instinctively I turn but the young woman has moved away and all I can see is Graham Hargreaves rooting around in a basket of discount DVDs. When I look back at the glass door, Ria’s face has gone but the feeling I had when I saw her hasn’t. My hand is still raised to the door and I see it’s shaking. I stare at it as though it belongs to someone else. With a great effort, I try to still my racing heart but instead of lessening the feelings become stronger.
“Are you all right, Leona?”
Graham is by my side but it’s as if his voice is coming to me through a fog. I want to answer him, but I can’t. I feel light-headed and disembodied, as if at any moment I might float away. My fingers close around the handle of the freezer cabinet and I’m scared to let go.
“Is something wrong?”
The sense of terror I feel is debilitating. I’m unable to move, the nerves and muscles of my body unable to respond to the messages my brain is sending to them. Graham Hargreaves has his arm around me. He’s saying something else, but I can’t hear his words.
The young woman is there too now, standing beside Graham, unsure what to do. Now she’s closer, I see she’s nothing like Ria. How could she be?




Thank you, Wendy, for being our guest author this week. Your story sounds captivating.


For you readers wanting more info on Wendy and her stories, please follow these links:


What She Saw Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/What-She-Saw-psychological-heart-pounding-ebook/dp/B07N8YGN5B
We were Sisters Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/We-Were-Sisters-absolutely-psychological-ebook/dp/B07RSB413T
Website: http://www.wendyclarke.uk/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/WendyClarkeAuthor/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/wendyclarke99Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/wendyclarke99/

Guest Author Michelle Connors of England

The Scribbler is most fortunate to have another guest from “across the water”.  Her website describes her writing as Fantasy with Heart. Intrigued by history, her novella series is set in medieval times. We are most fortunate to have her participate in a 4Q Interview and an excerpt from her novel – The Bound




Michelle Connor lives on the North East coast of England in a town called Grimsby. She has been with her husband for twenty-two years. They have three children together, their youngest is almost eighteen. She is the princess of the family and has two older brothers.

As well as writing, Michelle loves to paint, draw, and take lots of photographs. She has a great intrigue for history and spends many a summers day hunting for castles and ruins to visit. This passion comes through in her first novella series as it is set in the medieval era.







4Q: When I visited your website, I noticed the heading right away. Fantasy with Heart. Tell us about that.


MC: All my books no matter what they are about on the surface, at their base they're about the heart. Whether the emotions are love, fear, friendship. Above my readers enjoying the characters’ adventures, I want them to feel their emotions right with them.









4Q: I was impressed with your Nine World Protection Agency series. Very imaginative. Please tell us more.



MC: The idea for this series came when I couldn’t sleep one night. I wrote a short piece from the POV of Odin. He was in a mental asylum with no clue of who he was. (I haven’t used it yet, as I’m holding it back for a later book in the series.) The next day, I sat down with my laptop and the character of Rifinn came to me. I knew she was Odin’s granddaughter and sat it a club but that was all. I’m a Pantser and do not plot. By the end of the first chapter, I knew she worked for the Nine World Protection Agency, had a berserker work-partner called Augustus who could turn into a bear, and she was hunting someone who had kidnapped wolf-skin children. From there, the idea took wings and Where Ravens Soar was born.




4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.


MC: Wow! This one is hard. I was a tomboy as a child. Most of my memories are of me climbing trees, getting nails stuck in my feet and driving my mother to madness. For example: We were going to a party, so my mother dressed me in a frilly frock, white socks and black painted shoes. I hated it, but it had rained the night before. So, while my mother was getting herself ready, I decided to sit in a puddle. As you can imagine, my mother wasn’t happy, but I got to wear something less girly.




4Q: Many creative people have their favorite spot to either write, or paint, etc. What’s your like? Any particular writing habits?


MC: I need mood music. I make a new playlist for each book I write.




4Q: Anything else you’d like to add?


MC: Just a thank you for having me.




Excerpt from The Bound – Hers to Save, Part One.




A YA, fantasy book written in British English.
 (Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)




CHAPTER THREE


AVELINE
The wind whistled outside, rattling loose shingles on the roof. Aveline lay awake on her small, straw pallet, listening to the obscure sounds of bleating sheep. The heated stones at her feet had long since lost their warmth, and her old, scratchy blanket did little to hold away the bitter cold filling the house.
Air laced with the stench of mead, and Aveline's own quiet desperation filled her nostrils. Her father sat slouched in his armchair. The warm, flickering glare from a tallow candle reflected off a silver flagon each time he lifted it to his lips. Aveline pretended to sleep. She covered her mouth and held in the urge to cough. Even though she was on the other side of the room from the dying fire, the thick, noxious smoke made her throat hoarse. After a while, her father staggered to his feet and stumbled over to his bed, and she breathed out a small sigh of relief. 


She observed a family of mice scurrying across the floor as she counted to a hundred in her mind. Her father's loud snores drifted from across the room. Now was her chance to escape. Drawing back the blanket, Aveline crawled from her bed. She slipped her hand under the straw mattress and found the silver penny she had hidden there. She’d been tempted to spend it on food a hundred times, but something always held her back.
Aveline grabbed a hessian sack from the floor, gathering up what little clothes she could. She snuck toward the dining table, wrapping up a few small portions of leftover cheese and salted venison in a piece of cloth. Placing the bag near the front door, she tiptoed to a wooden chest lying in the room’s corner and raised the lid. As she picked up her mother's boots, her heart thumped in her chest.
Aveline slinked towards the door, and spotted the little rabbit Ethan had carved lying discarded on the floor. She snatched the wooden animal and placed it in her pocket.
Though her brother treated her with scorn, she detested the prospect of leaving him behind. Aveline had raised Ethan since their mother died from childbirth, and she didn’t begrudge him their father's love, although she received none herself. When she was younger, she always thought she must have done something wrong to anger her father, but as she grew older, she realised he must have hated her because she looked so much like her mother.
Slipping out into the night, Aveline squatted on the ground and pulled her mother’s boots onto her feet. A sad smile graced her face as she knotted the laces. Standing, she paused one last time to glance back at her old run-down home, with its tatty, red door. She had an ache deep in the pit of her stomach as she turned away. How does one leave behind a part of themselves and not feel hollow inside? And that was what Ethan was to her. She'd not found the courage required to run away before because of him. She recalled a time when he followed her around whilst she struggled to get on with her duties. His small, chubby hands would hold onto her skirts and refuse to let them go. He would chuckle often and offer sweet smiles, and it was only this last summer he pulled back from her. Though he'd never answered her other prayers, she made the sign of the cross over her heart, and silently beseeched God to keep her brother safe until she could come back for him. 

Aveline stole her way along their garden-path and crept past the other villagers’ dimly lit homes, feeling a deep sense of finality. She knew the people sleeping inside the buildings noticed what went on in her homestead. Many times, the bruises she received were in plain sight and couldn’t be missed by those with eyes.
A sliver of moonlight pierced the blanket of darkness produced by the dense foliage. Aveline always assumed she knew the forest surrounding her village, but it was a different place at night. Even the sounds weren't the same—gone were the voices of the birds and other creatures she heard in the daylight. Instead, the trees swayed and creaked, owls hooted, and bats flew about, the noise of them flapping their wings as they swooped marking their passage.
She tiptoed around a large shrub, whose dark branches seemed like gnarled fingers reaching out at her, snagging her clothes. She bumped into something large and fell, banging her skull with a thump on the ground.
“Ouch.” Her head stung and the surrounding thicket seemed to shift to the side. The sound of the animals faded away as if the whole woodland held its breath. She sat up, and reached behind her head, touching a painful lump under her hair. Aveline peered through her fringe. The moonlight reflected off something enormous and silver. She clambered to her feet and took precarious steps backwards, blinking her eyes. Nope, still there.
She couldn't believe what she was looking at standing in front of her. Four times her height and covered with silver scales stood a dragon. Bat-like wings tucked tight to its sides and enormous claws sunk into the soft forest floor. They could tear the meat from bones.
Aveline scrambled away from the creature. She must have bumped her head harder than she thought. No one had spotted a dragon in fifty years, they were all thought to have fallen in the Last Great Battle. Sometimes she believed they were a fable that the folk around her village made up.
Maybe her mind summoned up the creature to help her cope with the terror of being on her own in the dark. She recalled seeing the brightly coloured sketches of dragons in the books her mother would read to her as an infant.
“Do not be scared, I will not hurt you,” a deep-toned voice said in her mind.
She sucked in a sharp breath and looked up into a pair of olive and gold eyes. An overwhelming wave of calm and safety blanketed her in its warmth and her panic evaporated. She hadn't felt this way since her mother last cradled her in loving arms. It was a wonderful feeling, almost like a forgotten dream. Running forward, she wrapped her arms around a scaled leg as thick as a tree trunk. He seemed real, but he couldn’t be. Could he?
“Can you not see in the dark? I heard you stumble, and scare away all the tasty animals,” said the dragon.
“Sorry,” Aveline replied as she let go of the dragon’s leg and took several steps back. She rummaged in her sack, pulled out a piece of salted venison, and held a palm towards the dragon. “You can share my food.”
“Thank you.” His rough tongue scooped up the meat from her hand. “Where are you going?”
“Far away from here,” she murmured.
“I will come with you. Keep you safe. You look too scrawny to be a meal, but I don’t think it mattered to the pack of wolves following you before I frightened them away.”
Aveline’s eyes widened.
* * *
Photo by Michael Samuelson Photography.It was just after dawn when they made it to the edge of the forest. Aveline halted and took in the never-ending green fields.
“Do you have a name? I can't keep calling you the dragon,” she asked.
"Aeolius is what my mother named me before she vanished," he communicated telepathically.
"So, you’re motherless as well. What happened to yours?"
“I do not know. I remember her telling me to not be afraid, and then she was gone. I have not seen her since.”
Aveline leaned her head against the creature’s scaly side. “We have each other now.”
Picking a direction, they set off. The sun travelled across the cloud-filled sky as they trudged over a carpet of grass and thick undergrowth, stopping at an occasional leafy bower to rest. There were no roads, buildings, or signs of humanity. But with each stride farther away from her father, she was moving closer towards carving her own destiny.






Thank you so much Michelle for being our guest this week. 


For you readers, thank you for visiting. I hope you'll leave a comment below. 

****For those of you that would like to know more about Michelle and her writing, please follow these links;
Website: https://www.michelleconnorauthor.co.uk/
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/Authormichelleconnor/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/fallenangel1979 
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15996856.Michelle_Connor
Watpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/MichelleConnor6



Books:
The  Bound: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B06XDFSFFX/



The Deceived: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0711QD4VF/

The Freed: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B077SL6CDM/














Where Ravens Soar: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07HP9QCQB/

Guest Poet & Author Georgette LeBlanc of Moncton, New Brunswick.

It’s a special treat to have Georgette as our guest this week. She is an accomplished poet with many publications available. Most recently she was chosen as the Poete Flyee for the 2019 Frye Festival. She is also the Poet Laureate for the Canadian Parliament. She has kindly agreed to a 4Q Interview.





Born in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec, Georgette LeBlanc grew up in Baie Sainte-Marie, Nova Scotia. She holds a Doctorate in Francophone Studies from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Her published works include Alma (2007), Amédé (2010), Prudent (2013) (finalist for the 2014 Governor General’s Literary Award for poetry), and most recently, Le Grand Feu (2016), published by Éditions Perce-Neige, where she edits the poetry collection Acadie tropicale. She has also collaborated on and contributed to theatrical, televisual and musical projects.




See link below



4Q: Your most recent achievement and recognition is to have been chosen as the Poete Flyee. Please tell us about that experience.

GL: I was excited to be asked - honored really - to be this year's Poète flyée for this year's festival.  The Poète flyée opens and closes the festival with readings of published or original poems written during the week. I have great memories of the Frye Festival and wanted to pay tribute to literature and the festival itself. I also really wanted to write about what the festival is and was for me - as a poetess - writer- i.e Northrop Frye himself - his thinking and his essays.




4Q: In December of 2017, you were selected for a two-year term as the Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate. This is another noteworthy achievement to be recognized for your talents. Please tell us about your responsibilities.



GL: I write!  New poems and more new poems. I can be solicited by parliamentarians or members of the Senate to write poems for events or causes. I also have the right to decline these requests. I am also given the opportunity to continue pursuing my own creative projects. Incredible really. It's a two-year contract with the Library of Parliament - a formidable group of individuals.




 4Q: Pleased share a childhood memory or anecdote.


GL: Both my father and mother loved book knowledge. My father took me to a book fair as a young girl at the local University. I remember walking in with him and being impressed by the quantity of books - in French - that was available. I also remember being extremely selective and difficult. It was strange. My father told me to pick anything - allowed me to roam and see for myself. It was great. I wanted to find something, anything, but nothing really fit. 


Or maybe that's the day I found the Fantômette collection. One book.






In any case, he was always a little perplexed by my selectiveness but didn't push - I think about this when my own children tell me they don't like books. Ha!




4Q: You work mainly in French, the language of your birth. We understand that you are presently working on a bilingual collection of poems. Would you care to tell us about this?


GL: I didn't know I was writing a collection of bilingual poems! but this is a good idea because I am writing bilingual poems for the library. Truthfully, I'm a little spooked - writing short poems and actually publishing them on the website shortly thereafter is a very different writing experience. I'm writing a different kind of poem. I usually like to spend time with a story. I love building narrative. My books aren't collection of poems. All of them are written in free verse but read like novels - short novels. I like characters, narrative arcs and plot points. I want to tell you a story.




4Q: Anything else you’d like to tell us about?
GL: Thank you for caring about words and for your own work!







Thank you, Georgette, for being our guest this week.
Thank you to you wonderful readers and visitors. For those that would like to know more about this talented writer, please follow these links.


https://editionsperceneige.ca/auteurs/item/65-leblanc-georgette
https://www.sencanada.ca/en/sencaplus/people/meet-poet-laureate-georgette-leblanc/
http://www.gridcitymagazine.com/frye-festival-georgette-leblanc/