Allan Hudson's Blog, page 44

Guest Kerri Hayne of USA on Writing Cards.

      Kerrie Hayne is a part-time editor and custom paper writer at Writemypaper123 with a master degree in Sociology. She does different studies and researchers in her field and shares them with her readers on the Web to discuss. 
      Convenient tips for writing impressive cards for your recipient
 
If you are having trouble with writing the perfect card for someone, you should consider these tips for writing breathtaking cards that will never be forgotten.
 
   
 

●      Everything that comes from the heart is wonderful

 The most important principle in advance: no fear of writing.

Even if you are not the wittiest person in the world or have the creative mind: Everything from the heart is authentic. And that is the only thing that counts. Make sure to express your real feelings, because people can tell if you are faking it. Just don’t be afraid to be who you are and to show how you feel.
 ●      Get some help

Especially if you are about to write your first card ever. It is not a shame if you ask for help. You can reach out to a friend or family member. Let them read it or write your thoughts on a paper before you do it on the actual card. You can also find a custom paper writer. This way, you can also learn a lot about how to write properly and how to create impressive content.  


●      Use names  
 
 
What sounds simplistic is easily forgotten: Please, always address the recipient directly, ie with his name. Thus, the text immediately has a much more personal effect.


 ●      Patterns as inspiration


 
Finding the perfect wording is really simple: the World Wide Web offers countless pages with ready-made patterns for every occasion. Perhaps you are lucky and read exactly the text in which you recognize yourself 100%. Usually, this is not the case. Therefore, you can always add your own touch to pre-formulated texts. A text should sound "real" in the way that you would express yourself in a personal conversation with the recipient. So you should ask yourself: “Does this really sound like me?"
 ●      What do I feel?

 
No spontaneous idea how exactly this should look like? Think a little bit and find out what you really feel. For example, if you want to write an invitation, imagine your feast: How do you celebrate and what do you value? You have planned an informal summer festival in your own garden, to which your whole family will meet after a long time. "We are looking forward to a cozy summer festival, to have all our relatives around us, and all the wonderful family stories."
Avoid exaggerated, artificial or too thickly applied formulations, which you would not use in a personal conversation.
 ●      Always remain friendly
 
Positive memories do not always come to mind. An example: "It was nice to be part of your wedding ceremony. We would not have thought the celebration would be so great. "This can be more friendly - without lying. Try it: "We were looking forward to getting to know you and your loved ones at your wedding." Or "Best thanks for the wonderful time at your wedding."
 ●      What has happened in my life?
   

It will be even more personal if you let the people participate in your life. Typically there is a place for this in Christmas cards. Don’t just write anything. Tell about special events that have changed your life: a move, a new job, a new pet. People will be able to relate and to feel your emotions.
 
●      What interests does the recipient have?
 
Nothing worth mentioning? Then follow this approach: Consider the situation of the recipient. In the thank-you card for coming to the graduation, for example, "Dear Aunt Maria, I was especially pleased that you made the long journey from Europe to come to my graduation."
Think about what the recipient of your card would like to read. What does he or she always ask first when you see or call the person? If Cousin Anna always asks how your children are doing at school, tell her about it. What are the hobbies and interests of the card recipients? Your best friend from kindergarten is a huge football fan. Then he will be happy to hear you tell him about the football match you went to. Does he like cooking or food? Then tell him about the delicious honey that you have tasted in Greece. Anyone who is able to put himself into the shoes of the receiver and formulate the correct map text is interesting and creative. Before you write the greeting card, you should think about the current personal situation of the recipient: What is he experiencing? How is he? What words would he be particularly looking forward to?
 ●      Quote - completely individual

 

A quotecan give your card a very personal touch. It should not only fit the occasion, but also the other person. It is also a good idea to cite people who are well-known, perhaps admired or revered. You can cite a line from a common song that is relevant to the recipient. A quote from one of your favorite movies expresses what you feel. Yes, you can even cite your own children or the wise grandma if it fits well in the context.
 
●      Basic information spiced up
 
If the tone is appropriate for the particular frame or occasion: write loose and colloquially, possibly also with a bit of humour. Basic information such as date, route descriptions or dress code wishes can get an original twist. In the approach to the wedding reception, for example, could be: "On our big day, no one should be missed! Or:" I know how busy you are: so you should mark this important date very thick in the calendar! "
 ●      Thank you

 
A simple "thank you" stands for itself and is - especially framed in a pretty card - always a sign that one is appreciated and pleased about his generosity. Tell the people that the new kitchen machine is almost daily in use, the concert ticket has given you a wonderful, fun evening or you have come closer to your dream of your own motorcycle or a designer handbag thanks to the generous money gift.
 ●      A symbol says more than 1000 words
 
Emoticons, which many send by messenger, SMS or e-mail every day, are able to express what other words maybe can’t. If it suits your style or occasion – use it. You can also draw something, but don’t let the drawing take up all the space. Be a little creative. The recipient will appreciate it for sure.
 ●      Write with hand

 
A hand-written congratulation is personal and is perceived by the recipient as a gift. Computer print, on the other hand, appears impersonal and unloving. Even e-mails are quickly lost in the daily e-mail flood and should be avoided.
 
 
I am sure that by now, you know some of the basics in order to write your card. However, you should always have in mind that you should write from your heart and consider the person that is receiving it. Pay attention to grammar and spelling, since the reader should have no issues while reading your sentences. It all depends on the occasion, but all those cards mean more when they have at least one sentence written on it. Don’t leave it blank, because I am sure that there is at least something you would like to say. It is like standing in front of a loved one and remaining silent. I am sure that it would feel awkward and that’s not what you want. So, make sure to use these tips and write your card with hand and heart!



 Thank you Kerri for the informative suggestions.
 

Guest Author Ritu Bhathal of Kent, England.

I stumbled upon Ritu's delightful short story, The Bag Lady, and asked her if she would be a guest on the Scribbler and share her story. Much to my delight, she said yes!




Ritu Bhathal was born in Birmingham in the mid-1970’s to migrant parents, hailing from Kenya but of Indian origin. This colorful background has been a constant source of inspiration to her. From childhood, she has always enjoyed reading. This love of books is mostly credited to her mother. The joy of reading spurred her on to become creative with her own writing, from fiction to poetry. Winning little writing competitions at school and locally gave her the encouragement to continue writing.
As a wife, mother, daughter, sister, and teacher, she has drawn on inspiration from many avenues to create the poems that she writes.
A qualified teacher, having studied at Kingston University, she now deals with classes of children as a sideline to her writing!
Ritu also writes a blog, a mixture of life and creativity, thoughts and opinions, which recently was awarded second place in the Best Overall Blog Category at the Annual Blogger’s Bash Awards.
Ritu is happily married and living in Kent with Hubby dearest and two children….and not to forget the furbaby, Sonu Singh. She is currently working on some short stories, and a novel, to be published in the near future.


Discover more about Ritu, her social media contacts and her books by visiting her website

www.butismileanyway.com


      (Copyright is held by the author. used with permission)      The Bag Lady
   Photo from Pixabay  

“Come on Penny, let’s just cross the road here. There you go, good girl, we can see the shop window so much clearer from here.” Penny looked up at her mother and glanced back to where they had been standing, outside the huge department store Willards.  It had become something of a family custom that whenever there was a big reveal of the new Christmas shop window display, Penny and her mother, Charlotte, would come and marvel at the inventiveness of the designers.
Just to the side of the window this time, though, there was a small pile of bags, carrier bags, reusable shopping bags, even an old handbag, and they were all stuffed to bursting. Sat among them was a person. An elderly lady.
“But mother, why is that lady sitting there?” It didn’t seem right to Penny to leave an old woman sitting outside, on such a cold day.
“Don’t worry about her, Penny. She’s just a bag lady. Nothing to concern yourself with. Just keep your eyes ahead, and stop staring, otherwise, she might think we’re about to give her something.”  Charlotte held her hand out to her daughter, a gold bracelet  on her wrist glinting in the light as she did so.
Accustomed to listening to whatever her mother said, Penny obediently continued in the direction her mother had indicated, but she couldn’t help taking one last glance back. As she did, the woman caught her eye, winked, and gave her a wave.
Penny started, and turned forward, following her mother as quickly as she could.
~
Milly smiled to herself.
Bag Lady.
She was used to that moniker. And not just because of her present situation.
Oh, many years ago, there were those that called her that, for a very different reason.
~
Fifty years ago, she had been a young, eager to learn shop assistant at Willards. She had started right at the bottom, running around, fulfilling the commands of the head sales ladies. She became an expert at deciphering their strange, short code to describe all manner of items, so a customer was not waiting too long to get what they desired.
She was soon given a chance to step up in the hierarchy and began to wrap the bought items when someone noticed her careful handling of merchandise, and how she folded scarves and clothing with such reverence.
It was during one of her wrapping sessions though, that her true skill was discovered.
Lady Palmerston had been choosing her Spring wardrobe and had accumulated a huge pile of beautiful clothes, which Milly had to wrap. As she did so, Milly found herself mentally matching various accessories to the myriad outfits scattered on her counter.
She looked over at Mrs Walker, the Head Sales Lady, who was deep in conversation with Lady Palmerston.  They were discussing jewellery. That was Mrs Walker’s area of expertise. Milly knew they would be a while so she slipped from her place of work to the Handbag counter, and started rifling through the stock there. Finding the items she required, she went back to her counter, and began to arrange the clothes, and placed the chosen bags by each outfit. “They look pretty good!” she thought, and after a quick glance back, to see if Mrs Walker was still occupied, she nipped over to the shoe counter.
Content with her choices of footwear, she made her way back to her counter, to complete the outfits, before actually doing her job of wrapping the clothing in the delicate tissue paper Willards was famous for.
But she stood stock still as she realised that there were people by the wrapping station. Not any old people, but Mrs Walker and Lady Palmerston. Good grief! There would be trouble now!
One of the requirements of her job was to have the customer’s goods ready to go before they came to her, and she hadn't even started! This didn’t bode well.
“But I insist, Mrs Walker! I wish to speak with her right away! The one who did,” and Lady Palmerston indicated towards the clothes, “this!”
“Very well, Lady Palmerston, I shall go and locate the girl right away. I am so sorry for causing you any inconvenience…” Mrs Walker was decidedly flustered and turned around to find that blasted young girl. Really! To leave her post with all these clothes left scattered atop her workstation! And handbags strewn all over the client’s purchases!
She caught sight of Milly, just as Milly thought she should do a quick u-turn and disappear to the store room.
“Millicent! Come here this instant!” Mrs Walker’s voice carried across the shop floor and reached Milly’s ears.
“What in the world is going on here, young lady?” Mrs Walker shrieked as Milly approached. Reddening, Milly searched her mind for an appropriate answer. “Well, I…”
“Please Mrs Walker, may I?” interrupted a bemused Lady Palmerston.
“Pardon? Oh, of course, Lady Palmerston. May I just say, I apologise profusely on behalf of Willards…” The Head Sales Lady flustered.
Lady Palmerston turned to look at Milly.
“Dear girl, did you do this?” She swept her arm in the direction of the pile of clothes on the wrapping desk.
“Yes Lady Palmerston, I’m sorry Lady Palmerston” Milly glanced down at her shoes. This was it, she was going to lose her job now. Why couldn’t she have just done what she was meant to?
“Sorry? But I love it!”
Milly looked up, slightly confused, as did Mrs Walker.
“You have matched these bags to my outfits perfectly! And if I’m not mistaken, you were carrying shoes when you came over here. I can only guess they were to complement the handbags. Mrs Walker, this girl has something of a talent!
~
It didn’t take long for the word of Lady Palmerston to spread.
Her acquaintances made a point of coming to the wrapping counter and requesting that Milly accompany them to accessorise them.
Soon, ladies from far and wide were asking for “The Bag Lady” to assist them.
The management at Willards soon realised they were onto a goldmine here. Women were choosing outfits, and with Milly’s careful selections, they were spending double the amount on bags, shoes and scarves.
Would it be a good idea to move her to Jewellery, where the merchandise held all the more value?
~
Many years went by, and Milly passed her knowledge and skills onto some of the younger, eager girls working on the shop front. Teaching them which colours complemented others, which materials suited partnership with others, there was soon a team of ‘Purse Girls’, headed by the original ‘Bag Lady’.
Even with all her successes, she had lived a meagre life. The wages she earned kept a roof over her head. She had never married, or had children, so devoted to her job, was she.
The time came for her to retire.
They gave her a wonderful send off. Old clients of hers, as well as new, came to wish her well. Even Mrs Williams was wheeled out of her own retirement to come and gloat about how she had ‘discovered’ Milly’s talent. She was presented with a very expensive black Chanel handbag, as a token from the store.
She thought of Lady Palmerston that day very fondly. The woman had given her the step she needed to leave wrapping, and make a name for herself.  It was sad to think that she was no longer with them, having passed away around ten years previously, but Lady Palmerston’s daughter had come to the store, on the eve of her funeral, and requested that Milly choose the shoes and bag that her mother would be buried with.
Milly recalled a girl with her on that day, Charlotte. Lady Palmerston’s granddaughter. She had looked keenly at the various glass-topped counters, marvelling at the sparkly items encased within.
A few years, they met again. Charlotte was getting married, and she came with her mother to choose some accessories for her trousseau. Milly found her a beautiful bracelet, with tiny diamonds studding the clasp, something that would set off most outfits on her delicate wrist.
~
As kind as life had been to her whilst in employment, things took a down turn in retirement. With not many savings, and no family to fall back on, Milly fell behind on her rent. Paying bills, and even buying food became a juggling act.
Sadly, she lost her home, and with nowhere to go, her belongings stuffed in the bags around her meagre home, she wandered the streets. She took pleasure in finding a spot near her old workplace around Christmas, to see the windows that always gave her such pleasure.
And today, seeing that little girl had been the icing on the cake. Penny was the spitting image of her great grandmother, Lady Penny Palmerston. She knew it was her. And the fact that her mother still wore the bracelet, after all these years… It didn’t matter if she didn’t recognise her anymore, the fact that Milly’s choices were still appreciated warmed her heart.
She hugged her handbag tightly to herself and smiled.
~
The headline read “The Real Bag Lady”.
It detailed the history of the well-known Millicent Cooper, who had started the trend for personal shoppers, fifty years previously. At the time she was paid a basic wage, and the happiness of her customers was more than enough of a bonus for her.
And the sad news that even though her example paved the way for many younger women to charge exorbitant amounts, doing, essentially, the same thing, she died, homeless, curled up outside Willards, the very store she had found fame in.
Clutching her Chanel bag.





Thank you Ritu for being our guest this week and for this story!

Wall of War - coming soon! A teaser by A. Hudson

With the forthcoming publication of the newest Drake Alexander adventure - Wall of War - I want to introduce you to one of the characters - Etienne D'Astous - a baker and world class rock climber from Cocagne, New Brunswick. His friends call him Tin.

(copyright is held by the author)


   Chapter 35                      Nov 8 9:27 p.m.                  Cocagne Bay, NB
 
The Cocagne River flows into a basin whose shores are dotted with brightly colored cottages and stately homes. Deep enough for a marina that harbours ten or twelve boats, it feeds a larger bay but is choked by two protruding tracts of high ground sixty-eight meters apart. Spanning the gap is an aging wooden bridge, its complexion of fading white paint peeling. The timbered roadway is slightly heaved at the concrete supports, evidence of the sagging weight.  Hardy wooden arches, ornamental in their symmetry, support the asphalted road. Its daily traffic passes directly in front of the Boulangerie Belle Baie, the Beautiful Bay Bakery.  The wood and stone building is positioned on the tip of the northern finger that juts into the river. Water surrounds it on three sides. The aroma of spices and baked goods emanate from the building’s every pore.  
  
Etienne D’Astous is in the kitchen at the rear of the building. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up above his elbows. The forearms and hands, dusted with flour, are plunged into a wad of white dough centered on the large prep table in front of him. The smell of yeast fills the brightly lit area. His lean body is draped in a white cotton apron, dusted here and there with baking ingredients. His image is reflected in the glass that frames the rear of the building. As he kneads the bread, he watches Charlie Caissie idle his boat, a Sundancer called the Water Spider, towards the marina, every deck light aglow. When it cuts through his image in the glass, Etienne studies his own reflection as he pokes and folds, liking what he sees – a happy, busy man.
He concentrates on his task, knowing he has punished the sticky dough enough. Wiping his hands on an ever present damp cloth hanging from the side of the table, he pulls a chef’s knife from a slot in the back of the table where several others await their turn. The impressive blade is German in style, curved along its cutting length, and Etienne uses it for everything. Setting the knife on the table, he turns to gather a stack of baking tins on the counter behind him as his wife Celeste walks in.
She is Filipino, as tall as a twelve year old, short spiky hair and a look that always seems to sparkle. She wears faded jeans, a pink long sleeved cable knit sweater and tan LL Bean hikers.  Her roundish face is the color of coffee with a bit of milk. She is caustically charming and you can’t help but like her. The only thing un-feminine about her is her hands. While dainty, they are the callused and scarred appendages of a rock climber, much like her husband’s.
“I just did the bank deposit and we had a fantastic day.”
“That’s great, Celeste. The macapuno tarts your brother made were a big hit. Maybe he could try an extra sheet tonight, cut back on the pet-de-soeurs. What do you think?”
She laughs as she helps Etienne carry the thirty bread pans to the table, where they stack them on the right.
“I think that’s a silly name for a pastry, a Sister’s fart.”
“Well, so is Hello Dolly. I just cook them and sell them; I don’t name them.”
Cutting a sizable chunk off the large blob of dough, Etienne molds the perfect loaf, drops it in the pan and tucks it in at the corners. Celeste watches him manipulate the dough so skillfully. She knows that when Tin, as all his friends call him, is not climbing the face of some daunting and scary rock, he is happiest here in his kitchen. She breaks her fond gaze to look around to see where she can help.
“I’ll leave a note for Fernando, then. Can I help you clean up here? The dough will need to rise for a while. Jacques will be here by eleven thirty and he can put them in the oven. And remember, we have to get ready for our meeting on Wednesday with Mr. Van Roden.”
“Who’s he again?”
Stowing the soiled utensils, plates, bowls and odd cups in the dishwasher, she is about to reply when her cell phone vibrates on her hip. Drawing it from its holster, she leans back against the counter.
“Celeste speaking.”
*
 
Elijah has explained to Williston the latest developments, the list of things they need, and the information they require. Williston replaces the phone on his desk. To say he is concerned about the Piscontes would be a drastic understatement. He knows them well, likes them a lot. Leaning over his desk, tapping his pencil on his notepad, he thinks about how much they mean to his best friend. Determined to do everything he can, he sits up straight and quickly makes a list.
His first task will be to call the D’Astous in New Brunswick. Forgetting his notes, he pulls out the left drawer to retrieve a dog-eared directory he keeps there. As much as he loves computers, Payne is old fashioned about his contacts, not trusting modern security measures enough to keep them online. Finding the proper page, he reaches for the phone and thumbs in the number.
Before pushing send, he gets up from his chair to walk to the window, staring out at the black waters. The slightest of vibrations can be felt as the powerful engine pushes his ship for Antigua at sixteen knots. Stretching backwards to ease the sore muscles of his lower back, he remembers when he met Etienne. They were fourteen, testerone-driven and mischievous. Visiting Drake’s parents’ summer home for the first time, he met many of the players on Drake’s baseball team and Etienne was one of them.
The kid was doing dangerous stuff back then, climbing the old wooden bridge in the first place was tricky; showing off by walking the narrow beams on the top frightened them all. On a dare one time he dove off the top, the height of a four-story building, into a narrow channel. It still chills Williston when he thinks about it.
He was the first to go skydiving, coaxing everyone to go with him. Drake was one of the first to go. Surprisingly, Beth went too. Williston was the third – but he’d never gone since.
Williston had only ever met the man’s wife at their wedding. He had spoken to her on the phone several times for social reasons. She and Etienne had met working on one of the Carnival cruise ships, where he was the pastry chef and she was the head waitress, both looking for adventure and they both were drawn to rock walls. They’d been together almost ten years now.  He hits the connect button and hears the sound of her island accented voice.
* 
“Celeste speaking.”
“It’s Williston Payne calling, Celeste. I know it’s late; I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”
Her voice is sincere and wears a light smile.
“No Williston, it’s never inconvenient to hear from you. Goodness, we don’t hear from you enough. I hope you’re calling to tell us you’re coming to Cocagne?”
“Well, not right away. I’m calling for Drake and the Piscontes. Teresa Pisconte is in trouble and we need help. We need to do some back country scrambling and trail blazing. There is a cave or caves to find and probably sheer walls to be conquered.”
Celeste puts her hand to her mouth when she hears Teresa’s
name. The girl had worked in their store when she was a teenager and summers when she was home from university. She had been one of the hardest working employees they had ever had, always pleasant to the customers, always serious in her opinions.

“What’s wrong with Teresa?”
”It troubles me to tell you this but she’s been abducted.”
“Oh no!”
“That’s the reason we have to act fast. So can you two or at least Tin get away? And if so, how quickly?”
Etienne’s brow forms a questioning look from the surprise in his wife’s voice, the disbelief in her eyes. He wipes his hands as he watches Celeste. She looks at him directly, gesturing to the phone.
“I’m going to let you speak to Tin.”
She extends the phone to her husband.
“It’s Williston. Teresa Pisconte has been abducted.”
 “Teresa? Our Teresa? “
Celeste just nods in response as Etienne takes the phone.
“Hey Williston, what’s going on?”
Williston relates what has been happening over the last several days, covering the most salient points. When he gets to the part about the dagger and strange document that accompanies it, explaining their existence as the root of the problem, Etienne questions him why they would need climbers.
“Well, that’s the part that’s vague. The document is written in Latin and I personally haven’t seen it, but a friend of Miguel’s, another priest who is fluent in that language, suggests that the document ends abruptly when explaining the whereabouts. I expect that the next phase of his operation will be to narrow that down. It was clear that there are caves and the man was a climber and that’s where Drake needs help.”








Thank you for stopping by and I hope you enjoyed this small tidbit of my novel. Please watch here for further progress as we get nearer to publication, tentativley set for the end of October.

  
If you have any comments or questions or even perhaps pre-order a copy , leave a comment below and your email address or send me an email in the "Follow by email" box in the top left corner.


 

Returning Guest Roger Moore of Island View, NB.

The Scribbler is extremely pleased to have Professor Emeritus Roger Moore  as our guest this week. He is sharing his recent experience from being selected for the first one month KIRA residency as well as some selected poetry.  (Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)

Roger is an award-winning academic, poet, short story writer, novelist, film maker and visual artist. 
He has been featured on SBS before with a 4Q Interview and a delightful short story. If you missed it, please go here

And you can check out his links below.





2017 has been a busy and creatively productive year for me. On March 2, I was informed that I had been selected to participate in the first one-month KIRA residency that ran from June 1-28 in St. Andrews, New Brunswick. Three Kingsbrae International Residencies for Artists were planned for this inaugural year (2017), with five artists invited to each of the three residencies. In total, fifteen artists from various fields of expertise (including poetry, painting, basket-weaving, sculpting, paper-making, singing, rug-hooking and pan-piping) have experienced the Kingsbrae Residencies in June, July, and August of this year.
 
I had originally proposed two projects for my KIRA stay: the completion of Echoes of an Impromptu Metaphysics subtitled A Cancer Chronicle, and, should there be time, the revision of my first novel, Witch Doctor. The creative impetus I received from my acceptance into the KIRAresidency allowed me to revise Echoes… and publish it, before I arrived in KIRA. The revision included a new title: A Cancer Chronicle. In addition, still enthused, I was able to complete and publish a third short story collection, after Systematic Deception and Bistro) called Nobody’s Child.   
A Cancer Chronicleopens with the diagnosis of the disease and moves through the various stages that lead through treatment to recovery.  I am fortunate in so many ways. The disease was caught early and was curable with the appropriate treatment. I received tremendous support from everyone concerned during the ordeal. The friends I made at the Auberge / Hospice in Moncton encouraged me to talk about my experiences and shared their own with me. So many people suffer in silence, but the friendship that surrounded me encouraged me not only to talk and to write but also to share my experience in poetical form. Here is a poem from the Diagnosis sequence.



Today
Today,
a lovely lady
read me
my death sentence:
my biopsy results.
She poured me
a poisoned chalice,
my personal
Gethsemane,
a cup from which
I must drink.
I sat there in silence,
sipping it in.
Darkness wrapped
its shawl
around my shoulders.
‘Step by step,’ she said,
‘on stepping stones.’
I opened my eyes,
but
I could no longer see
the far side of the stream.
            Days of extreme and often forced excitement alternated with days of boredom and sometimes very dark depression. Here’s a poem from a dark day.
And the greatest of these …
 
I am a hollow man,
my heart and soul scooped out
by worry, wear, and care.
 
Hope?
I abandoned it long ago.
 
Faith?
In these changing times
it's a series of corks
bobbing their apples
in a party barrel.
 
Charity?
Love grows old and cold
and loses its charms
as we shiver in each other's arms.
 
For now, I'll dodder
my dodo way
towards extinction.
 
As I shuffle
from room to room
I’ll rest for a while
upon this chair.
 
My mother went this way.
My brothers and my father too;
I soon will follow,
just like you.
           
I was allowed home for the weekends and drove back to Island View on Friday nights for the two months that my treatment lasted. Here’s a happier poem, composed in the jacuzzi at home at a time when the medics were winning and the disease was disappearing from my body.
Jacuzzi
Warm and safe,
womb waters whirling,
drifting through time,
eyes closed, and space.
Amniotic, this liquid,
rocking me to the throb
of my mother’s heart.
I close my eyes.

The walls around me
open out to reveal
the sun by day,
the stars by night.
The full moon:
a golden circle
beaming down.
My mother’s face
above me
…
and me,
re-born.
A different kind of rebirth also occurred at KIRA. I drove to St. Andrews on Friday, June 2, and there I started a new life. My writing schedule at KIRA often ran from 5:30 am, when the sun peeped into the east-facing room where I was staying, until midnight, with breaks for food, excursions, and artistic conversations. These 18 hours a day, writing and thinking, gave me an intense creative experience that it would be difficult to reproduce. My presence in the Red Room, on the Second Floor of KIRA, allowed me the luxury of sitting at my desk, looking out of the window towards Minister’s Island and Passamaquoddy Bay, and writing whenever I wanted to, day or night. Breakfast at 8 am and supper at six pm were provided. We lunched on our own. The freedom of this schedule accounts, in part, for my productivity.     
Before coming to KIRA, we were asked how we intended to ‘engage with the community’. My engagement came through my dialog with my time and my place (Bakhtin), and I engaged with several mini-communities throughout my stay. Principal among them were (1) the community of my fellow artists; (2) Kingsbrae Gardens, people, statues, and flowers; (3) the Passamaquoddy region, including Jarea; and (4) the delightful town of St. Andrews-by-the-sea.
At KIRA, the early, light-filled starts to my days, my high work rate plus my new Bakhtinian dialog allowed me to write (June) and publish (17 July 2017) One Small Corner (subtitled A Kingsbrae Chronicle). This book, my third in 2017 (all available online at Amazon), consists of 101 pages and 78 poems, all written and / or revised at KIRA. The two titles, A Cancer Chronicle and A Kingsbrae Chronicle illustrate the yin and the yang, the light side (KIRA) and the dark side (cancer) of my creative life.
One Small Corner is both the title of the book and the title of the opening poem:
One Small Corner
And this is the good thing,
to find your one small corner
and to have your one small candle,
then to light it, and leave it burning
its sharp bright hole in the night.
 Around you, the walls you constructed;inside, the reduced space, the secret garden,
the Holy of Holies where roses grow
and no cold wind disturbs you.
 “Is it over here?” you ask: “Or over here?”
If you do not know, I cannot tell you.
But I will say this: turning a corner one dayyou will suddenly know
that you have found a perfection
that you will seek again, in vain,
for the rest of your life.
        
    One Small Corner holds multiple meanings for me. New Brunswick is my one small corner within Canada. Within New Brunswick, Fredericton fills the bill, as does my home in Island View. For the month of June, St. Andrews became my small corner, and Kingsbrae Gardens shared the intimacy of that small space. Within Kingsbrae itself, KIRA was a small corner, as was my room and, above all, the little nook in it where my desk nestled against the window and I was able to look out across the lawn and trees to the bay. Each one of us has these ‘small corners’ in our lives. Sometimes, we can take them apart and then put them back together and when we do they nest inside each other like a set of Russian Dolls.

Russian Dolls
“Plant a plant, deep its roots,rooted in fine potting soil in a pot,
firm the hands, the spot well-chosen,
in a flower bed, in a pattern,
in an empty space, in a growing garden
within a larger garden,
in an old estate
in a small town by the sea.”
“Russian doll puzzle:garden after garden,
with gardens within gardens.”
“Planted and replanted,unfolding flowers in a sunshine world,
in a state of grace with hope and craft
hand in hand
with faith and belief,
and everything planned
to take advantage
of this time and this space.”
“So simple those words,
so complex those ideas.”
            One of the key themes of both KIRA and the Kingsbrae Gardens is that of giving back. We receive and accept with open hands. We must also give thanks and give back our joy and happiness to the world around us. Here is my poem on Giving Back.
Giving Back
In the beginning was the wind,
and the wind created waves,
whitecaps on wild waters
with sunlight dancing its tiptoe hornpipe,
heel and toe,
landwards towards the headland
where the lighthouse grows
from rough and ready rock,
its light cast on water and returned
fourfold in the yellow moon path,
step after stepping stone,
golden from sea to gardens
with their marigold path
leading to house and home
and the banquet spread before us,
so solemn the altar,
this day of all days,
when we celebrate
our lost and loved ones
with bread cast, like light,
out upon the waters and tenfold,
always,
our love returned.
The KIRA experience was exceptional and I benefitted greatly from it, both artistically and spiritually. I would encourage any and all New Brunswick artists, in whatever medium, to apply for a place next year. KIRA will allow them to produce, develop, and grow.

 Thank you Roger for this sharing your experience at KIRA and especially for the selection of poetry with the background and inspiration for each.

Roger's links are as follows;


http://moore.lib.unb.ca/ 
http://moore.lib.unb.ca/poet/ http://w3.stu.ca/stu/sites/nble/m/moore_roger.htmlhttp://quevedo.lib.unb.ca
http://wfnb.ca/member_profile/roger-moore/

Guest Author Marjorie Mallon of England

A great day for the Scribbler! Marjorie Mallon is our featured guest this week. She is an author's dear friend, a kind and generous sharer.

I’m delighted to be a guest on Allan Hudson’s blog South Branch Scribbler. I have some fabulous news to share with you, the kindle copy of my book – The Curse of Time #1 Bloodstone releases today, Saturday August 26th. You are all invited to a fun on-line party on my blog: https://mjmallon.com/ Facebook and on social media. The Curse of Time is a middle grade/YA Fantasy set in Cambridge, England. I promise that the story will appeal to a wide range of age groups who love an imaginative, magical story so whether you are a young teen, an older teenager or an adult who has never grown up there will be something you will enjoy. I promise. Just because it says YA don’t conclude that the audience for the book or the party going age is restricted! Please join me on this long awaited day; I’m so excited to say that I’m an author. It truly is a dream come true.


And now, meet Marjorie Mallon and read an excerpt from her novel.

I am a debut author who has been blogging for three years: https://mjmallon.com. My interests include writing, photography, poetry, and alternative therapies. I write Fantasy YA, middle grade fiction and micro poetry - haiku and tanka. I love to read and have written over 100 reviews: https://mjmallon.com/2015/09/28/a-z-of-my-book-reviews/
My alter ego is MJ - Mary Jane from Spiderman. I love superheroes! I was born on the 17th of November in Lion City: Singapore, (a passionate Scorpio, with the Chinese Zodiac sign a lucky rabbit,) second child and only daughter to my proud parents Paula and Ronald. I grew up in a mountainous court in the Peak District in Hong Kong with my elder brother Donald. My parents dragged me away from my exotic childhood and my much loved dog Topsy to the frozen wastelands of Scotland. In bonnie Edinburgh I mastered Scottish country dancing, and a whole new Och Aye lingo.
As a teenager I travelled to many far-flung destinations to visit my abacus wielding wayfarer dad. It's rumoured that I now live in the Venice of Cambridge, with my six foot hunk of a Rock God husband, and my two enchanted daughters. After such an upbringing my author's mind has taken total leave of its senses! When I’m not writing, I eat exotic delicacies while belly dancing, or surf to the far reaches of the moon. To chill out, I practise Tai Chi. If the mood takes me I snorkel with mermaids, or sign up for idyllic holidays with the Chinese Unicorn, whose magnificent voice sings like a thousand wind chimes. An Excerpt from The Curse of Time. Book One - The Bloodstone.  (Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission) Puzzle Piece 1: The Invitation  Opportunity,An unexpected invite,Such a mystery,To explore and discover,A hidden cottage of light.  I found it to be a mystifying situation. An unnatural stillness seemed to linger after many days of storms. Today, the sky reminded me of a painting. It appeared too perfect, too bright, too still, a picture landscape with no beginning or end. Instead, the vault of heaven spread out toward an endless grey forever, as if seeping around the edges of an untamed watercolour bleeding into the rest of the day. Even so, the sight filled my heart with promise, a ray of hope in an otherwise dull morning. The quietness of my contemplation came to an abrupt end. I heard the sound of an envelope crashing through the mail box. I jumped at the clatter. The letter landed on the floor as the sound of a thousand crystal chandeliers echoed throughout the house. I rushed to retrieve the envelope and turned it this way and that. I couldn’t find an address label and wondered if the note had been hand-delivered. Who could this message be for?
I stood puzzling over this peculiar circumstance when out of nowhere my name: Amelina Scott appeared in bold writing. I watched wide-eyed as the final character of my surname was spelled out in a delicate font. I tore the dispatch open and inside I discovered a card printed on the finest paper with gilt edges and embossed calligraphy. There were few details, just an instruction to visit: Crystal Cottage, River Walk, Cambridge, and the following added at the bottom as an afterthought: R.S.V.P – Not required. We promise to be welcoming when you arrive. When you’re ready, you’ll discover us…              I shook my head in disbelief. Nothing good ever happens to the Scott’s so this invitation might look magical, but surely it must be nonsense. Weird messages from unknown sources count as dubious junk mail, the way I look at it.             I grabbed the envelope and attempted to rip it into pieces, but it wouldn’t tear. With a mind of its own the envelope curled its edges in protest. I searched in a drawer until I found scissors and tried to cut the invite. That didn’t work either. My hand ached, but the invitation endured intact as if mocking me.             Frustrated, I tried to cut the invitation again. A sputtered cursing sound filled the room even though I was alone. On my third attempt, I tore into the card with success. (I think it let me.) And once again, I perceived a noise, an angry murmur, and then nothing. Quiet descended in the room, so I threw the torn parts into the bin.
            Finally satisfied that the annoying issue with the strange invite would no longer plague me, I brushed my hands together, and picked an apple out of the bowl on the kitchen counter, polished it on my jumper and then took a bite. In no time my hunger had abated, and as I chucked the core towards the bin, I registered a chuckle. I stopped, my feet rooted to the ground as a feeling of certainty filled my soul. I knew what to expect. I have no idea how I did, but I could see the image in my mind, the invitation had reformed. The invitation was playing games with me! I peered in the rubbish, and there I saw the envelope, connected in one perfect, unblemished piece. What the heck?   Summary by the Author. 

On Amelina Scott’s thirteenth birthday, her father disappears under mysterious circumstances. Saddened by this traumatic event, she pieces together details of a curse that has stricken the heart and soul of her family.

Amelina longs for someone to confide in. Her once carefree mother has become angry and despondent. One day a strange black cat and a young girl, named Esme appear. Immediately, Esme becomes the sister Amelina never had. The only catch is that Esme must remain a prisoner, living within the mirrors of Amelina's house.

Dreams and a puzzling invitation convince Amelina the answer to her family's troubles lies within the walls of the illusive Crystal Cottage. Undaunted by her mother’s warnings, Amelina searches for the cottage on an isolated Cambridgeshire pathway where she encounters a charismatic young man, named Ryder. At the right moment, he steps out of the shadows, rescuing her from the unwanted attention of two male troublemakers.

With the help of an enchanted paint set, Amelina meets the eccentric owner of the cottage, Leanne, who instructs her in the art of crystal magic. In time, she earns the right to use three wizard stones. The first awakens her spirit to discover a time of legends, and later, leads her to the Bloodstone, the supreme cleansing crystal which has the power to restore the balance of time. Will Amelina find the power to set her family free?

A YA/middle grade fantasy set in Cambridge, England exploring various themes/aspects: Light, darkness, time, shadows, a curse, magic, deception, crystals, art, poetry, friendships, teen relationships, eating disorders, self-harm, anxiety, depression, family, puzzles, mystery, a black cat, music, a mix of sadness, counterbalanced by a touch of humour.

Marjorie's links.  My Amazon Author Page My blog – for information about new releases, photos of main characters/character              interviews, book reviews and inspiration: https://mjmallon.comMy New Facebook Group #ABRSC: Authors/Bloggers Rainbow Support Club on Facebook: Instagram :Twitter: @Marjorie_Mallon and Twitter: @curseof_timeFacebook: Facebook: m j mallon authorTumblr: Tumblr: mjmallonauthor I have devoted the past few years to writing over 100 reviews on My Goodreads Review Account, and on my blog to help support traditional and indie writers.  
Thank you Marjorie for being our guest this week. Wishing you tremendous success with this series.  A very big Thanks to you - the visitor. Please leave a comment and make us smile!   Watch here for more news about my newest novel soon to be published!!!!!!!     

Guest Author & Blogger Janice Wald of An Insider's Guide to Building a Successful Blog.

Janice Wald is an author, a freelance writer, a blogger and a blogging coach. She blogs at Mostly Blogging.com where she shares tips for bloggers and marketers. Wald has been included in over thirty expert interviews and interview panels. Her blog was nominated for the 2017 Most Informative Blog Award at the London Blogger’s Bash. She recently published AN INSIDER’S GUIDE TO BUILDING A SUCCESSFUL BLOG (https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M4QOD41) available on Amazon.  She has agreed to answer some questions for a 4Q Interview.

4Q: You have written An Insider’s Guide to Building a Successful Blog. Please tell us how this came about.JW: It was always my dream to be a published author. Of course, I never believed in my wildest dreams it would come to fruition. After I started blogging for about a year, people suggested I combine my blog posts into an ebook. I couldn’t decide if it should be about blogging or social media since my blog post articles contain tips for both. To find out what the members of my email list would be interested in reading a book about, I polled them. They indicated they’d be interested in reading a social media tips ebook, so that became the plan. However, the longer I spent compiling my posts, the clearer it became that there was tremendous overlap between the two topics. For example, I wrote an article on the best times to blog on social media. Would that go in a social media tips book or a blogging tips book?My publisher solved the dilemma by changing the title and combining the topics into one book. It was originally going to be called YOUR ONE-STOP GUIDE TO SOCIAL MEDIA. She actually gave me several choices that fit the combined content. I chose AN INSIDER’S GUIDE TO BUILDING A SUCCESSFUL BLOG. I hope it’s okay if I give my amazing publisher a shoutout here. I’d recommend Lois Hoffman to anyone planning on publishing an ebook. Her contact information islois@happyselfpublisher.com  
 4Q: Your website www.mostlyblogging.com provides valuable information for bloggers. Tell us about it.JW: Thank you so much for calling my tips valuable. My mission is to help bloggers. Although it started out to help new bloggers, many of the bloggers that started blogging when I started writing are no longer new. Therefore, my tips have evolved. Instead of solely being for new bloggers, they are now for bloggers of all experience levels. Many bloggers go on to market their goods and services. For that reason, in addition to blogging, social media, SEO, productivity, and technology tips for bloggers, I also write marketing tips for bloggers as well. I realize many of your readers are writers. I also offer writing tips at my blog. Of course, there is overlap. Bloggers are writers, and many authors are required to have blogs.
  4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote. JW: I would like to share one that relates to my blogging passion. When I was younger, I considered various professions. I was torn between being a lawyer like my father or a teacher. My father told me lawyers needed extremely strong writing skills. Not having enough confidence in my writing led me to choose teaching. I thought I could teach writing as an English teacher and share my passion for writing that way. After my children went to college, I completed my Master’s Degree in Education. One of my university professors told me I was the strongest writer in the program!Confidence in hand, I began my blog and have been blogging ever since I graduated.



4Q: If you could tell us one important thing about our blogs, what would it be?JW: Can I share two? The first is patience is vital to the success of any blogger. Trust me. I do not say this lightly since I am not the most patient person. If we want success, we’d prefer to have it sooner than later. Other than the rare exception, it takes a great deal of work over a long period of time to build up a blog. Success, for most of us, does not come over night. As soon as I heard that blogging is a marathon not a sprint, I relaxed and enjoyed the ride. My second tip is related to the first. Part of that work toward blogging success involves networking. Network by commenting, network by Googling top blogs in your niche and networking there. Try to be among the earliest commenters. When you network, suggest people check out your blog. Often, it just won’t occur to people unless you mention it.  Allan, thank you for having me on your blog as your guest.
 Thank you Janice for sharing your thoughts on the Scribbler.

For those interested in contacting Janice to help with your blog, go __http://www.mostlyblogging.com/blog-cr...  Link to my book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M4QOD41Link to my blog: http://mostlyblogging .com New subscribers who sign up through this link receive a PDF of free blogging tools http://www.mostlyblogging/enjoy-my-guest-post-heres-what-to-do-next/Twitter: https://twitter.com/MrsPaznanski
   

A huge thank you to my visitors that drop by the Scribbler. Please leave a comment before you go.



Watch here for more details about the newest Drake Alexander adventure novel coming soon!

Guest Author Vashti Quiroz-Vega. 4Q Interview & An Excerpt

The Scribbler is pleased to have Vashti as our guest this week. It is her second visit to the SBS. She is an accomplished author and an award winning blogger. On her first visit she shared a short story - A Time to Mourn and a Time to Dance. If you missed it you can go here 

This week she has been kind enough to share her thoughts in the 4Q Interview as well as an excerpt from her just-released novel - The Fall of Lilith


 
4Q: You recently shared a cover reveal for your latest work. Tell us about The Fall of Lilith.
VQ: The Fall of Lilith is an epic tale with dark elements about angels for an adult audience (18+). It is the first installment of my Fantasy Angels Series. The characters in this story are angels depicted in a very unique way. It is a story of many twists, surprises and a bit of controversy. Structurally, The Fall of Lilith is divided internally into two books, BOOK I – Heaven and BOOK II – Earth in one volume, so you get two books for the prize of one. This is the BLURB “I merely assisted you in doing what you desired all along.” So says Lilith, the most exquisite of the angels. The two most important pledges an angel makes to God are those of obedience and celibacy, and dire consequences await any who break their oaths.At first, the angels are happy in their celestial home, learning and exploring together. As they grow older, though, Lilith begins to question these pledges, which now seem arbitrary and stifling. Her challenge of the status quo leads to disagreement, jealousy, and strife among her peers. As the arguing and acrimony grow, lines are drawn and sides are chosen. Is war inevitable?Filled with robust characters, incredible landscapes, and exciting action, The Fall of Lilith is an epic tale of seduction, betrayal, and revenge.Free Will involves asking difficult questions and making hard choices, choices that require strength and sacrifice. These decisions can tear apart friendships and cause rifts between allies. They can even threaten the foundations of Heaven.
 
4Q: What is it about the supernatural that inspires you?
VQ: I grew up in a religious home, attended private school and went to church regularly with my parents. I read many religious books. I also read many fairy tales and mythology books. From a very young age I was intrigued by supernatural beings, especially angels and I often wondered what they were like, since the bible doesn’t say much about them. The combination of all of this is what inspired me to write The Fall of Lilith. 
4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.
VQ: I began reading, writing and storytelling at an early age. I remember making comic books and selling them for a quarter in elementary school. My History teacher caught me; she gave me a look and asked me what I was doing. When I showed her the comic book I had made she looked through it and told me to wait until after class to sell it and then she told me to increase the prize because I was selling it too cheap. Ha, ha! 
4Q: Please tell us where you are most comfortable writing your stories and what does the near future hold for Vashti Quiroz-Vega.
VQ: I enjoy setting up my laptop on the dinning room table. It’s a nice open area and I have a great view of my back yard (I live on a golf course).
Right now I’m busy trying to spread the word about The Fall of Lilith. I am also working on the 2nd instalment of my Fantasy Angels Series tentatively called, Dracúl, which follows where The Fall of Lilith ends.     An excerpt from The Fall of Lilith.
Before He created the universe, God was present. Alone and bored in Heaven, He decided to create angels––celestial beings to serve as companions. When God formed them, He made them perfect. He then endowed them with free will so they might choose their own way, making them somewhat unpredictable––and more interesting.  
There are three realms of Heaven: Heaven Most High where God resides, Metá Heaven, and Floraison, the lowest realm of Heaven where God placed the angels. Different dimensions separate these realms and only God traveled between them as He pleased. 
The angels were child-like when God first made them. A delicate brilliance emanated from within each one. They were formed with two small white wings, which carried them across the vast expanse of Floraison quickly and without much effort. God clothed the angels because He desired to show distinction between the superior celestial beings and the other creatures that roamed the lowest realm of Heaven. There were many strict rules in God’s system of law, as He held angels at higher standards than any other creature. The two most important vows of an angel were obedience and celibacy. 
Although the young angels bore many similarities early on, they developed distinct personalities and traits due to their free will. God also promised each angel one or more special ability, which in time they would develop and learn to control. What divine skill they would acquire and when was as individual as they were.  
There was no need for a sun, moon, or stars to give Floraison light. God’s splendor lit the lowest realm, and the skies were beautiful beyond compare. There was no true darkness where the angels lived. In Floraison’s unit of time there was brillante, when the light was at its most intense and nightglow when at its dimmest. There were many trees and meadows adorned with colorful flowers that emitted fragrances evoking happiness and vigor. Magnificent creatures abounded, large and small––perfect in every way and pleasing to the senses. Some of these creatures were prototypes for beings God created on different planets, and others were unique to Floraison.  
The River of Life, a pure river with crystalline healing waters, flowed between realms and proceeded from God’s throne room. The chamber was accessed through a portal that led to Metá Heaven where God’s presence could be reached. Only by His expressed permission could one cross this portal. This hall was aglow with the most exquisite light ever seen, and it was in the throne room God passed laws and judgments.  
There were fruit trees, root vegetables, bush berries, and many more edible delights in Floraison, but the angels did not require food. These delicacies existed to teach them self-discipline since these foods were delicious, producing energy and much pleasure. They were only allowed to partake of the food during celebrations and after strenuous workouts. It required God’s consent. The young angels spent their early days getting to know one another and learning about God’s laws, nature, animals, the cosmos, and themselves.  
Lilith and Michael delighted in their home, for Floraison was exquisite and full of joy, most of the time. 
“I accept rules because they establish guidelines for action and conduct,” Michael said with a solemn expression. “Rules create stability, discipline, and promote safety. Could you imagine what Beelzebub would be like had he no rules to follow?” Lilith glanced at Michael, the corners of her lips fighting a smile, her eyebrows slightly raised. Michael’s mouth twitched and soon they both burst into laughter. 
 “Beelzebub would be a complete mess without rules. I know that,” Lilith said. “But still, I am not fond of the many rules set by God for our kind. You are an upholder while I am a questioner.” 
Michael puckered his brow. “How could one question God?” 
Lilith ignored his question. “I cannot wait for the day I discover the divine talents He has promised. I hope my abilities are godlike.” Perceiving the power of God, evident in all things, awakened in her mind an aspiration that consumed her. She was fired by the desire for divine power. 
Michael looked at her sideways. “You have always told me that you longed to be close to God––to be first in his eyes. How do you expect to rise to Heaven Most High if you question God’s laws?” 
“God does not want us to follow his laws without question. That is why he gave us free will, so that we may follow our own path.” 
Michael gazed into her peculiar yet beautiful eyes, one blue iris and one brown iris. “Perhaps one day I shall come to understand you.” 
“Sooner rather than later––I hope.” She gazed up at him through her long, dark lashes, giggled and grabbed his hand. “Come, let us go to Sonnoris.” Lilith enjoyed the marvels in Floraison all the while imagining the day she would create wonders of her own.   
Thank you so much for being our guest this week Vashti. Best wishes for your continued success with this series.      
The pleasure is all mine, Allan. I am grateful to be here. Thank you for helping me spread the word about my new release, The Fall of Lilith.
 
Please visit these sites to discover more about Vashti and her books.
 (Blog) http://vashtiqvega.wordpress.com
(Facebook) http://on.fb.me/1g0da7d
(Twitter) http://twitter.com/VashtiQV
(Pinterest) https://www.pinterest.com/vashtiq/
(Tumblr) http://vashtiq.tumblr.com
(Google+) https://plus.google.com/+VashtiQVega
  Photo credits:Angel - josette.BlogSpot.comRiver - Howard Storm planetzion.wordpress  Thank you dear readers for visiting today. Please leave a comment and make me smile.  Watch here for information regarding my newest novel to be released this fall.   

Two Boys, One Wagon & a Secret - by A. Hudson Part 2.

Thanks for dropping by the Scribbler. I posted Part 1 of this story last week and if you want to check that out, just scroll down to the bottom of this post.
Can you imagine what it would be like if you were ten years old and came across a parked car in the field? Wouldn't you be curious too?


Two Boys, One Wagon & a Secret - Part 2.
(copyright is held by the author)

And then Beans says, “We didn’t do very good in school did we? My folks keep telling me I can do better. I hate studying, I only like arithmetic… and comics.”
The topic of school is a tender one for Chops. The new teacher has an obvious dislike for him. He’s not a fast thinker like Beans; he needs to hear complicated things repeated to understand them and their instructor is short on patience. The rural school is one room, thirty-three kids, eight grades. He claims that he cannot devote personal time to each student and ignores those with learning disabilities. There’s no help at home; the Sangster’s as a whole would get a C-.
“I don’t think my folks care; we’re all kinda dumb. I wish I could like arithmetic, but I love reading. And I really like your comics.”
“You’re not dumb. I’ll help you with the arithmetic.”
The offer is sincere, both bashful before the banter continues.
Another time, Chops says, “You like Mary Jane Baker, don’t you?”
The quiet across the road causes Beans to look back at Chops, who stops walking. His face is so red that you can’t see his freckles. He’s so angry, he’s sputtering,
“D-d-d-don’t say that again. It’s not true.”
Beans starts laughing, realizing from the reaction that it is true and ambles through the ditch singing. “Phil and Mary Jane up in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G...”
“And don’t call me Phil.”
Beans is not listening and scurries up onto the road. Waving to his partner, he yells out, “C’mon, let’s head into Mr. Harnett’s. He’ll be expecting us. If we hurry, we can still do the other way – at least down to the old gravel pit, there’s always some there.”
Chops forgets Mary Jane for now and hurries to catch up as Beans heads into the bachelor’s lane.
“Yeah and there’s always some of those soggy, rubbery things – at least one. Did you ask your dad yet what they are?  Mine told me to forget about it, that I’d know soon enough, whatever that means.”
“No, but I asked my brother. They’re called condoms, but Dave says everybody calls them rubbers.”
Chops catches up to his friend as he ponders the new information, trying to visualise a pair of boots that small. The lane they’re on is dirt and winds through a dense wooded area for a couple hundred feet until it opens onto huge fields on either side. The rich soil is green with new shoots of wheat perfectly aligned; running parallel to the road on one side while in the other field grass grows will, along with purple clover, white daisies, yellow buttercups, legumes and other herbaceous plants that will eventually become fodder. The ground is still damp from yesterday’s rain; the bouquet of worked earth permeates the air, causing the boys to stop more than once to breathe deeply and comment on how good it smells.
 The road eventually splits in two. The lane to the right narrows as it continues for five hundred feet, ending at a neat white farmhouse, two storeys with a verandah in the front and a one-storey kitchen in the back. The yard is thoughtfully groomed, but there are no flowers. Mr. Harnett lives alone. His sister and her husband live down the other road.
A large barn and two smaller out buildings are arranged strategically behind the house. The wooden shingles are weathered as grey as storm clouds; the doors are painted bright red. The property reflects the owner’s pride.  A brand new Chevy Apache sits beside the house, facing them as they approach. The truck’s double headlights seem to stare at them. A tall bushy haired man is polishing the chrome bumper. Without turning around he says, “I was wondering what you two rascals might be up to; you’re usually here before this.”
Wiping his hands on the cotton cloth, he stands to face the boys. Mr. Harnett towers above them and if not for his perpetual smile, he might seem foreboding. Instead, he’s a person happy with his lot. The three chat for a bit, the man teasing the boys and the curious boys asking about the new truck. Mr. Harnett soon sends them off to the front steps where he has placed this week’s empties.
“Goodness, your wagon is full. Think you can fit some more in there?”
Chops is toting the bottles to the cart. Beans waves back saying, “We’ll carry them if we have to. Thanks a lot Mr. Harnett; you’re a swell guy.”
Harnett grins as he watches the lads tuck some of the bottles in upside down between the others. Beans ends up carrying three as they head out the lane. Both boys gaze back at him briefly and he gives them a wave before returning to his polishing. Chops tugs on the wagon as they come up the slight rise that leads to the wooded area. When they are about twenty feet away from the woods, the sun that had been hiding behind a cloud bursts out and glints off something metallic at the edge of the field, causing both boys to look up. They stop where the hay field meets the woods. Tire tracks tell them a vehicle has driven across the culvert and through the uncut grasses. The field extends for a good distance, the land is slightly hilly and except for the antenna, the vehicle is hidden from their view. The ten year olds are filled with curiosity. Chops says, “Those tracks weren’t there when we came in.”
Beans sets the bottles he’s carrying down beside the wagon.
“And we know it isn’t Mr. Harnett.”
“Could be his brother-in-law.”
“Naw, his truck was at the house, I saw it across the way.”
The boys are given to wild imaginations; rumours they hear are given more credibility when something mysterious enters their energetic minds. Chops is the reader, his thinking more creative.
“Suppose it could be whoever stole Jason Lawson’s horse?”
The fact that it would be the unlikeliest of hiding places did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm. Instead, it fuelled on the possibility of intrigue. Beans is the action one.
“We should go see.”
“I don’t know, Beans. What if it is a thief or worse, thieves?”
“C’mon, we’ll just sneak along the woods and see. If it’s strangers, we’ll come back and tell Mr. Harnett. He’d want to know.”
“Okay, but you go ahead and be quiet.”
They pull the wagon closer to the tall spruce that borders the road. The boys enter the woods, keeping the field on their right. Watching where they step so as to be quiet, they approach to the edge of the field. A womanly shriek stops them dead. It sounds like she’s in pain. It startles the two so keenly that Chops almost wets himself. He quickly turns around to head back, but is stopped by a Beans’ hiss. “Wait! It sounds like a woman and she could be hurt.”
“I don’t care. I’m scared. Let’s go.”
“Don’t be a sissy.”
Beans moves forward slowly, Chops reluctantly following. When they hear voices and groaning, they drop to their knees. Crawling toward the sounds, they come to the rim of the field. A white Pontiac is parked at the crux of the right angle of field and woods. The nose of the car faces them, both doors wide open. From below the passenger’s door, tangled in the long grass, are four legs. The two feet pointing up have coloured nails and something pink and lacy hangs from one ankle. The feet pointing down are shod with black shiny shoes, dress pants scrunched about the ankles, toes digging in the dirt. The car rocks with the same rhythm as the thrusting of the heels. The boys don’t understand what is happening. They are shocked at what they see yet mesmerized by the moaning.
A piercing yell almost causes Beans and Chops hearts to stop, scaring them so intensely. They hold their breath. They want to hug the earth but are frozen by what they see. The car is heaving back and forth more rapidly. A man’s head appears in the windshield, bent unbelievingly back, his eyes tightly shut, lips stretched into a grimace, spittle flying from his mouth as he exclaims, “Yes baby, yes baby, yes baby…”
Suddenly everything stops, the head disappears, the feet stop moving, the car settles down. They boys stare at each other in total disbelief.  The two innocents have yet to experience an orgasm and for the life of them cannot fathom what they have just seen. There is mumbling coming from the car, nothing they can discern.  Chops stares at Beans now, wondering what they should do.  A womanly voice urges softly but commandingly, “Okay, get off me now.”
The lads are stunned when they see the man stand up before bending down to retrieve his trousers. It’s Horatio Glendenning, their schoolteacher. A young lady sits up in the car, tugging at the pink fabric around her ankle, placing the other foot gently through. Standing behind the man, the woman wiggles the tight panties into place. When she moves aside to straighten her dress, her face is in full view.  It isn’t Mrs. Glendenning. They don’t know who it is. Chops is started by a soft blow to his shoulder. Beans begins to creep away. “Let’s get the dickens outta here.”
They are almost running when they get to the wagon. Beans tosses the three empties he’d been carrying into the ditch. “We’ll get those next week.”
Standing behind the wagon, he gestures for Chops to start pulling while he pushes. The boys are soon scooting down the wooded lane. Veering to the left the two head directly home, ignoring whatever empties might be had along the way. There are too many questions. Their innocent minds can’t understand why the woman had her underwear off, why the car was shaking, or why the man was repeating himself. They figure that their teacher was punishing the woman for something.
The conversation drifts when they turn into Beans driveway and head for the garage. Unloading the wagon in silence, each boy is preoccupied with his own thoughts. Looking to Beans for the answers, Chops asks, “What are we going to do?”
“Nothing right now. I’m going to talk to my brother Dave about this.”
Even though he was only fifteen, Dave, like his brother and father, is big for his age. He made it a point to “run into” Mr. Glendenning at the Farmer’s Market one Saturday morning in July. And when the boys started back to school in the fall, they never failed an exam. Chops is the first one in his family to get an A.




Thanks for visiting the Scribbler. Hope you enjoyed meeting "Beans & Chops".


Please watch for details of my newest novel coming soon.

Two Boys, One Wagon & A Secret. A Short Story by Allan Hudson. Part 1

I had a terrific time writing this short story. I love the antics that two ten year old boys can get up to. Originally published in the limited edition of SHORTS Vol. 3, I am posting it today in two parts.

Watch for Part 2 next week to find what the boys discover - what is the secret all about?




I am considering a novella of these two characters or a series of short stories and I would appreciate your comments as to what kind of trouble these young lads might get into in the future. (Please leave your comments below)



Two Boys, One Wagon & a Secret.
(Copyright is held by the author)



Beans and Chops are both ten years old. Beans, aka John Pascal Williams Jr, looks like a teenager, big for his age, hair and eyes both dark. Everybody calls him Beans because when he was seven he came home for lunch every day one week always asking his mother if they could have beans. Someone had told him that beans would give him gas.  His father always complained that gas was so expensive; if he could make some gas for his father then his dad would be happy. He had no idea how he’d get the gas in his dad’s car but John Jr. loved nothing more than making his father happy.
His mother figured the boy loved beans, so she fed him beans once a day for a whole week. He was producing gas all right, gas that escaped during class, announcing its freedom in a noisy and putrid fashion. At suppertime the day it happened, he told his family about the awful time he had. His mother explained why it happened and suggested he shouldn’t eat so many. His older brother Dave, upon hearing the story of the beans, laughed so hard he fell from his chair. From that day on John Jr. was called Beans.
Chops, named Caudwell Horatio Orville Phileas Sangster, is small for his age, making him look more like an eight year old. A cap of reddish curly locks tops his head and freckled cheeks decorated his cherub face. His parents call him Phil. When he started school, the older kids would tell him to “Phil it up” or ask “Are you full, Phil?” or say something that made fun of his name. The teased him so often that after school he would hide in his room and cry big tearful sobs. The torment lasted until summer break. During the holidays, when he was idle, he would print his entire full name on blank paper trying to decide which one he would use when he returned to school in the fall. When he couldn’t decide he printed out the first letter from each name, forming the word CHOPS. He liked how it sounded, so after that he would only answer to Chops. The most peculiar aspect of the new name was that no one made fun of it, not even the older kids.
The boys are neighbours. They’ve played together since they were babies. Their homes are separated by a quarter mile stretch of cultivated field that changes its skin with the seasons, brown and ruddy in the spring, lush and verdant in the summer, beige and prickly whiskered in autumn, white and pale in the winter. The two properties are joined by an umbilical cord of soft earth beaten smooth and permanent by the passing of their growing feet. The passage seems almost sacred – old Mr. Crackett would lift his plough or turn the seeder instead of disturbing the boy’s polished route. Their sneakers leave impressions on the soil: sharp with solid lines when new, unwrinkled and flat as the treads and the summer wore away. This spring there had been a change to the patterns. The imprint of narrow rubber wheels framed the rural hieroglyphs. Beans has a new wagon.
Chops is in awe of the cart with its black hard rubber tires mounted on shiny red rims, sleek polished wood the color of a summer tan made up the bed and side boards. The two boys always clean it on Sunday afternoon before they set out on their weekly bottle hunt. Right after church the boys change into old dungarees and matching white T’s. They have identical black and white sneakers. They are polishing the frame with an old chamois that Bean’s dad had given them when Chops says, “Can I pull the wagon today, Beans?”
Beans looks over at his friend and saw the sheepish look on his face – he asks the same question every Sunday. Shaking his head yes, Beans says, “You like this wagon, don’t ya?”
Pure pleasure is evident in Chops’ happy grin.
“Oh yeah, I love this wagon; it’s so nifty.”
They line the base of the carrier with pages from a newspaper so that any drips from not quite empty bottles would not stain the polished wood. Chops fans out the pages, being fussier even though it isn’t his. His childish heart knows he will never have one of his own. There are too many siblings, too little money. He always reminds himself that he’s never hungry, his clothes are always clean and his parents never yell at him. He usually got a new toy on his birthday and Christmas, but never anything as grand as a wagon. So he tows his best friend’s wheeled wonder as often as he can.
Beans on the other hand has only one brother and two parents who work. There isn’t a river of money at his home, but no drought either. The wagon hadn’t been a gift. It was a business proposition with his parents. He’d wanted one since he’d seen it at Cottrell’s Hardware.
Before the wagon, he and Beans had made their weekly hunt with burlap bags that grew heavier with each reward they found. The first time, they had collected their bounty as they walked away from home; the trek back with half-full bags slung over their stiffening shoulders convinced them there had to be a better way. The next week, they walked the usual two miles and hunted for empties on the return. But with a wagon, Beans decided, they could go even farther.
He made a deal with his parents. They would buy the wagon and he would pay them back from the earnings he made each week. It was 1959. A stamp was four cents, a gallon of milk cost a dollar, and the wagon sold for $19.95. He received a penny for each empty. Drinking and driving was thought to be great fun back then, so the country roads were usually littered with empty beer bottles after a raunchy country Saturday night with miscreants tossing evidence of their enjoyment from moving vehicles. Oddly enough, very few bottles broke. On a good Sunday, the boys would split fifty to sixty cents. Combined with his weekly allowance of half a dollar, Beans proclaimed quite proudly to his mother and father that he could repay them a dollar and twenty cents each month. He vowed that he would pay for the wagon in one year. His parents were so impressed with his determination that they agreed to buy it, with the understanding that he had to pay back only half and the wagon would be his.
 
Today is Sunday, June 21.  At one in the afternoon, the sky is dotted with puffs of clouds far apart, giving the hot sun ample time to bake the boys a wee bit browner. They’ve been walking for an hour, dawdling as boys will as they come to the last hill on their route. It’s not very long but oddly steep. The old country road had been tarred and sealed with stone only last year ; the shoulders are raw earth about three feet wide. Grass grows in patches with a few dandelions for color; small potholes and tiny rocks from the roadwork make the wagon hard to pull. When there are no cars coming, they hike on the pavement. The boys would normally not come this far, but at the top of the rise is the Mitchells’ mailbox. Experience has taught them they can usually count on a half dozen or more bottles in the shallow ditch behind it. Everybody who drinks in a car tries to hit it with an empty as they drive past. Some do and the mailbox is battered, dented, and sits on the post lopsided. The flag stopped working long ago. Beans says the old man likes the attention.
“He told my Dad that Hugh Smith has hit it eight times, keeps promising him a new one. Mr. Mitchell told Huey not to bother, no sense ruining another one.”
Chops nods his head and chuckles. “Makes sense.”
It sounds silly to them; they laugh at most things.
There had been a square dance at Robertson’s Dance Hall the night before so the pickings are heavy this afternoon. There are ten bottles: two Pepsi and a Coke, five Moosehead and two Schooner. Chops walks the edge of the woods twenty feet back from the road, where some of the bottles have flown.


 
“There’s no broken glass so nobody hit the mailbox last night.”
Beans is organizing the empties to the rear of the wagon, his bangs hanging down over his forehead.
“Huey went out West, that’s why. There’s nothing else, let’s go.”
Both boys tightly grip the loaded wagon that wants to roll away by itself. Starting out on their way back, they hang on to the handle together to slow the cart, letting it roll backwards down the hill. Their boy chatter carries them home as they separate to walk each side of the road. Feathered creatures call to each other, birdsong of mating and warnings accompany them. The one not pulling the wagon is mostly in the ditch and a little further ahead, usually Beans. Each cries out “Another penny” when they find an abandoned bottle. Talking loudly to each other from across the road, the conversation is a continuous stream.
And then Beans says, “We didn’t do very good in school did we? My folks keep telling me I can do better. I hate studying, I only like arithmetic… and comics.”   



Thank you for visiting the Scribbler. I would appreciate your comments as to what kind of trouble these young lads might get into in the future.

4Q Interview with Artist Melanie Belliveau.

The Scribbler is excited to have Melanie as our special guest this week. She is a very talented artist that resides in Cocagne, New Brunswick where she maintains a studio, operating under the business name of Melbelivo Art. She has agreed to answer several questions for us.     (Photos of Melanie are by Janik Robichaud Photography. Copyright of drawings is held by Melbelivo Art and used with permission)
       
4Q: Your artwork is stunning and so real. When did you take an interest in drawing?
MB: Thanks so much Allan! I took an interest in drawing as early as I could hold a pencil! I was always fascinated with Walt Disney’s works, not only for the magic of them and how they made me feel, but also for the technique of his artwork… I would draw cartoons inspired by him all the time. At one point I even dreamed of working for Walt Disney Studios. Eventually my drawing would get me in trouble at school because I was always doodling on my schoolwork! Haha

Many doodles and cartoons later, I realized in high school that my passion lied in realism drawing. I created many realism drawings until I was about 19 years old… I then opted for the safe route and pursued a career in marketing and sales. I always wondered what would have happened if I had decided to pursue art… so I started drawing again last year.



4Q: Tell us about Melbelivo Art, your studio, your work habits and what inspires you.
MB: Well last Fall after a 14-year hiatus, I decided to dust off my old art supplies and draw. I instantly fell in love with drawing all over again and I haven’t stopped since! The last 8 months have been amazing. The amount of support I have received from my hometown, my family and friends has been overwhelming and I couldn’t be more grateful.  
I made myself an art studio so I could have a functional creative space. (Also I had sort of taken over the kitchen table ha-ha) I love drawing at night when the rest of the world is asleep, there’s a peaceful feeling and I find it easier to draw. I spend a lot of time on marketing and networking during the day.
I consider myself to be a huge music nerd, so I love drawing music legends that have inspired me through the years. I also love drawing faces, so I often pick celebrities or famous actors, etc. to draw because I love challenging myself with accuracy. I aim for hyper-realism, so the more realistic I can make them, the better.
 
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory.
MB: I am told my first drawing ever was on my father’s expensive sound system with a banana when I was still in diapers (oops)
 
4Q: What does the future hold for Melanie Belliveau, the artist?
MB: Everything is still fairly new, but I am looking at starting commissioned work soon. I would love to take on custom projects as I have received many requests and am starting to feel more comfortable with my workflow after a 14-year break. I will announce on my social media when I decide to open my books. In the meantime, I am selling limited edition prints of my current works which can be found on my Facebook page, Melbelivo Art. I will also have a booth at this year’s Hub City Tattoo Expo to showcase my art.


 

 
You can discover more about Melanie and her work by going here.
www.facebook.com/melbelivoart
www.instagram.com/melbelivoart
 


Thank you Melanie for being our guest this week and sharing your delightful sketches. Wishing you continued success with your art.
 
Thanks for having me Allan!   Thank you to you the faithful visitor and reader. Make me smile and leave a comment below.