Allan Hudson's Blog, page 51

Guest Author Janice Spina of New Hampshire, USA

Janice Spina is an award-winning author with nine children's books, Louey the Lazy  Elephant, Ricky the Rambunctious Raccoon, Jerry the Crabby Crayfish, Lamby the Lonely Lamb, Jesse the Precocious Polar Bear, Broose the Moose on the Loose, Davey & Derek Junior Detectives, Book 1 and 2, Sebastian Meets Marvin the Monkey , copy editor and writer of novels and poetry. Hunting Mariah is her first novel to be published under J.E. Spina. A new novel, paranormal/mystery/romance coming soon, How Far Is Heaven.  
Janice's children's book, Lamby the Lonely Lamb , received a Silver Medal from Mom’s Choice Awards in Picture Books Category and Davey & Derek Junior Detectives, Book 1, The Case of the Missing Cell Phone won the Pinnacle Book Achievement Award in Preteen Category. 
She is working on two more children's books and books 3 & 4 of Davey & Derek Junior Detectives Series for publication.  Janice will eventually publish these books over this year and next.   
Her logo is Jemsbooks - books for all ages! Her motto is - Reading Gives You Wings to Fly!
Janice's hobbies besides writing are crocheting, exercising to keep in shape, going to the movies with her husband or out to lunch or dinner (reason for all the exercise), reading, book reviewing, blogging, traveling, and spending time with her five grandchildren. 
Janice can be followed on her blog: http://jemsbooks.com 
Website: http://jemsbooks.wordpress.com 
FB  http://Facebook.com/Janice.spina.9     
  “Move the body now and take me back to my hotel room. I don’t care what you do with him. Just make sure he disappears forever. You know who to call. He will know what to do.” “Okay Boss. Is the pit okay?” The driver of the limo, Ned, looked up at his boss in the car’s mirror waiting for an answer.  The boss just looked at him but didn’t answer and added, “Did Buzz call back yet with the reports I requested?” The boss, a very distinguished older man in the back seat of the limo, asked his driver, irritation evident in his voice, while he completely ignored the question that his driver had just asked him.  “Um, well, no I haven’t heard back from him. Do you want me to call him for ya, Boss?” Ned’s voice audibly betrayed his fear of this man for whom he worked. He had seen Boss in action and knew what he was capable of. Boss had dismissed other drivers for minor infractions and they were never seen or heard from again. He knew he had to watch his back or he would end up like the others, gone forever.  “No, but I want to hear as soon as he does call. I gave him a job to do. Now take me to my hotel.”  “Yes sir, Boss, right away,” Ned was relieved that his boss’ anger was directed elsewhere. He only hoped Buzz would call or the boss would become more ornery until he did.  As they arrived at the hotel the boss turned to Ned before getting out of the limo and instructed him in a stern voice, “The packages I gave you must be delivered to the drop off today. I want you to get them there as quickly as possible. Do you understand, Ned, or do I have to spell it out for you?”  “No sir, Boss. I’ll do exactly as you say. I’ll get the packages there for you by FedEx ok? I’ll make sure they go out today. Is that ok? Boss?” Ned was never given his boss’ name, just told to call him Boss. Ned never asked why because those who did…well, they just disappeared.  Ned was getting more nervous by the minute and just wanted to do these two jobs and then go home and drink himself to sleep as he usually did. Ned hoped that Buzz would hold up his end of this job and not screw up. If he didn’t it could be the death of both of them. Ned just couldn’t understand why Buzz hadn’t called back by now. What was taking him so long?  He knew why Boss kept Buzz on the payroll, he was the boss’ cousin’s son. Boss knew Buzz was a loser but thought if he taught him the ropes he would come around to his way of thinking and doing things. Ned didn’t think so. He had covered once before for Buzz but got no thanks from him for doing that. Ned decided to cut ties with him and let him hang himself this time.  ***  Back in Maine Buzz was driving around Leah Mills to do his boss’ bidding. He had been requested to check out the JemsWorld store and see what he could find out about its location and how profitable it was. The boss had designs on it and wanted to know square footage and accessibility to highways and airports.  Buzz walked through the store taking notes and asked to speak with the manager.  “Yes, sir I am one of the managers. How may I help you?”  “I am from the Department of Sanitation and want to see your warehouse.” Buzz quickly flashed a badge he had made for the occasion and put it away before the man could take a closer look at it.  “Is there a problem?”  “Well, not yet but after I take a look at it I will let you know.” He smiled as the manager readily agreed to take him on a tour. Buzz could see the fear in this man’s eyes and this fact only made Buzz feel more powerful and in control.  ***  The movement of the vehicle woke him. He tried to sit up but found he couldn’t move in the confining space. His hands and feet were fastened with plastic ties which rubbed painfully against his skin. He looked up and around him but it was too dark to see anything. His head throbbed and he felt as if he was going to be sick. He tried to clear his head to remember what had gotten him into this predicament. He suddenly remembered and said a silent prayer.  The vehicle came to a stop. He could hear footsteps coming closer then stopping at the back of the car. The trunk was opened and a large figure loomed over the man. The night sky was dark but the full moon was bright and the man had to blink in order to make out a tall and wide silhouette leaning over him. He tried to fight and was rewarded with a punch to the face knocking him out again. The man’s last thoughts were of his family and his prayer for God to watch over them.  The body was heavy but the man was strong and he hefted the body over his shoulder and headed for the pit. All he had to do was throw the body into the pit but the boss told him to shoot first and then dump the body and cover with enough dirt until the cement was scheduled to be poured the next day.     
 Thank you Janice for sharing an excerpt from your newest novel.      Next week on the Scribbler, come visit Peru with me. Land of the Inca. A history of stolen gold and Spanish Raiders.  The names of the winners of two copies of Dark Side of a Promise will be announced. 

Guest Author Janice Spina of Florida, USA

Janice Spina is an award-winning author with nine children's books, Louey the Lazy  Elephant, Ricky the Rambunctious Raccoon, Jerry the Crabby Crayfish, Lamby the Lonely Lamb, Jesse the Precocious Polar Bear, Broose the Moose on the Loose, Davey & Derek Junior Detectives, Book 1 and 2, Sebastian Meets Marvin the Monkey , copy editor and writer of novels and poetry. Hunting Mariah is her first novel to be published under J.E. Spina. A new novel, paranormal/mystery/romance coming soon, How Far Is Heaven.  
Janice's children's book, Lamby the Lonely Lamb , received a Silver Medal from Mom’s Choice Awards in Picture Books Category and Davey & Derek Junior Detectives, Book 1, The Case of the Missing Cell Phone won the Pinnacle Book Achievement Award in Preteen Category. 
She is working on two more children's books and books 3 & 4 of Davey & Derek Junior Detectives Series for publication.  Janice will eventually publish these books over this year and next.   
Her logo is Jemsbooks - books for all ages! Her motto is - Reading Gives You Wings to Fly!
Janice's hobbies besides writing are crocheting, exercising to keep in shape, going to the movies with her husband or out to lunch or dinner (reason for all the exercise), reading, book reviewing, blogging, traveling, and spending time with her five grandchildren. 
Janice can be followed on her blog: http://jemsbooks.com 
Website: http://jemsbooks.wordpress.com 
FB  http://Facebook.com/Janice.spina.9        “Move the body now and take me back to my hotel room. I don’t care what you do with him. Just make sure he disappears forever. You know who to call. He will know what to do.” “Okay Boss. Is the pit okay?” The driver of the limo, Ned, looked up at his boss in the car’s mirror waiting for an answer.  The boss just looked at him but didn’t answer and added, “Did Buzz call back yet with the reports I requested?” The boss, a very distinguished older man in the back seat of the limo, asked his driver, irritation evident in his voice, while he completely ignored the question that his driver had just asked him.  “Um, well, no I haven’t heard back from him. Do you want me to call him for ya, Boss?” Ned’s voice audibly betrayed his fear of this man for whom he worked. He had seen Boss in action and knew what he was capable of. Boss had dismissed other drivers for minor infractions and they were never seen or heard from again. He knew he had to watch his back or he would end up like the others, gone forever.  “No, but I want to hear as soon as he does call. I gave him a job to do. Now take me to my hotel.”  “Yes sir, Boss, right away,” Ned was relieved that his boss’ anger was directed elsewhere. He only hoped Buzz would call or the boss would become more ornery until he did.  As they arrived at the hotel the boss turned to Ned before getting out of the limo and instructed him in a stern voice, “The packages I gave you must be delivered to the drop off today. I want you to get them there as quickly as possible. Do you understand, Ned, or do I have to spell it out for you?”  “No sir, Boss. I’ll do exactly as you say. I’ll get the packages there for you by FedEx ok? I’ll make sure they go out today. Is that ok? Boss?” Ned was never given his boss’ name, just told to call him Boss. Ned never asked why because those who did…well, they just disappeared.  Ned was getting more nervous by the minute and just wanted to do these two jobs and then go home and drink himself to sleep as he usually did. Ned hoped that Buzz would hold up his end of this job and not screw up. If he didn’t it could be the death of both of them. Ned just couldn’t understand why Buzz hadn’t called back by now. What was taking him so long?  He knew why Boss kept Buzz on the payroll, he was the boss’ cousin’s son. Boss knew Buzz was a loser but thought if he taught him the ropes he would come around to his way of thinking and doing things. Ned didn’t think so. He had covered once before for Buzz but got no thanks from him for doing that. Ned decided to cut ties with him and let him hang himself this time.  ***  Back in Maine Buzz was driving around Leah Mills to do his boss’ bidding. He had been requested to check out the JemsWorld store and see what he could find out about its location and how profitable it was. The boss had designs on it and wanted to know square footage and accessibility to highways and airports.  Buzz walked through the store taking notes and asked to speak with the manager.  “Yes, sir I am one of the managers. How may I help you?”  “I am from the Department of Sanitation and want to see your warehouse.” Buzz quickly flashed a badge he had made for the occasion and put it away before the man could take a closer look at it.  “Is there a problem?”  “Well, not yet but after I take a look at it I will let you know.” He smiled as the manager readily agreed to take him on a tour. Buzz could see the fear in this man’s eyes and this fact only made Buzz feel more powerful and in control.  ***  The movement of the vehicle woke him. He tried to sit up but found he couldn’t move in the confining space. His hands and feet were fastened with plastic ties which rubbed painfully against his skin. He looked up and around him but it was too dark to see anything. His head throbbed and he felt as if he was going to be sick. He tried to clear his head to remember what had gotten him into this predicament. He suddenly remembered and said a silent prayer.  The vehicle came to a stop. He could hear footsteps coming closer then stopping at the back of the car. The trunk was opened and a large figure loomed over the man. The night sky was dark but the full moon was bright and the man had to blink in order to make out a tall and wide silhouette leaning over him. He tried to fight and was rewarded with a punch to the face knocking him out again. The man’s last thoughts were of his family and his prayer for God to watch over them.  The body was heavy but the man was strong and he hefted the body over his shoulder and headed for the pit. All he had to do was throw the body into the pit but the boss told him to shoot first and then dump the body and cover with enough dirt until the cement was scheduled to be poured the next day.       Thank you Janice for sharing an excerpt from your newest novel.      Next week on the Scribbler, come visit Peru with me. Land of the Inca. A history of stolen gold and Spanish Raiders.  The names of the winners of two copies of Dark Side of a Promise will be announced. 

4Q Interview with Artist Nicole Tremblay.

    Our featured artist for the 4Q Interview thismonth is Nicole Tremblay of Shediac, NewBrunswick. We are very fortunate to have such a talented artist as our guest. Sheshares her home with her author partnerWarren Redman (aka Zev Bagel) and the twohave collaborated on collections of prints andaccompanying poems inspired by those paintings.   
Please tell us about yourselfand how long you have beenpainting.
NT: I was born in Montreal in 1950 and am the youngest of 4 children. When I was 4 my mother took ill and I was sent to live with my grandparents in Upper-Caraquet (now Bertrand) for the better part of a year. I have fond memories of that time. After that, my sister and I spent most of our summers there. I am very proud to be half Acadian. I moved to Shediac in 2009. In the previous 30 years I had lived in Ottawa, Calgary, France, England and again Calgary. I have now thrown away my moving boxes.
I never in my dreams thought that I would one day call myself an artist. I have no professional training other than workshops I have attended over the years. I have always been attracted to vibrant colours and textures creating things with my hands (calligraphy, soap, candles, collages, dolls) and things that are different). In my mid-forties I started painting with watercolours on 4”x5” cards depicting fanciful fish and flowers. It is not until I discovered acrylic paints and inks mixed with collage that I felt I was home.   
4Q: I have always wondered how a painterfinds inspiration or decides what to paint next. How does it work for you?
NT: Rather than start with a plan, I apply textures (paper, cardboard, metal, sand etc.) and colours and let something emerge – turn the canvas 360˚ and see what’s there, if nothing I continue.  The beauty of acrylics is you can preserve what you like and cover what you do not to open new avenues. Someone recently told me this unknown (to me anyway) quote – too much details in a painting is an offense to the viewer’s intelligence – it’s probably why I very much like ‘abstract/impressionism’.  
4Q: Please share a childhood memory oranecdote.
NT:  An early example of my hands-on and -in approach.   I was probably 5 years old. On a hot summer day I was playing in my sandbox in our backyard when the little boy next door joined me. We were making ‘sand cakes’. I announced that we could do the ‘real thing’ and ran to the ice-box to get the container of molasses. It took my mother a rather long time and effort to hose us down from head to toe.    
4Q: In addition toshows and displays,wherecan your art beviewed and/or purchased?And whatis in store for NicoleTremblay, the artist? 
NT: My studio is in our home in Shediac.  The paintings are displayed throughout the house. The studio itself is not usually open to the public for their safety and sanity.  I can only hope that in another life I will be blessed with the gift of orderliness. I am also at the Shediac Market every Sunday from June 19 to September 25 and the Allée des Artistes Friday evenings July and August.  What’s in store? Continue exploring my artistic style, who knows what else will emerge!!!!         Thank you Nicole for sharing your thoughts.And for your delightful paintings.



You can contact Nicole here for a viewing of her work and info on Le Village des Artistes  in July and The Shediac Studio Tour in September nicoletrem@gmail.com or 506-351-0645  

Next week on the Scribbler you will meet Guest Author Janice Spina of Florida. An award winning author, she has published many children's books as well as adult fiction.

    We would love to hear from you! Please leave a comment and your email address for a chance to win one of two copies of Dark Side of a Promise.      

4Q Interview with Author Maika Branch.

         Maika Branch is our featured author on this month. It is a notable accomplishment to have two novels published but is even more newsworthy when the author is in their early teens. She has the pleasant distinction of being the youngest author on the Scribbler.
   4Q: Please tell us about yourself Maika, the young lady
MB: Maika the person? Yes, I believe she's still in there somewhere. Well, I'm thirteen years old and counting, and have been told many times that I have an unhealthy addiction to books. Or stories in general, especially fantasy. Mystery is ok. Too many clichés. I love snakes, rain over sun, and smile at strangers for no apparent reason. Surprisingly, aside from being an author, my life is pretty normal. My mother is Dutch and my father is Acadian, so I can get by in three separate languages. I go to middle school, in seventh grade. Writing and reading are my main hobbies. Aside from that, I draw, paint, make videos, and sing. 
4Q.Your mother, Lidia, has been a guest on the Scribbler (see here) and is an accomplished author also.  How have her accomplishments inspired you?MB:  My mother has been an inspiration in so many ways. Her book, Baby Jonah, is her memoir about how she gave birth to my older brother Jonah (before the age of Maika). She has endured so much, has done so much, it was only through her encouragement and patience that I ever wrote a book at all. 
4Q:Please tell us a childhood anecdote or story.
MB: A childhood story? Well, let's see. As a child, a toddler really, I wanted desperately to go to school. From what I had heard, kindergarten was an amazing place filled with learning, fun, and friends. So when my older brother by two years, Jonah, was sent off without me, I was, of course, devastated. I didn't understand why I couldn't go on the huge yellow bus with my brother. Thankfully, my mother let me have homework, instructing me to write Z's all over a blank page. That was the first story I've ever written. 
4Q:To date you have published two novels. Please tell us about them.MB: My two novels, Calagarmii Cliffs and Sisters of Serenah, are both fantasy genre, the former for preteens and the latter for young adults. My first, Calagarmii Cliffs is about two young girls, Emma and Kaila, as they go on a class field trip to the legendary Calagarmii Cliffs (inspired by the Hopewell Rocks). However, the duo get more than they bargained for when they get lost in one of the many caves there, in which they discover a magical world unlike anything they've ever known. With the help of Stefia, a local girl, and Squirt, a courageous creature, the group find themselves dealing with cunning spirits and battling evil foes to get back home.
            My second and newest novel, Sisters of Serenah, follows the story of two sisters – Larah and Skye – teens who have lived in the forest of Serenah for as long as they can remember. The two are hunter-gatherers, each with the power to shape-shift into different animals, and live alone. Alone, that is, until Skye finds a boy in the snow. A human. His name is Tai, and he comes from a mythical place called a cit-ai, having accidentally found his way here. He learns to hunt, build, and live in the forest. Perhaps he would go his own way and explore. But suddenly that is impossible. A hurricane wreaks havoc on the forest, and the three are suddenly forced to work together and leave the only place they know to find a new home.
 An excerpt from Sisters of Serenah She soared upwards, catching a gust of wind and letting it carry her. She then used her powerful wings to go yet higher, clearing the treetops and grazing the clouds. Flying was easy. For a single blissful moment, she was so caught in flying that she forgot all about the race back to camp. She swooped down and soared back up, spinning and falling, free and without worry; she could dance and fly easily in the air... Pay attention, Skye! she chided herself. Skye stopped in her dance and looked down. Where was Larah? She was probably ahead now. Later, when dinner was cooking, she could play sky games. Skye was very competitive, but stubborn. She loved a challenge.     Thank you Maika for being our guest this week on the Scribbler. Discover more about

this clever storyteller by visiting her

website. 

www.maikabranch.com   Next week the Scribbler is pleased to post another 4Q Interview with professional artist Nicole Tremblay of Shediac, New Brunswick.A very talented lady.      Please leave a comment below as well as your email address for a chance to win one oftwo Dark Side of a Promise novels, shipped free anywhere in the world.  
 

Guest Author Lana Kortchik.

Lana Kortchik grew up in two opposite corners of the Soviet Union - a snow-white Siberian town and the golden-domed Ukrainian capital. At the age of sixteen, she moved to Australia with her mother. Lana and her husband live in Sydney, where it never snows and is always summer-warm, even in winter. She loves books, martial arts, the ocean and Napoleonic history. Her short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies. She was the winner of Historical Novel Society Autumn 2012 Short Fiction competition and the runner-up of 2013 Defenestrationism Short Story Contest. Lana's first novel, Savaged Lands, was published by Endeavour Press in January 2016.
 
 Chapter one from Savaged Land. Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.     It was a balmy September afternoon and the streets of Kiev were crowded. Just like always, cars screeched past the famous Besarabsky Market. And just like always, a stream of pedestrians engulfed the cobbled Kreshchatyk. Yet something was different. No one smiled, no one called out greetings or paused for a leisurely conversation in the shade of the many chestnut trees that lined the renowned street. On every grim face, in every mute mouth, in the way they moved – a touch faster than usual – there was anxiety, fear and unease.  And only three teenagers seemed oblivious to the oddly hushed bustle around them.  Natasha Smirnova, a tall, dark-haired waif of a girl, slowed down to a complete stop and turned around. Hands on hips, she glared at the other two. ‘Hurry!’ she cried. ‘We’re in so much trouble.’  ‘Lighten up,’ said Natasha’s sister Lisa, eyes sparkling. ‘Papa won’t even notice we’re gone.’  Grabbing Lisa by the arm, Natasha replied, ‘He will if you don’t get a move on.’ At nineteen, she was only a year older than her sister but she was always the serious one, the more responsible one. There were times when she admired Lisa’s impulsive character. Today was not one of them.  ‘Get off!’ exclaimed Lisa, turning her back on her sister, her long red hair swinging out to whip Natasha across the face. ‘Alexei, are you coming?’ Her voice was too loud for the muted street and several passers-by glared in her direction.  Alexei Antonov, a blond, broad-shouldered boy, had stopped at what seemed like the only market stall in Kiev that wasn’t padlocked shut and abandoned. The stall boasted a great selection of combat knives and Alexei was in deep conversation with the owner.  ‘Alexei!’ Lisa called again. Her voice quivered.  Alexei handed the stall owner some money and pocketed the knife. ‘Wait up!’ he cried, breaking into a run.  ‘Dillydallying as always,’ said Lisa, her plump lips pursed together in a pout. ‘Keep this up and we’ll leave you here.’  ‘Nagging already? And we’re not even married yet.’ Pecking Lisa on the cheek, Alexei adjusted his glasses, his face a picture of mock suffering and distress.  ‘Get used to it,’ said Lisa, pinching the soft skin above his elbow. He attempted a frown but failed, smiling into Lisa’s freckled face.  They paused in the middle of the road and kissed deeply. A van swerved around them, a stream of obscenities emanating from its open windows. The two lovers didn’t move. They barely looked up.  ‘And this is why I walk five metres away from you. It’s too embarrassing.’ Natasha stared at the ground, her face flaming. Wishing she could run home but not wanting to abandon Lisa and Alexei in the middle of the street, she was practically jogging on the spot. ‘You heard Papa this morning. Under no circumstances were we to leave the house.’  ‘We had to leave the house,’ said Lisa. ‘You know we did. It was a question of life and death.’  Natasha raised her eyebrows. ‘A wedding dress fitting is a question of life and death?’  Lisa nodded. ‘Not just any fitting. The final fitting.’  ‘The final fitting,’ mimicked Alexei, rolling his eyes. ‘I had to wait for you for an hour! An hour in the dark corridor.’  Lisa pulled away from him. ‘You know you can’t see me in my wedding dress. It’s bad luck.’ She whispered the last two words as if the mere mention of bad luck was enough somehow to summon it.  ‘It’s bad luck to be outside at a time like this,’ murmured Natasha.  Lisa said, ‘Don’t worry. The streets are perfectly safe. And Papa will understand.’  ‘I doubt it. Just yesterday he said you were too young to marry.’  Lisa laughed as if it was the most preposterous thing she had ever heard. ‘And I reminded him that Mama was younger than me when they got married. And Grandma was only sixteen when she married Grandpa. When Mama had Stanislav, she was the same age as you.’  Exasperated, Natasha shook her head.  Lisa continued, ‘Did you hear the dressmaker? Apparently I have the perfect figure. Mind you, I still have time to lose a few pounds before the big day.’  Alexei ran his hands over her tiny frame. ‘Don’t lose a few pounds, Lisa. There won’t be any of you left to marry.’  His words were interrupted by a distant rumble. Half a city away, the horizon flickered with shades of yellow and red.  An explosion followed.  And another.  And another.  For a few breathtaking seconds, the ground vibrated. Somewhere in the distance, machine guns barked and people shouted. And then, as if nothing had happened, all was still again. At the outskirts of the town, fires smouldered and smoke rose in gloomy, putrid mist.   ‘Don’t be scared,’ said Alexei, pulling Lisa tightly to his side. ‘There won’t be much bombing today.’  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Natasha.  ‘Just something I heard. The Nazis don’t want to destroy our city. They’re saving it.’   ‘Saving it for what?’ Lisa asked.  ‘For themselves, silly,’ said Natasha.  Lisa scowled. ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’      Natasha could tell her sister was scared because Lisa no longer dawdled. Quite the opposite, she was walking so fast that Natasha had to make an effort to keep up. Racing one another, the three of them turned onto Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and dashed through the park adjoining the university. The ground was littered with shells that had once carried death but now lay peacefully at their feet. Natasha could feel their sharp edges through the soles of her boots. One of her favourite places in Kiev, the park was unrecognisable. Anywhere not covered by pavement was excavated. In the last three months, it had transformed into what seemed like the habitat of a giant mole, full of holes and burrows. All the trenches that the Kievans were digging, all the barricades they were building, enthusiastically at the end of June, habitually in July and sporadically in August, now stood empty and abandoned. How meaningless it all seemed now, how futile.     It was inexplicably, almost nonsensically warm. The splendour of Ukrainian autumn, its sheer joy, its unrestrained abundance seemed out of place in the face of German invasion. The sun, the blue skies, the whites and reds of the flowers contrasted sharply with fires and damaged buildings. What was happening to their city now, what had happened three months ago when Hitler attacked the Soviet Union, none of it made sense to Natasha. She felt as if at any moment she would wake up only to find the streets of Kiev peaceful and quiet.     Since the day her city was first bombed in June, Natasha had waited impatiently to wake up.  But the nightmare had continued. All through the end of August and the beginning of September, she watched as platoon after platoon of Red Army soldiers retreated, away from Kiev, away from Natasha and her family. Soon the authorities followed the army. Now, in late September, the city held its breath in fearful anticipation. There was nothing but melancholy faces, nothing but grim skies.  Uncertainly Lisa muttered, ‘The Germans aren’t coming here. Haven’t you heard the radio?’ Like clockwork every few hours, the radio and the loudspeakers outside screeched that: ‘Kiev was, is and will be Soviet.’  How ironic, thought Natasha. As if anyone believed it now.   ‘The Red Army will soon push Hitler back,’ added Lisa.  ‘What Red Army?’ muttered Natasha.  Lisa squared her shoulders but didn’t reply. Suddenly, on the corner of Lva Tolstogo and Vladimirovskaya, she came to an abrupt halt. Natasha, who was only a couple of steps behind, bumped straight into her sister. ‘What …’ she started saying and stopped. Her mouth assumed a shape of an astonished ‘Oh’ but no sound escaped. All she could do was stare. From the direction of the river hundreds of soldiers in grey were marching towards them.  Wide-eyed, the sisters and Alexei backed into the park and hid behind its tall fence, watching in fear.  The wait was finally over. The enemy was no longer at the gates. Surrounded by crowds of confused men, women and children and accompanied by barking dogs, the enemy were right there, inside their city, their grey uniforms a perfect fit, their green helmets sparkling, their motorbikes roaring, their footsteps echoing in the tranquil autumn air.   It was Friday, the nineteenth of September, 1941.   Thank you Lana for sharing this captivating chapter. I look forward to reading more.You can find out more about Lana at the following links.Website: http://www.lanakortchik.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/lanakortchikTwitter: https://www.twitter.com/lanakortchik  Please leave a comment below by clicking on the "comments" icon. Would love to hear from you.  Leave your email address for a chance to win one of two free copies of Dark Side of a Promise. On June 17th.Shipped free anywhere in the world.  For more details check out this link Dark Side of a Promise

Two Grumpy Old Men Cafe - a short story by Allan Hudson

If you don't like being insulted then don't go through the door.






This story was inspired by an afternoon sharing some drinks with a few buddies. Someone suggested that when we retired we could move south and open up a restaurant only serving breakfast and have the afternoons off. Most of us thought that wouldn't be a good idea because the person that made the suggestion was too grumpy in the mornings.


Two Grumpy Old Men Café was born.

The following is Part 1. Drop by next Tuesday (May 17th) for part 2. Copyright is owned by the author. This story was first published in SHORTS Vol.1




The TGOM café is open from 6 a.m. to 11 a.m. Monday to Friday for breakfast only. If the two Canadians that owned the place had to stay open any longer they wouldn’t be just grumpy, they’d be downright inhospitable. At 77 years of age, Wilmot Parker III is an avid golfer, not a very good one mind you; in fact his fellow hackers call him Trap. There is always enough sand in the cuffs of his golfing pants at the end of a game that management accuses him of trying to steal it. If he ever played eighteen holes under ninety, it was likely his turn to keep score that day. Nonetheless, he loves the sport and has to be at the clubhouse by 1 p.m. every day except Sunday, which is church day. He’d been a financial advisor most of his working life, a golfer for about nine years, a widower for twelve, restaurateur for three.
Clarence Jerome Parker (no relation), known as CJ, is 75 and has never been married. When questioned about his bachelorhood, his defensive phrase is “there are too many lovely ladies, and I only have one lifetime. It would be unfair to womankind for me to impose myself upon one partner for the rest of my life.” His afternoons are spent in front of his computer writing what he calls “smut novels” under the alias of John T. Boner. The series is a moderate internet hit, available exclusively on his web page. Other people manage the site now, but every day except Monday (restaurant accounting day) and Friday (happy hour day), he writes from 1 to 5 p.m. He’d been a building contractor for thirty-five years, a hobby writer most of his life, a restaurateur for three. He cooks the biscuits in the mornings.
Estero Boulevard in Fort Myers Beach is mostly deserted at 5 a.m. The café sits down a side street off the main road, third business from the corner. It’s tucked neatly between a family-owned hardware store appropriately named Family’s Hardware and a used book store called The Author’s Index, run by a retired couple from Burlington, Vermont. All the buildings are constructed of rust-colored bricks and flat roofs. The café is the brightest on the street. The brick is whitewashed under large tinted glass windows that are shadowed by a four-foot awning of wide black-and-white strips. The dark green letters TGOM dominate the center of the twenty-six foot canvas held taut by black wrought iron stays that had been installed by the former occupant, Mel’s Big and Tall, a haberdashery that suggested they “have you covered up to size 6X.” The inside had been gutted to expose the overhead metal joists and the raw brick walls when CJ and Wilmot bought the building four years ago. 
The coming day is a sliver of pink and orange that winks across the eastern horizon, threatening the night, forcing it to flee. The air is balmy, scented with palm and sea salt that CJ breathes deep as he unlocks the door to enter the pantry/office at the back of the restaurant.  A beeping warns him the alarm system is armed and needs the proper code or it will call the police.  He flips the light switch just inside the door, keys in his code – dthroat1– on the finger pad just below the switch. He grins as he does every morning when he enters the premises, liking how tidy Wilmot keeps his desk and how Taffy, their only employee, keeps the stores. The floors, shelves, refrigerators, cupboards are so neat and clean they look like they’re in an ad.
There is a staff washroom on the left, to the far right. The remaining portion of that side is a makeshift office. A shelf-filled wall that faces the back door is broken by a wide antique French door with translucent glass that separates the back room from the main cooking and seating area in the front.  The ceilings are tall and filled with sprinklers, water lines, wire conduits, air-conditioning and exhaust ducts that all roam the steel rafters in balanced order. The whole apparatus was sprayed a soft brown, like milk chocolate.  The brick walls that line the outer dimension of the restaurant were sandblasted then painted a buttery color much like the tiny yellow flowers in the center of a common daisy.
Large portraits of well-known Canadians – Karen Kain, Lester B. Pearson, Burton Cummings, Stomping Tom, Donald Sutherland and Celine Dion – adorn the walls in mismatched frames: black-and-white close-ups with large dark eyes that follow your every move.

CJ wears one of the “company issue” black golf shirts with TGOM tastefully stitched in gold over the left breast. A pair of leather sandals and khaki cargo shorts, pockets bulging like squirrel cheeks, complete his ensemble.  Shutting the door, he opens a narrow closet on the right, next to a food prep area, where among other things seven chef jackets hang, all black, double-layered cotton with the same logo as the golf shirts. Four are still in the plastic from the cleaners; three are stained and ready to be picked up tomorrow, on Tuesday. Two of the clean ones are a 44 regular; they belong to him. Wilmot wears a 42 tall. Shredding the clear covering on one, CJ puts on a jacket and buttons it up as he wheels about the pantry collecting bowls, spatulas, eggs, flour, baking powder, salt, shortening and buttermilk – all the ingredients needed for by his grandmother’s recipe, committed to heartwarming memory.
Soon, the oven is turned to 450 while the coffee finishes brewing – just one pot for the staff for now. The biscuit dough is rolled out on the counter, emitting a raw floury scent. Not long after, a two-inch round cookie cutter is poised to form the delicious circles when the back door roughly opens. High-pitched female chuckling precedes her as she bursts in with all the energy of a freshly lit flare. Taffy Fitzsimons’ whole being is a kaleidoscope of colors, emotions, kinetics.  Often reminding the owners of the drabness of the black golf shirt, she countermands their strict policy on company dress by wearing the most colorful of pants, often the stretchy version. Notorious among her peers for second-hand shopping, she always has something new on Mondays; there will be no disappointing the regulars today.  Her lower portion is clad in fuchsia tights; beige denim cut-offs with cuffs rolled at the knee cover her thighs; her shoes are high-heeled and orange. The golf shirt is just right clutching her tender curves.
At 68, Taffy is still an exotic sight. Her light brown hair is always pulled back into a delightful knot, highlighting her diamond-shaped face. She’s a beautiful Polynesian and Caucasian blend, originally from Hawaii. Eyes a rich brown find delight in almost everything; few wrinkles line the edges. Charming and witty, she trades gaffs with the Parkers, as she calls them, with aplomb. Insults come easy to her, she’s a retired firefighter. She followed husband number two to Florida, never to return. He died five years past, leaving her a mountain of money. No one would think to describe her as shy. The patrons love her.
Wilmot enters close behind, laughing at some joke he probably told Taffy. He brings her a new one every day.  How he remembers them is no mystery; he can even remember the one he told her last Monday. His memory is measured in terra gigs, fathomless. He’ll know what Apple’s shares are trading at as of a half hour ago, what they closed at yesterday, the day’s high, the low and what they were last Monday and the Monday before. He’ll know the final scores of every NHL game this weekend, which everyone will hear about whether they like hockey or the Toronto Maple Leafs or not. Except for the biscuits, he does the cooking.
He’s wearing his usual “business casual” shorts, dark grey today. The pleat is perfect, thin and sharp as a piece of paper. His golf shirt drapes his long frame and hangs out over the shorts. Every inch of his skin is tanned to a dark oak finish. His hair is greyish blond, like old age ripening in the sun; it’s full and sweeps back from an extended forehead. The nose is thin and the grin is wide. His eyes tell the world he is happy, it’s difficult for him to be grumpy. He heads to his desk, where he fiddles with the computer that is always operating. The ten speakers hidden subtly throughout the premises begin to emit the most soulful saxophone music via their favorite Internet station, The Jazz Groove.
“G’morning.”
CJ is cutting and sorting the biscuits on cooking sheets; Taffy grabs her waitress’s apron and, while tying it on, heads out into the main restaurant to start the coffee. The first customers will be here soon.
”Mornin’ to you, too, Wilmot. How’d the golf go yesterday?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah, I don’t know why I torture myself like that.”
“I’ve been saying that since I’ve known you. Why don’t you find another hobby?”
“Whatever. Did you get a hold of the electrician? We need those extra plugs.”
“Yeah, he’ll be here around ten... Oh, and Mrs. Tucker called and wants scrambled this morning.”
“And when she gets her she’ll swear she said fried. Dumb biddy.”
Wilmot just shakes his head as he slips out of sandals and shorts, placing them on the office chair. His boxers have Ninja Turtles with menacing stares. He opens the closet to remove a pair of plaid chef pants from a hanger. Quickly pulling them on, he slips the sandals back on while removing an apron from the top shelf.
“It’s been hot lately; think I won’t bother with the jacket today.”
Donning the dark green apron, he chats with his friend for a few minutes, some business, most not. Their organization is pretty simple. They each own one half of the company, which includes the building. There is no debt. Like Taffy, they don’t need the money. This venture came not only as an outlet for the three friends, in alignment with the need to be around people for part of their day, but as a commitment to what the end of each shift would bring. After expenses, which are meticulously accounted for, they give the rest away. It all started with three friends drunk in a hot tub. It would end anytime one of them wanted out, no arguments.
Its five minutes until opening when Wilmot slides the first two flats of biscuits into the oven. CJ finishes cleaning up his mess before removing the jacket to re-hang it for tomorrow. He dons a short black apron over his khakis and will serve the clients that line the horseshoe counter that enfolds the cooking area, which is open to the patrons. Wilmot keeps everything spotless, as if the room is full of health inspectors. He’s fast and a damn good cook. Taffy serves the other customers that choose to sit at one of the wrought iron and glass tables for two along the front windows – the most popular seats – or one of the three booths for four along the right wall. Mondays are always busy. The first customer is outside the door right now as usual. CJ is in the back washing his hands when he hears Wilmot exclaim.
“I’m warning you two, no will-not jokes today, okay, I’m getting tired of them and they aren’t funny anymore.”
Neither CJ nor Taffy can respond because they’re laughing so hard. Taffy gets her snickers under control as she goes to unlock the door but can’t resist,
“Okay, we will not.”
The door quickly opens with a hydraulic whoosh to admit a disheveled middle-aged man clad in a black T-shirt half tucked in that reads Bonnie’s Bistro in neon pink letters across the back, jeans with one knee “fashionably” ripped, and scuffed LL Bean hikers. Taffy’s bonhomie will normally thaw most ice cubes, but Horatio Rasmussen is just totally disagreeable. It’s why he comes here. She doesn’t bother being nice.
            “Watch what you say today, Horatio. They’re in a bad mood.”
“Yeah, well so am I.” ...........to be continued!       
Please drop back Tuesday, May 17th for "the rest of the story"






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Guest Author Rhonda Herrington Bulmer

You will absolutely love this short story from Rhonda!


I wrote my first novel at age fifteen.  I still have the dog-eared manuscript, embossed with words created by the typewriter that my parents bought me for Christmas—so I could finish my story, get it published and make a million dollars.(They were also faithful lottery ticket buyers—just saying.)I sent it to McLelland and Stewart in Toronto, a publisher which now belongs to Penguin-Random House, but back then it was our premiere publisher of Canadian authors. I received a lovely rejection letter—not a form—from an editor who obviously wanted to encourage and nurture a naïve young Canadian writer. She told me not to give up, to keep writing and gave me a list of publishers who published teens.A more competitive person who took constructive criticism well wouldn’t let a rejection break her. But I was none of those things. I believed it was a sign that I wasn’t meant to succeed, so I tore up the letter, threw the manuscript in my drawer and didn’t write again until I was well into my thirties, with a background in public relations and with a husband and three children.I tell this story because my experience as a writer and as a person is of one who has always felt isolated, as though I existed permanently outside the circle. Most of what I’ve written so far, including this little piece I offer here, has this flavour. I wrote a young adult novel called Rachel’s Manifesto in 2007 and decided to self-publish in 2011 after almost selling it to another Toronto publisher. Since I was lucky enough to marry an artistic guy who has some skills with drawing pencils, we decided to produce a couple of picture storybooks as well, Please Let Me In (2014) and Brussels Sprouts for Breakfast (2015). You can read more about my work at www.codepoetmedia.comSpecial thanks to Allan Hudson for including me as a guest blogger. It is good—very good—to find that I do belong to a tribe after all.

  A minute of silence Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission. Drawings compliments of Kent & Sophie Bulmer.
 
My stomach is in my throat and a tremble courses through my body when I realize I’m  next. By my reaction, you’d think I was about to be taken to prison where I would be bound and whipped, sexually assaulted and then strangled with my bedcovers.No. No such luck.I’m about to give a speech.A one-minute impromptu speech worth ten marks, to be specific. Every year, grade eight English students do a unit on speeches, led by Mrs. Penney, and she delights in the torture. She’s tall, with shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin peppered with scars—looks like she had bad acne when she was a teen. Is that why she has no compassion on people like me? I may have smooth skin, but I want to vomit at the thought of being the centre of attention. “Rose Harrison. Rosie, you’re up.” I hear my name and I stand up and walk to the back of the room, where Mrs. Penney is seated and I kick myself for not faking sick this morning. I thought about it. I tossed and turned all night. My eyes were open until the first pink light of dawn. But I knew to stay home would only put it off for one more day.Because speeches--like death—are inevitable. Someday, you’re going to have to give one, and for me, today is the day.Mrs. Penney offers me a baseball cap filled with slips of paper. I stick my hand in the cap and I try to hide my shaky fingers when I pull out a folded slip. I unfold the paper and read the word, while the collective gaze of all my fellow students focuses on my back, like a laser pinpoint of criticism.SNOW
The single word is written in blue pen, but it might as well have been written in Russian, because I can’t remember anything about snow right now. As I walk to the front of the class and whirl around to face my execution, I realize my brain is useless. Have I been hacked? Maybe all my words have leaked out through the holes my classmates are boring in my head with their eyes.The teacher looks at me. “You got it?” I swallow and nod. She clicks a stopwatch. “Okay… go.”My glasses slip down my nose. I swallow hard and push them back up with my forefinger. I shift my weight from one rubbery leg to the other. “Well, my topic is… snow…” I scramble for words but it seems they’ve all been sucked out of my head, like air out of a balloon.I wish I could disappear. Or have aliens light upon the roof and in a giant spotlight, dematerialize me, never to return. How about an earthquake—an earthquake is certain to interrupt my speech. At least it would be more interesting than my latest public failure.I swallow hard and feel my armpits getting moist and I’m  nauseous. One whole minute to talk about snow? What is there to say about snow for a whole minute? One minute doesn’t seem like a long time until I’m standing in front of a roomful of my classmates who already think I’m an idiot—including that snotface Chelsea Carroll. Not the smartest girl in the room either, but a great athlete. She has quads as tight as drums and runs like the wind. Once, in gym class, she said, “Come on, Rosie, suck in that gut,” while she measured my waist for a unit we did on fitness.  “Uh…S-s-snow is… white.” Chelsea smirks.“And it’s-s cold …” I shouldn’t mumble. I’ll lose marks for that. Snow is white and cold—come on, Rose, you can’t think of anything else?The room is silent except for the sound of the stop watch. I stare at the floor or the ceiling or the walls, because I can’t bear to look at my classmates. Marty Milner is at the back. He’s the one who likes to put dimes in his mouth and scratch them against his teeth. Yuck.But I can hear him make that funny “swhoosh” sound when he laughs. Mrs. Penney scolds him with her eyes when I glance up through my eyelashes. I shift my weight again and see the slip of paper on the floor. I must have dropped it. I pick it up and look at the word again.“It’s spelled S-N-O-W.” I hear a rumble of giggles. Mrs. Penney shushes everyone.Tick. Tock. Who knew a minute could last forever?I force myself to look up. Marty and his buddies are sprawled in their seats at the back. They think this is so funny. He did his speech yesterday about a bar of soap. He talked about how he stole it from the Holiday Inn and how it smells like flowers so he gave it to his mother and she cried and never saw anything so beautiful. I wish I’d thought of that. How much more can you say about soap than snow?Paige Larson feels sorry for me. I can see it in her freckled face and her narrowed green eyes. She is the smart student with perfect marks, who juggles her duties as student council vice-president and captain of the girls’ basketball team and manages to be an all-round great person. Her father is the local high school principal and their family lives, breathes and talks about school activities and science and math and blah, blah, blah. How can someone bore you but make you feel stupid and unaccomplished all at the same time? “Thirty seconds,” announces Mrs. Penney from the back. Thirty seconds! I stifle a groan and gaze at my empty chair.Wait. “Snow falls from the sky in the winter. From…clouds. But I don’t know—how that works.”Sheila James laughs out loud and then muffles it with her hand. She turns her face toward the wall. I bite my lip and curl my toes inside my shoes.Tick. Tock.“Okay, Rose, you can sit down,” Mrs. Penney says in a soft voice. She must have decided to take pity on me, because my minute wasn’t up. I’m relieved and humiliated at the same time.My desk is in front of Smarty Marty. I dive into my chair and cast a hopeful look to the ceiling. Alien abduction would still be useful right now. Marty leans over and hits me in the elbow before I hear his whisper in my ear. “I like s-s-s-s-now, too. It’s c-c-c-cold.” I shoot him a nasty look over my shoulder.  “Shut up. I’ll do better next time.” Then I turn my head to the window on the opposite side of the room. It’s a gray day, late in March when most of the snow is gone, except the dirty patches under the trees, but the spring buds haven’t broken through. In fact, we usually have a few freak storms all the way through April. This winter had been so much more cold and dreary than other seasons I remember and we had a record number of storms. It took forever to shovel out of the driveway, and we don’t have a snow blower. Dad says I’m his snow blower.But Dad and I made a seven-foot snowman this year—it’s a family tradition to build one after the first big storm of the year, but we had a lot more snow to work with this season, and  it was the perfect packing temperature—Then I bang my head with my fist and stare straight ahead. Yeesh. There’s so many things I could have said. What’s wrong with me? Why does my mind go blank under pressure?Stupid brain. Stupid friends. Stupid school. Stupid me.“Yeah, I can’t wait to hear your next one,” Marty says, still in my ear and laughing. “You know the speech next week is three minutes long, right? Maybe you can record yours on video.”
My stomach lurches at the news. I look at him, dead serious. “With any luck, I’ll be in prison by then.”  Thank you Rhonda for sharing your delightful tale on the Scribbler.    Rhonda Herrington Bulmer is a writer-for-hire who lives in Moncton, New Brunswick ( www.codepoetmedia.com and www.ladywriter.ca ). She has self-published three books and is working on another. Luckily, she has not had to make a speech for many years now.   Next week on the Scribbler you will have a chance to read one of my favorite short stories - Two Grumpy Old Men Café. It has been published in SHORTS Vol.1
 Please leave a comment and especially your email address for a chance to win one of two copies of Dark Side of a Promise to be drawn for on June 17th and shipped FREE anywhere in the world. (Your email address will not be shared or used in anyway.)  

4Q Interview with John Nicholl of West Wales, UK.

Do you like psychological thrillers? Meet John Nicholl - master of suspense!

        John Nicholl is our featured artist for this month’s 4Q Interview. John lives in West Wales, UK, and is the author of two successful psychological suspense thrillers. He has worked as a police officer and child protection social worker. His novels draw on his professional experience. His debut novel – White is the Coldest Colour – reached Amazon’s top 100 list in just fifteen days. The Scribbler is very pleased to have him as a guest. His link is listed below.
 
4Q: Please tell us about yourself and when did you start writing?
JN: I wrote a multi-agency child protection guide, and pertinent articles for newspapers and magazines during my career, but ‘White is the Coldest Colour' was my first novel. I retired early from my post heading up child protection services in west Wales due to health problems, and had a good deal of spare time. I began writing the book one day to see if I could. I found myself enjoying the process, and it progressed from there. It’s proved to be a steep learning curve, but well worth the effort. If anyone out there is thinking of writing a book, I’d encourage them to give it a go.
4Q: Please tell us a bit about your novels and why you chose to write suspense stories?
JN: Both books are written from experience. I dealt with a great many traumatic cases during my twenty or so years as a social worker, and the writing has been somewhat cathartic. The first book focuses on child abuse, and the professionals who spend their working lives striving to protect the vulnerable, often against the odds; whilst the second focuses on physical and psychological domestic violence towards women. The novels are primarily intended as entertaining dark suspense thrillers, but if they raise awareness of, and the understanding of these important social issues, I will be grateful for that. 
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory with us.
JN:  I wasn't expecting that one, but here goes! Memories don’t come in straight lines, and my mind if full of stories from the past, most happy, but some less so.  One incident that resonates from the past happened in my tenth year, when I was enjoying a sun drenched family holiday in Grand Canaria with my mum and dad.  I was in and out of the hotel pool on a regular basis, enjoying splashing around and interacting with friends of similar age. I thought nothing of it when a woman in her thirties reached out towards me with an angst expression on her face, as I swam to and fro. What she hadn't realized was that the pool got significantly deeper at a certain unmarked point. What I hadn't realized was that she couldn't swim. The woman came towards me with flailing arms and kept coming. She then proceeded to try and save herself by placing her hands on top of my head, and pushing down hard, raising herself above the water, but forcing me under. I fought to break the surface and breathe repeatedly, before being pushed back under again and again and again. After what seemed like an age, I managed to break free of her grip, and pulled her to safety by one of her arms. Even now, I’m surprised that she didn't bother thanking me. Oh well, c’est la vie!
4Q: What’s next for John Nicholl and what are you reading right now?
JN: I’m about a third of the way into writing a third novel, which tells the story of a young woman who is abducted and imprisoned by a depraved serial killer.  I can’t put a firm date on it at the moment, but I hope to have it available by the end of September 2016. I’ve received a recent offer from an American publisher, but I’m likely to remain independent as I enjoy total creative control. With that said, never say never. It’s also worth mentioning that ‘White is the Coldest Colour’ is currently being produced as an audio book. I’ve listened to the first chapter, and a brilliant young actor named Jake Urry is doing a tremendous job of the narration. It should be available to purchase sometime in May 2016.
I’m currently reading Kiss Kiss, a series of short stories written by Roald Dhal. If you’re a fan of dark psychological fiction with a twist, this is as good as it gets. An Excerpt from When Evil Calls your Name.Copyright is owned by the author. Used by permission. 


                        Chapter 1                        Sunday 5, February 1995     I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour, trying to figure out where to begin: my name, perhaps, my location at the time of writing possibly, how I ended up in this miserable human dumping ground in the first place. Maybe, the awful entirety? Yes, that makes sense. If I’m going to tell you my story, why hold anything back. I’ve got absolutely nothing to hide. It’s all a matter of public record anyway. What would be the point in trying?   This isn’t going to be easy, but I think it’s probably best if I introduce myself right now and get it over with. Please try to keep an open mind if you saw the numerous news reports relating to my case. Not everything they said was true. Not by a long shot.   Well, enough prevarication, here goes, time to bite the bullet, as the old saying goes… my name’s Cynthia. Do you think that’s sufficient, or do you require a surname? People often do for some reason. I suppose I may as well tell you now, and be done with it: Cynthia Galbraith. That’s been my allocated label since my marriage to that man. So now do you understand my initial reticence? It was Jones, Cynthia Jones, before that. It’s who I used to be. Someone I once was. A stranger from a distant far-off land I can never visit again. But then, I guess we all live in the shadow of the past to varying degrees.   I’m twenty-nine years old, by the way. I was twenty-six when I arrived here. That’s three long years. Time tends to pass rather slowly here. No, that’s understating the case, agonisingly slowly is more like it! Yes, agonising describes it very nicely.   But I’m getting ahead of myself. I can hear you saying it. Shouting it conceivably? Or is that just my notoriously overactive imagination playing tricks on me again? That wouldn’t surprise me. I get a lot of things wrong and make a great many mistakes. He told me that time and time again. It seems, such things define me.   Give me a second. Deep breaths Cynthia, deep breaths…  I’m writing this in
my prison cell. There, I’ve said it! A dingy eight-foot by six-foot enclosure illuminated by intrusive overly bright, fluorescent-strip lighting that buzzes constantly, and only serves to highlight how truly ghastly every inch of this fucking place truly is.
  My sincere apologies for the profanity, I hope you’re not offended. I found my fellow prisoners regular use of ‘colourful’ language hard to accept when I first arrived, but it’s amazing what you can get used to.  And anyway, surely it’s just a word, a collection of letters, like all the other words in this good, bad and indifferent world of ours. What do you think? Tell me, please, I’ll try not to take any criticism personally. Obsession, control, bitch, murder, life. It seems words can be emotive after all. What on earth was I thinking? I should understand that more than most. Words can hurt. They can have a substantial impact on our psyche. They certainly did on mine.   But, I’m getting ahead of myself again. Now, where was I? I need to press rewind and focus if I’m going to do my story justice. Oh, yeah, I was telling you about my cell. I’ve already told you the size. Small, that sums it up. Claustrophobic? Most certainly, but I shouldn’t complain. Some say I deserve to be here. The judge clearly thought so, given the length of my sentence. And then there were the newspapers. I recall reading the Daily Mail at the time of my trial. An evil woman, that’s how they put it. An evil woman! It sticks in my mind and eats away at me like a rabid dog. Not an easy thing to read about myself, to be honest. I hadn’t thought of myself in that way until then. Stupid, yes, inadequate, yes, but evil? It was strange really: some journalists seemed to see me as villain, and others as an unfortunate victim of circumstance who rose from the ashes like a phoenix from the flames to smite my oppressor. How can different people, seemingly intelligent people, writers and the like, interpret the exact same events so very differently? I’ve given it a great deal of thought over the years without reaching an adequate resolution. You should make your own mind up. I think that’s probably best. Perhaps one fine day you can provide me with an answer. I’d really appreciate it, if you could.  

  And back to the cell. I’ll try my best not to go off at a tangent this time, promise. White peeling paint on walls pockmarked with multiple spots of black and blue mould, like a Jackson Pollock painting I like to think. A vivid imagination is a definite advantage in this place. It’s my only means of escape when the walls close in on me. And then there’s the bunk beds, of course. Not very comfortable, there’s no denying that, but a lot of innocent people put up with a lot worse. There’s a great many homeless people in this increasingly socially diverse country of ours. What have they done to deserve their fate?   Mine’s the top bunk, by the way. That’s truly significant here, it’s the prison world equivalent of residing in Chelsea or Mayfair. Does that make any sense at all in your very different world? Well, yes or no, I’ve earned it after almost three years. Only thirteen more to go. Unlucky for some, eh? Unlucky for me, that’s for sure!   I share my cell with Gloria, a skinny nineteen-year-old girl with fashionable short cropped dark-brown hair and a much older name. We’ve got nothing and everything in common, and very little to say to each other most of the time. We share occasional pleasantries, that’s true. She asks me for tampons, toothpaste, toilet paper and other necessities on a fairly regular basis, and she moans about the guards from time to time. But then, who doesn’t? It’s the national pastime in these parts. Most of them are okay, to be honest. The majority are just here to do a job, to pay the bills, and do the best they can within the confines of their role. But then there’s the others: a seemingly different species, the right bastards who seem to take infinite pleasure in making my life as miserable as feasibly possible at every conceivable opportunity. They’re the sort of people who like to pull the wings off butterflies. It seems there are good and bad people in all walks of life. I knew one of the worst, a monster, a man devoid of empathy or virtue, but it’s far too soon for that. I’m not ready to address that particular topic just yet.  
Thank you John for sharing on the Scribbler.  We wish you continued success with your writing journey. Lear more about this talented author and his novels here: www.johnnicholl.com
  Next week's post is to be announced later this weekend, watch for it!



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Guest Author & Poet Judy Savoie of Grand Barachois, NB.

This week's post is a First for the Scribbler with a collection of poetry from our talented guest. .


Judy Savoie was born in Fredericton, N.B. and began writing poetry at an early age. This pursuit continued into her early 20’s when she became a technical writer at the University. She co-authored a learning directory after graduating from U.N.B. with a BBA and didn’t return to creative writing again until 2011, a traumatic year of personal illness, divorce and the loss of her stepfather.
Judy was able to turn difficulty into productivity by expressing her emotions through writing. While adapting to these many changes, she took an array of workshops to hone her writing skills. During the summer of 2012 at a cottage in Shediac, she spent an intense week of writing and meditation.
Judy is the author of two books. Her first, titled ‘Serendipity’ was launched in 2015 and is a collection of poetry, prose and song lyrics. It expresses a love of music, photography and nature; all elements that are nurtured by life spent near the beauty of the ocean. 


Her second book project, ‘All About Hats’ was completed in 2016 after much research and collaborates personal experience with a life-long passion for hats. Though lighthearted, it presents interesting stories, poetry and historical facts that demonstrate the influential role that hats have played in affecting all world cultures for countless centuries.
During the time that she undertook a summer hat business, her partner challenged her to write a book about ‘Hats’. After deciding to answer this challenge, she began her research and within four months the book was printed. Both books are available on the internet (lulu.com) or at various venues in Moncton where books are being sold. A third book that blends new poetry, songs and photographs is in the making and will be completed in the very near future.
 Judy is a member of the Writers Federation of New Brunswick, the ‘Shediac Writers Group’ located in Shediac, NB and is a participant of a group in Grand Barachois called ‘Women Who Write’.  

A major inspiration for her songwriting is derived from her partner, Gilbert Babin who is a talented musician/composer. Exposure to music that encompasses Acadian, Folk, Celtic, Jazz and Spanish has helped her to transfer from expressing herself in poetry to crafting lyrics for music composed by her partner; a transition that has been both immediate and seamless. She wrote fifteen songs for this new venue during the first year and another ten have been composed since that initial flurry of writing. Although she had never sung in a serious way, she discovered that she enjoyed doing so when Gilbert recorded her voice. This fulfilling collaboration was extended when they made a c.d. together that was included in Judy’s first book, ‘Serendipity’. Last year Judy held three book launches and accompanied by her partner, sang publicly for the first time.
 Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.   

Apuka 
Faded photograph.The young stranger that I see.He has disappeared, and only these tattered pictures remain.  Yet I know this gentle man, With tanned skin and deep wrinkles on his forehead.This quiet man who molds who I am today.Who others portrayed as a villain.            I see an intensity in his eyes:another country, another culture.A familiar place I have not been to.  I long to know that truth,the dreams and aspirations of his youth,before the damage done to him in the war.  I study the image,the faded black and white.He is handsome,slim like I remember him.Carefree, quiet, lonesome.  A bicycle at his side, a teepee-like hut in the foreground,he blows into his harmonica.  It's like the wind that woke me this morning,or the train passing through the backyard bedroom window of my childhood home.  I know now.he is here, somewhere.    ****       Dune Shadows  What were these grains?Fossil, animal, human?  Feel them with us.Each speck of dust,Gently caressing us.  The ghosts of our pastWant us to knowTheir history, legends, knowledge.  They are forever with usIn a different form,Watching, whispering,In the depths of our consciousness.  ***  I arrive home,Shake the sand from my garment,Spray my feet with running water.The bubbles tickle my toesAnd I watch the sand swirldown the drain.  A vague feeling overcomes me.I am clean but saddened at the realization.I quietly reply goodbye,To what very well could be part of me.   *****  Little Bird (Fanny Power) There was a young girl, her name was Fanny,Her spirit so open, and light and free.She knew in her heart, she was meant to be,Patiently waiting his plea.  Nearby, a boy, who could not see.He never saw light, but he felt her glee.He knew in his heart, where he wanted to be.To live in her eternal beauty.  Come little bird, come little bird, come little bird,Come little bird, come little bird.With you I shall flee,Teach me to fly,Soar with me high,Until we shall die.  One afternoon she lost her way,She flew to the end of the earth to play.She lost all her senses that very day.Because he was too far away.  His powerful thoughts were of her each May.He missed her so deeply, he had to pray.Her image was in him, was meant to stay.A feather fell to the ground that day.  Come little bird, come little bird, come little bird, Come little bird, come little bird.With you I shall flee,Teach me to fly,Soar with me high,Until we shall die.  Many years later, a man on the beach,He plays his guitar in solace and peace,His beautiful music, her ears they do reach,She writes words that her soulmate can teach.    *******

               Smelt Cabins   Randomly scatteredSquare boxes.Delicately placedon a crystal platform. Reflections beloware accentuatedBy  the horizontal peach beam above.Another breathtaking optical illusioncontinues. A gaze shifts to the left,Two trucks, one cabin and one post,Pose on the glassy surface.On the opposite side,the sun blazes,As it fires up the sky. The wharf’s silhuoette recalls memorieswhile it stares in stillnessOf moments below.The brilliance gradually dims.Then disappears.As suddenly as it came.We are left to marvel in the smoke.     *****   Divine Reality A vision of mind, a mission of heart,Holds them together, yet tears them apart.Though oceans away, through veins pump a youth,Heart beats of legends, lost ashes is truth.  The future amidst, a flurry of now,Pasts soon are forgotten, none left to endow.Will ever it change, fate being misled?With eternal sun, their souls will be fed.  When smoke disappears, then what will remain?Remnants with nothing to prove what was gained.     *****   My favourite hat story was at my mother’s private wedding ceremony to her partner of 30 years. My mother was married in September, one month before her partner passed away. It was a day of mixed emotions as everyone knew he had very little time left after a brave fight with cancer. My youngest son, 11 years old at the time, showed up at the small ceremony wearing a vintage top hat, dating back to the late-1800s to early 1900s, which my best friend had loaned him for the day. The strange part was that she had purchased the hat at an estate auction, and it happened to be my new step-dad’s late-father’s hat! My step-dad, his sister and his brother-in-law were delighted. Despite the fact that no one at the wedding was a hat person (except me), the boys and men alike took their turns wearing the top hat. I fervently took photos of their fun as they smiled from ear to ear. It was among one of the highlights of the day, fragile moments almost frozen in time, which somehow eased the sadness of knowing we were to lose someone very special soon.
 

Thank you Judy for being the guest this week on the Scribbler. Visit Judy's Facebook page. here  Watch next week when the Scribbler hosts John Nicholl of Wales for the 4Q Interview and an excerpt from one of his psychological thriller novels.   

Guest Author & Poet Judy Savoie of Shediac, NB.

This week's post is a First for the Scribbler with a collection of poetry from our talented guest. .


Judy Savoie was born in Fredericton, N.B. and began writing poetry at an early age. This pursuit continued into her early 20’s when she became a technical writer at the University. She co-authored a learning directory after graduating from U.N.B. with a BBA and didn’t return to creative writing again until 2011, a traumatic year of personal illness, divorce and the loss of her stepfather.
Judy was able to turn difficulty into productivity by expressing her emotions through writing. While adapting to these many changes, she took an array of workshops to hone her writing skills. During the summer of 2012 at a cottage in Shediac, she spent an intense week of writing and meditation.
Judy is the author of two books. Her first, titled ‘Serendipity’ was launched in 2015 and is a collection of poetry, prose and song lyrics. It expresses a love of music, photography and nature; all elements that are nurtured by life spent near the beauty of the ocean. 

Her second book project, ‘All About Hats’ was completed in 2016 after much research and collaborates personal experience with a life-long passion for hats. Though lighthearted, it presents interesting stories, poetry and historical facts that demonstrate the influential role that hats have played in affecting all world cultures for countless centuries.
During the time that she undertook a summer hat business, her partner challenged her to write a book about ‘Hats’. After deciding to answer this challenge, she began her research and within four months the book was printed. Both books are available on the internet (lulu.com) or at various venues in Moncton where books are being sold. A third book that blends new poetry, songs and photographs is in the making and will be completed in the very near future.
 Judy is a member of the Writers Federation of New Brunswick, the ‘Shediac Writers Group’ located in Shediac, NB and is a participant of a group in Grand Barachois called ‘Women Who Write’.   Inspiration for her songwriting is derived in part from her partner, Gilbert Babin who is a talented musician/composer. Exposure to music that encompasses Acadian, Folk, Celtic, Jazz and Spanish has helped her to transfer from expressing herself in poetry to crafting lyrics for music composed by her partner; a transition that has been both immediate and seamless. She wrote fifteen songs for this new venue during the first year and another five have been composed since that initial flurry of writing. Although she had never sung in a serious way, she discovered that she enjoyed doing so when Gilbert recorded her voice. This fulfilling collaboration was extended when they made a c.d. together that was included in Judy’s first book, ‘Serendipity’. Last year Judy held three book launches and accompanied by her partner, sang publicly for the first time.
 Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.    Apuka  Faded photograph.The young stranger that I see.He has disappeared, and only these tattered pictures remain.  Yet I know this gentle man, With tanned skin and deep wrinkles on his forehead.This quiet man who molds who I am today.Who others portrayed as a villain.            I see an intensity in his eyes:another country, another culture.A familiar place I have not been to.  I long to know that truth,the dreams and aspirations of his youth,before the damage done to him in the war.  I study the image,the faded black and white.He is handsome,slim like I remember him.Carefree, quiet, lonesome.  A bicycle at his side, a teepee-like hut in the foreground,he blows into his harmonica.  It's like the wind that woke me this morning,or the train passing through the backyard bedroom window of my childhood home.  I know now.he is here, somewhere.    ****       Dune Shadows  What were these grains?Fossil, animal, human?  Feel them with us.Each speck of dust,Gently caressing us.  The ghosts of our pastWant us to knowTheir history, legends, knowledge.  They are forever with usIn a different form,Watching, whispering,In the depths of our consciousness.  ***  I arrive home,Shake the sand from my garment,Spray my feet with running water.The bubbles tickle my toesAnd I watch the sand swirldown the drain.  A vague feeling overcomes me.I am clean but saddened at the realization.I quietly reply goodbye,To what very well could be part of me.   *****  Little Bird (Fanny Power) There was a young girl, her name was Fanny,Her spirit so open, and light and free.She knew in her heart, she was meant to be,Patiently waiting his plea.  Nearby, a boy, who could not see.He never saw light, but he felt her glee.He knew in his heart, where he wanted to be.To live in her eternal beauty.  Come little bird, come little bird, come little bird,Come little bird, come little bird.With you I shall flee,Teach me to fly,Soar with me high,Until we shall die.  One afternoon she lost her way,She flew to the end of the earth to play.She lost all her senses that very day.Because he was too far away.  His powerful thoughts were of her each May.He missed her so deeply, he had to pray.Her image was in him, was meant to stay.A feather fell to the ground that day.  Come little bird, come little bird, come little bird, Come little bird, come little bird.With you I shall flee,Teach me to fly,Soar with me high,Until we shall die.  Many years later, a man on the beach,He plays his guitar in solace and peace,His beautiful music, her ears they do reach,She writes words that her soulmate can teach.    *******
                Smelt Cabins   Randomly scatteredSquare boxes.Delicately placedon a crystal platform. Reflections beloware accentuatedBy  the horizontal peach beam above.Another breathtaking optical illusioncontinues. A gaze shifts to the left,Two trucks, one cabin and one post,Pose on the glassy surface.On the opposite side,the sun blazes,As it fires up the sky. The wharf’s silhuoette recalls memorieswhile it stares in stillnessOf moments below.The brilliance gradually dims.Then disappears.As suddenly as it came.We are left to marvel in the smoke.     *****   Divine Reality A vision of mind, a mission of heart,Holds them together, yet tears them apart.Though oceans away, through veins pump a youth,Heart beats of legends, lost ashes is truth.  The future amidst, a flurry of now,Pasts soon are forgotten, none left to endow.Will ever it change, fate being misled?With eternal sun, their souls will be fed.  When smoke disappears, then what will remain?Remnants with nothing to prove what was gained.     *****   My favourite hat story was at my mother’s private wedding ceremony to her partner of 30 years. My mother was married in September, one month before her partner passed away. It was a day of mixed emotions as everyone knew he had very little time left after a brave fight with cancer. My youngest son, 11 years old at the time, showed up at the small ceremony wearing a vintage top hat, dating back to the late-1800s to early 1900s, which my best friend had loaned him for the day. The strange part was that she had purchased the hat at an estate auction, and it happened to be my new step-dad’s late-father’s hat! My step-dad, his sister and his brother-in-law were delighted. Despite the fact that no one at the wedding was a hat person (except me), the boys and men alike took their turns wearing the top hat. I fervently took photos of their fun as they smiled from ear to ear. It was among one of the highlights of the day, fragile moments almost frozen in time, which somehow eased the sadness of knowing we were to lose someone very special soon.  
Thank you Judy for being the guest this week on the Scribbler. Visit Judy's Facebook page. here  Watch next week when the Scribbler hosts John Nicholl of Wales for the 4Q Interview and an excerpt from one of his psychological thriller novels.