My guest today is Elaine C. Pereira. Hello, Elaine! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?
  

I Will Never Forget:  A Daughter's Story of Her Mother's Arduous and Humorous Journey Through Dementia is the title of the book. I Will Never Forget is my debut book. It came out just last year, in May 2012. It is available through Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, the publisher iUniverse bookstore, and through my web site at www.IWillNeverForgetBook.com. My memoir chronicles my mother's tragic but at times also funny journey through dementia.  

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

My mother’s is a story that needed to be told. She was a kind, brilliant and talented lady who was transformed into an agitated, paranoid person as dementia moved in consuming bits and pieces of her memory. Rapidly Mom dissolved into a delusional, dependent and nearly incoherent woman no longer capable of self-care tasks as Alzheimer’s insatiable appetite for brain cells pretzel-twisted her gray matter.  

Sadly her story is not unique as Alzheimer's cases continue to increase and rob us of our loved ones. My mom was a great mom, not unlike all great moms except that she was mine! It was critically important that my mother be remembered for the amazing persona that defined her and not the dementia ravaged victim that ended her.

When did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours? 

I have never journaled; I'm more of a talker, especially for stress release.  Given mom's rapid decline as she slipped farther into dementia's dark haze, her communication waned as well as her alertness.  During my reflective time driving out and back as well sitting quietly in her room, I started writing down the flood of ideas bouncing around in my head about every event I had enjoyed as a child growing up.  What probably began as a cathartic expression of both love and grief over her impending death, eventually evolved into a finished memoir.  

So, do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

During much of the writing process I camped out in the kitchen near the heat vent and juggled my lap top as my affection-starved kitty negotiated for some coveted lap time too.  Some days I wrote furiously all day and sometimes I stared at the blinking arrow and gave up.  

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice?

Given that this is my debut book and writing one has never been on my bucket list, the best I can do to advise aspiring writers is to write what you find passionate, what speaks to you. Thriller? Romance? Survivor Story? If you find that something intrigues you, pursue that line and see where it goes.  

Good advice, Elaine.

Well, readers, here is the blurb for I Will Never Forget.  

I Will Never Forget is the exquisite story of the author’s kind and talented mother Betty’s extraordinary and sometimes humorous journey through Dementia. Through superb stories of Elaine’s childhood, from her controversial name, tales of smokin’ dragons, the feisty teenage years and a near paralyzing accident, her mother’s wonderful character is revealed.  As their mother-daughter relationship evolves and a new paradigm is formed, Elaine begins to witness bizarre and irrational behaviors in her mother; paranoia, flashes of hostility, illogical thinking and defiance. Eventually Elaine witnesses an explosion of events over something as innocuous as a drapery rod that affirms Betty’s unquestionable need to be moved into a more secure environment.

Despite a strikingly brisk decline, Elaine relishes in Betty's dazzling visions of her own mother and witnesses her stunning rally to take control of her own destiny. After an unsuccessful but masterful Houdini-like escape, Elaine accompanies her mother down a one-way journey as her brilliant mind is slowly destroyed by Dementia's insatiable appetite for brain cells.

And here are some selections from I Will Never Forget.

• My mom was planning to stay at my house for three nights, December 23—26. The first clue that things were a little amiss was when I saw her rummaging through her suitcase. She was “looking for something”, but couldn’t tell me what. I saw that she had packed six bras and maybe eight pair of underwear but no extra socks.

• We finished the rest of the cooking project together. I was becoming very conscious of the fact that she could not read and execute a direction any longer. It was mind numbing! This woman had taught high school calculus and now couldn’t read a simple amount like “a half cup of milk” and know what to get out or how much to pour. Later I also noticed that she could follow only one verbal direction reliably. When it came time to set the table, she was fine if I only asked her to put out the plates or spoons.

• Mom had gotten lost going to her dentist’s office, which was only one mile west of her apartment. She had wandered perhaps twenty miles in the opposite direction. She wrote nine checks to her car insurance company because she couldn’t remember writing even one. These were not just quirky, odd behaviors but bells and whistles, signs indicative of my mom's very real, very serious underlying dementia. I was finally starting to really see, hear, and step up to handle the problems.

• In October 2009, the monthly lunches ceased when Mom stopped driving. Mom e-mailed me that she and her college friend weren’t getting together for lunch anymore, but she never explained why. It would be a few more years before I would learn the whole truth.

• Unfortunately, I was part of the problem. I saw my mom as a glass half full, mostly together except for some episodes of disorientation when, in fact, she was more half empty with fleeting moments of lucidity. I wasn’t seeing the day-to-day blunders, errors in judgment, outbursts, confusion, obsession, and paranoia, just to name a few.

• But as the adult, the nebulous abyss of being a parent to your parent is a delicate responsibility. Balancing respect and autonomy and naturally expecting them to be accurate when they tell you, “I’ll be fine” is a daunting challenge. Somewhere deep down, you know it’s not true. They are no longer “fine.”

• The Italian side of my husband favored family caring for family. It was admirable but misguided in this situation. My mom talked openly about quality-of-life issues. Although she embraced Catholic values and would not advocate proactive measures to end her life, she was adamant about not prolonging it either. I, on the other hand, would have preferred a shot of heart stopping Digoxin rather than endure the confusion and terror that Mom was yet to experience.

• I couldn't help but consider that her dementia-riddled mind was trying to assemble a puzzle, without a clue as to finished picture, from random pieces belonging to a thousand different puzzle boxes.

• My thoughts were like ping-pong balls smashing at lightning speed, ricocheting against the inside of my skull with contradictory ideas.

• When Mom wanted something from the local store, she wouldn’t wait for a driver. She was so adamant about her independence that she walked the mile-long round trip to Walgreens, maneuvering around the massive road construction equipment. Somehow, she managed to find her way back to Friendship Village but then couldn’t get inside the building. She crawled through the shrubs and banged on the windows until someone let her in.

• Mom would never get better. All I could do was be there for every step of her journey through hell and pray that was enough. She deserved better; everyone did. She deserved to go out with her boots on, not have her mind chipped and chiseled away piece by piece.

• Dementia is devious, indiscriminate, and ruthless, invading the mind and distorting fiction into one’s reality.

• Not long after New Year’s, I was reviewing with Mom the 2011 calendar and the girls’ impending birthdays on January 14. From out of nowhere, she said, “I told God I was ready to go anytime.” Her frank comment had me scrambling for an appropriate comeback. “And what did He say?” I asked. “Oh, you know, He doesn’t really answer you.”

• It had been a genuine honor for me to give back to her after she had given so much to me. Just as my mom had said “I have no regrets” about the care she selflessly provided to my dad, I was proud to say that I had no regrets either. “The dead are not buried in the ground but in our hearts. They will be there for you when you need them.”(Paraphrased from The Count of Monte Cristo by Alfred Dumas. Read at the memorial service on November 26, 2011, in Rochester, MI.)

UNIVERSAL READER LINK:  https://books2read.com/u/47OwWN

 

Author Bio

Author. Speaker. Certified Dementia Practitioner & Caregiver

The experiences, both tragic and funny, and lessons learned during this journey of compassion led Pereira in her early retirement years to write a book on the experience. Others stepping up to the same challenge will benefit from the insights she gained.

• 2012 Finalist Best New Non-Fiction USA Book Awards & The Hollywood Book   2013 Finalist LuckyCinda Book Contest

  Twitter:  @Elaine Colette

  Audio Interview: Jerry Kenney interview WYSO Ohio    4/27/13

  http://mariashriver.com/blog/2013/04/the-story-behind-the-poem-elaine-pereira

• Subtle Signs of Mother's Dementia on The Alzheimer's Reading RoomBest of Aging Review:  http://www.bestofaging.com/article/the-best-of-the-best.html

• http://www.alzheimersreadingroom.com/2013/04/subtle-signs-of-mothers-dementia.html

• Maria Shriver   The Story Behind the Poem

• http://wyso.org/post/i-will-not-forget-author-recounts-mothers-journey-through-dementia

• Other Links:

• LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=108838785&locale=en_US&trk=tyah2

• Website:  www.IWillNeverForgetBook.com  

• 2013 Winner of The National Indie Excellence Award in The Aging Category

• Pereira earned a BS in Occupational Therapy in 1974 from Wayne State University and a Master of Arts in Family and Consumer Resources from Wayne State in 1980.

• When not working and writing, Pereira enjoys travelling, golf, sewing, cross stitch, handcrafts and gardening. She spent six weeks backpacking in Europe and Israel, and has travelled to Australia, Seoul, Korea, Hong Kong, Italy, and Wiesbaden, Germany.

• A native of Kalamazoo, Michigan, Elaine and husband Joe have lived in Southeast Michigan where they worked and raised a family of five. Pereira was an occupational therapist for Taylor Public Schools where she was responsible for the assessment and therapeutic intervention of identified special needs children, working to improve perceptual fine motor skills, self-care abilities, handwriting, and sensory issues. Before working for Taylor Schools, Elaine was an OT for Northville Schools, Oakwood Hospital, some 10 years in Home Health Care, and private practice. After 30 years as an OT, she retired in 2010.

• Within a few years author Elaine C. Pereira was forced to cope with the deaths of her father, sister-in-law, brother and mother.  But the most difficult challenge of these live-changing events was the time spent as a caregiver when her mother struggled with and eventually surrendered to dementia.

 

What a heartbreaking, but amazing story, Elaine. Thank you so much for your time with us on Writing in the Modern Age.

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age guest article here.

How to Make Your Characters Believable:

a guest post by Stefan Vucak

 

 

People are quirky, unpredictable, emotional, and often cannot be relied upon. Governed by the environment within which they live, knowledge accumulated over years of learning, whether formal or through personal endeavor, and simply interacting with others, an individual is a complex matrix of what it means to be human. Above all things, people are self-centered, always looking for that angle which will make them come ahead—that quick fix to bypass the necessary hard work in-between. That’s why we gamble.

 

Standing on a busy street corner, waiting for the lights to change so I can cross, I am bemused by the sight of pedestrians hurrying, dawdling, or completely distracted with faces buried in a smart phone crossing the other way. There are tall people, skinny ones, some not so, Caucasian, Asian; all sorts. Some are wearing smiles, while others scowl, and there are those who seem to be stooped like they are bearing the load of the world on their shoulders. The teens skip gaily, chatting to each other and laughing, looking on us oldsters as incomprehensible cubes, wondering what all the fuss is about.

So, what’s with the philosophical sideline? Believe it or not, there is a point. Purse your lips and ask yourself if you have really looked at a stranger lately, and simply from his appearance tried to work out his personality, social status, mannerisms, identifying marks? If you can see them, does he have brown eyes or blue ones or green? Is his face round, square, long, gaunt, plump? Does he walk with confident strides or is he hesitant, his eyes darting suspiciously as he pushes through the crowd? Is he carrying anything? If so, what is it? Does it help you identify him? On an instinctive level, do you like him or do the hairs on the back of your neck tingle at the sight of him?

Are you starting to get the broader picture? Do you observe people or does the mass of humanity simply slide past your consciousness as you hurry across the street, your mind focused on whatever it is you need to do? Finishing that chapter you’ve been struggling with, perhaps? The struggle caused because your main character, and maybe the whole cast, is somewhat two-dimensional, a nobody, and you cannot quite figure out why? Then again, you might be thinking: I don’t need to describe my characters; the story is good enough to carry them. You could be right. You could also be wrong, you know.

Deciding how to portray characters in your writing can be a contributing factor in producing a great book, or something that’s okay for a once off read. Every book has two basic components: action sequences and characters who do the action or have action done unto them. Many books rely on action alone, and some do it with superb craftsmanship. Others get into a character’s mind and never let you leave it. That can be entertaining and enthralling—if done well. But how can you tell whether your characters are genuinely alive and real? Simple, really. Think of a recent book you have read and ask yourself this. Do the characters stand out? If so, why? Or are they cardboard cutouts who cannot utter a coherent sentence? It is an instinctive thing anyone can spot. Unfortunately, many writers can spot it in someone else’s book, but are unable to see it in their own writing.

All right, how do you make your characters believable? Before you even start writing that epic, you need a detailed outline, a story skeleton on which you’ll hang the words. Part of writing that outline will require that you line up your cast and stare at them, then pick those that will star in your book. Think of a casting director for a movie. Your cast will be determined by the type of book you are writing. Is it a love story, a techno thriller, a murder mystery, a convoluted spy thriller, a tearjerker? Are you looking for action men, sleuths, hard-boiled gumshoes, sleazy womanizers, or just mean guys? What does this process do for you? Whether you realize it or not, and you should, you are taking a first step toward making your characters believable. You are thinking of them as individuals with personalities.

To make every member of your cast a living person, you need a police profile that goes something like this:

- Height

- Weight

- Complexion

- What color eyes

- Does he chomp his food, or is he a dainty gentleman

- Does he swear

- What is his normal behavior: tense, relaxed, awkward, sharp…

- Special mannerisms, use of phrases, habits…

I think you are starting to get the idea. Why such a profile you might ask? For one thing, it will crystallize that character in your own mind. Whenever you write about him, the character will always behave consistently, true to himself. Any deviation will not be looked on favorably by your readers. There is nothing more irritating than reading on one page the character is five foot ten, and later, he is six feet two, or something like that. You may never employ all of the character’s profile in the book, so why bother? What this does is makes the character live, which is the important thing. He becomes a close friend, or an enemy. You will like him or you won’t. Either way, you will know this character, and so will your readers. If someone asks you to describe your sister, brother, mother or friend, you can readily spew out the words with hardly a pause. In the same way, you must be able to handle your characters in your writing.

Remember that cardboard cutout? He is a cutout simply because the writer doesn’t know him. He is a complete stranger, and he comes across as such to readers. That’s all there is to it. Well, there is a bit more, of course. That more being the dialogue.

You cannot handle a novel with a character not having to say anything—unless he is a Robinson Crusoe. Since there are no more unoccupied coral islands where someone can get away from it all and clam up, your characters will have to say something sometime. What they say and how they say it will go a long way toward making them real and believable, or two-dimensional cutout dummies. Some writers can handle dialogue with natural skills, while others agonize. How do you master dialogue? Grab one of your favorite books and check the dialogue. Why do you like it, and does your dialogue come anywhere close? If not, what can you do about it? That’s simple, but involves some sweat on your part. You are a writer, right? So, practice writing dialogue until it becomes second nature. Never mind about what, just write. Think of the last conversation you had with someone and write the ensuing dialogue. When you read it, does every aspect of that episode come through? And I am not talking only about what was said, but how it was said, what emotion was displayed, gestures, tone of voice, hidden meanings. If what you have written doesn’t match your memory, you obviously haven’t got it right. Give the piece to the person you had the conversation with and get his feedback.

If you have read this far, you are right to point out that there is much more to making your characters believable, but I hope I got you thinking and looking at your characters in a new light. By the way, get a professional editor to go over your writing. An impartial pair of eyes can do wonders for your novel.

 

Guest Blogger Bio

 

Stefan is an award-winning author of eight techno sci-fi novels, including With Shadow and Thunder which was a 2002 EPPIE finalist. His Shadow Gods Saga books have been highly acclaimed by critics. His political thriller, Cry of Eagles, won the coveted 2011 Readers Favorite silver medal award, and his All the Evils was the 2013 prestigious Eric Hoffer contest finalist.   

Stefan leveraged a successful career in the Information Technology industry and applied that discipline to create realistic, highly believable storylines for his books. Born in Croatia, he now lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Links:

Website:  http://www.stefanvucak.com/

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/StefanVucak

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/stefanvucak 

 

Shadow Gods Saga:  Series Link

 

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is DJ Swykert. Hello, DJ! Welcome back to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here again.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?
  

My new book, The Death of Anyone, introduces readers to a DNA search technique not in common use here in the U.S., Familial DNA. A lot will be written on this subject as the real life trial of Lonnie David Franklin, The Grim Sleeper, unfolds in California this year. The book also introduces a new character for me, a female homicide detective. It's not the first time I've written from a female POV, but she's the first in this role. I’m hoping the book will appeal to an even broader audience than Children of the Enemy, or Alpha Wolves. There is a romance along with the mystery in the plot and some real science.

The Death of Anyone was released by Melange Books in Minneapolis the end of February. It’s available at: Melange Books, Lulu, Amazon, and Bookwire.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

I first heard about Familial DNA Searches while working as a 911 operator in 2006. It came up in a conversation with officers. I thought at the time it would make an interesting premise for a book. I began writing the mystery some three years later after leaving the department. I had just finished editing a first draft of The Death of Anyone in the summer 2010 when news of The Grim Sleeper’s capture in Los Angeles was released. I read with interest all the information pouring out of L.A. regarding the investigation and the problems confronting prosecutors. All of which are explored in The Death of Anyone.
 
This sounds fascinating!

So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I don’t know if I ever actually 'decided' to be a writer. I remember the first thing I wrote, a bad poem to a pretty girl, I was a teenager, and Tennyson’s "Flower in the Crannied Wall" gave me the idea to try my hand at poetry. I still recite Tennyson’s poem. I think my desire to try writing novels came from reading them, in particular Hemingway and Fitzgerald, and when I was younger, Mark Twain. I simply enjoyed the storytelling, and think I inherited a little storytelling ability from my grandfather, who was really good at spinning a tale. 

My grandmother did the same thing.  LOL. 

Do you have any favorite authors?

I’ve already kind of answered this; Tennyson, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Mark Twain. You can add Byron, Auden, Chekhov and Annie Proulx to the list. Oh, hell, there’s a host of great writers, my list could go on for pages. But these always have stuck in my head. 

I know what you mean.  I have WAY too many to count.  

So, do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

Currently, I write mornings on a desk in the garret, as my girlfriend calls it, on the third floor of our townhouse. But I’ve written just about anywhere I can find something to write with, even on a bunk in the Houghton County Jail, er… that was just once, for a short while on a traffic violation. 

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice?

Keep typing, and submitting. I believe in the old Hindu saying: Given enough time, coincidence is inevitable. There is a measure of coincidence in finding a home for your writing. You have to have skill, a good story, but also some luck. You can improve your odds by applying The Law of Large Numbers, which allows prey species to survive by reproducing in large numbers. Your writing can survive in the same way, get it out there, and keep putting it out there. Be productive. And keep your fingers crossed.

Good advice. 

So, readers, here is the the blurb for The Death of Anyone.

Detroit homicide Detective Bonnie Benham has been transferred from narcotics for using more than arresting and is working the case of the killer of adolescent girls. CSI collects DNA evidence from the scene of the latest victim, which has not been detected on the other victims. But no suspect turns up in the FBI database. Due to the notoriety of the crimes a task force is put together with Bonnie as the lead detective, and she implores the D.A. to authorize an as yet unapproved type of a DNA Search in an effort to identify the killer. Homicide Detective Neil Jensen, with his own history of drug and alcohol problems, understands Bonnie’s frailty and the two detectives become inseparable as they track this killer of children.

Here's an excerpt from The Death of Anyone. 

Benham arrived first, no sign of Russo or Jensen. She got a table and told the maitre de to send them over when they arrived, and that there would be a third party, a Detective Lagrow. As he seated Benham, the maitre de informed her, “The show starts at about 12:30 pm. We have a couple of new dancers."

Benham screwed up her nose, gave him a curious eye. “Dancers?”

The maitre de nodded. “Yes, belly dancers. We have a new one I’m sure your friends will appreciate. She’s very good-young, friendly.”

Benham just shook her head. ”I’m sure they will,” she said as she sat.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Whoa, the brake in her head told her. You know you, you know your history. You know what a slip can do to you. Doctors, psychologists, treatment, rehab, counselors, AA, each and every one of them flashed across her head as her mind absorbed the offer. “Just a coke, or, actually, would you just bring me a black coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Benham sipped her coffee and looked through her brief notes of the case. They were very brief, there was little to put in them. A young girl, perhaps ten, dead, strangled, almost for certain assaulted, lying in an alley for a few hours. And it had only been a few hours—Pierangeli seemed pretty sure she hadn’t been there long. She was found at around nine-thirty am, so she died maybe around eight am. She lay there, choked, defiled, beautiful, and dead, and nobody was looking for her. She had to have been taken pretty early this morning, so it’s been about five hours she’s been gone, and nobody loves her enough to miss her. Benham could feel the anger rising from within, from the source where feelings come from, from deeper but inclusive of the stomach, from the birthplace of emotion.

A hand touched her shoulder and startled her. “Me and Jensen are here, bring on the dancing girls,” Dean Russo bellowed, joyous almost, and that irritated Bonnie a little. There was nothing to be happy about this day.

“You’ll get your wish. The belly dancers will be here in a few,” Benham said, with a bit of obvious disdain that Russo picked up on.

“You picked the place.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bonnie answered, feeling a little sorry now she sounded so disapproving. “Yeah, I picked it. Didn’t think about belly dancers, but, hey, we’re here, and I love pastitio, and they have the best. Sorry if I sound pissy, it’s only because I am. Once you see the girl, you won’t be dancing in the street either.”

Russo quit laughing. “How long you been in homicide, Benham?”

Bonnie could see she rubbed something, “A couple of months.”

“You were in narcotics?”

“Yeah, I was in narcotics. I was in it and it—I was narcotic.”

There was a pause. Jensen looked across at Russo, glared a little, trying to shut him up with a look. And out of the corner of his eye let Bonnie know he saw her, too. He wanted her to keep this cool.

But it was a little late, and Bonnie was a bit volatile. “You know fucking well I was in narcotics. And you fucking know why I’m in homicide. I got myself transferred out for becoming more narcotic than narc. Quit beating around the bush. What’s your point?”

Universal Reader Link:  https://books2read.com/u/4A52gA

 

Author Bio
 

I’m a blue collar person from Detroit. I’ve worked as a truck driver,dispatcher, logistics analyst, operations manager, and ten years as a 911operator, which was the very best job of them all. I write stories like you’d watch a movie and put them down on paper. I have written in different genres; crime, romance, literary and The Death of Anyone, which is a
mystery/suspense story with romance and science in it. 

The last sentence in my writing bio is always: He is a wolf expert. I am not a biologist. I raised two arctic hybrids, had them for eleven years, and have written two books in which the wolves join the other protagonists. 

I have been fortunate enough to have my writing appear in: The Tampa Review, Monarch Review, Sand Canyon Review, Zodiac Review, Scissors and Spackle, Spittoon, BarbaricYawp and BULL. The other books I have written are Children of the Enemy, a novel from Cambridge Books, and Alpha Wolves, a novel by Noble Publishing.

Links:

Blog: www.magicmasterminds.com

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/david.swykert?ref=ts&fref=ts

LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=193494247

Other Links:  http://www.gypsyartshow.com/2013/03/the-death-of-anyone-by-dj-swykert.html

http://www.omnimysterynews.com/2013/01/please-welcome-novelist-dj-swykert.html

 

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

Hi, readers! We have a real treat in store for you today, a poetry spotlight. In these poetry spotlights today and in the future, we will be showcasing poetry by some very talented poets. These poets have graced us with their presence.  

With us today is poet CJ Heck. Here is a little taste of her poetry and her views on gentle sensuality.

 

When It's Over, You Just Know 

You don't always know
how you know, 
it comes slowly, the awareness. 
With the certainty and final resignation 
of a child learning there's no Santa Claus, 
you just know.

The breakfast table, once a venue 
for long dreamy stares 
and coffee-flavored kisses, 
awkwardly becomes a silent stage 
for reading the news, 
eating breakfast, and 
you just know.

The smell of his shirt 
when you'd bury your face there, 
the feel of his hands on your body 
as if they had a life of their own, 
all silently slip to a place 
wherever memories go 
to gather dust, and 
you just know. 

You miss the nights, 
how his body and yours 
breathed and moved as one. 
Maybe it's those nights 
and how they were 
that give the knowing life, but 
you just know. 

Like ocean waves upon the sand, 
love recedes 
with all the other yesterdays 
and you would trade 
all your tomorrows 
to have it back, but 
you just know.

 

 

We Need to Get Away

 

Have I told you lately

how good you smell

when the shower

spits you out?

I can't recall

the last time, but

it wouldn't surprise me,

considering what time

we actually have to spend

alone together these days.

I do know, I remember

how intense it used to be.

We need to get away,

just the two of us,

before we grow any ruts

in this lovely road …

 

Let's go somewhere now,

before talking dirty

really means:

"You doing a light load?

Can you grab my pj's

from the hook

on the bathroom door?"

 

Before wanna catch a quickie?

really means:

"I'm pooped.  Wanna take a nap?"

 

Before Oh God, I'm coming!

actually means,

"Don't nag me, I'm almost ready!

Go ahead, start the car."

 

Let's go somewhere now

while Baby, that was fantastic!

still means more than

a Sunday Scrabble win.

 

It's not too late ...

I remember.

  

 

A Box for Goodwill

 

As a friend, I had come to help

yet one more time

and I watched as she set

the cardboard box on the floor.

It was labeled for Goodwill,

penned in large block letters.

From deep in the closet,

she brought out an old blue suit.

It had faded over the years,

but I saw in her eyes

the memories still had not.

Softly, she smoothed the sleeves

that dangled flat and empty.

Then she stroked the slack trousers

on the smooth wooden hanger.

Gently, she brushed

the dust from the collar and lapel,

and then I heard her sigh.

Her resolve had melted away.

Again we talked and remembered.

We spoke of long ago,

how the sleeves encircled her

in warm secure hugs,

and the trousers had covered

lean muscular legs,

legs slightly bowed,

legs that loved to dance,

and what she missed the most

--the heart that beat below

the lapel of the old blue suit,

the heart that beat with love for her.

For over forty years,

the suit had stood sentinel,

loyally guarding both her

and those memories,

and I watched as she carefully

replaced the suit and closed

the closet door.

Through quiet tears

she asked once more

how all of that could ever fit

in a box for Goodwill.

 

 

A Poet for a Lover

 

Oh Lord, give me a poet for a lover,

whose words stroke me like velvet hands.

Word-tender caresses more reaching

than the caress of a mere mortal man.

 

A poet's light touch is so gentle.

Word-fingers probe deep every time,

arousing me, haunting me, wetting me,

seducing me, body and mind.

 

Oh Lord, give me a poet for a lover!

Lust and fire burn deep in his heart.

A silver-tongued devil whose words make me ache

to be on my knees in the dark.

 

Word-foreplay making me want him,

only mind-loved, I want to be free

to feel just one time, my poet inside, where only mind-lust up to now has loved me. 

Poet Bio  

CJ Heck is a published poet, writer, blogger, and the author of three children's books, a collection of short stories, and her newest, a poetry book for adults. She is also a Vietnam War widow.

CJ has three daughters and eleven grandchildren. She lives and writes in Florida with her partner, Robert Cosmar, who is also an author.

For book excerpts, more information, interviews, or to invite CJ to your school, or organization, please call 352-299-5634 or visit her website, Barking Spiders Poetry.

Links:

LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/cj-heck/17/312/b76

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CJHeck60

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cj.heck1

https://www.facebook.com/CJHeckAuthor

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/C.J.-Heck/e/B000APRMC4

Blogs: http://memoirsfromnam.blogspot.com/

http://cjswriterthoughts.blogspot.com/

http://knowingwhispers.blogspot.com/

Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/user/cjheck1949/videos

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5308345.C_J_Heck

Shelfari: http://www.shelfari.com/cj_heck

Books:

Barking Spiders (and Other Such Stuff)
Barking Spiders 2 (sequel)
Me Too!  Preschool Poetry 
Bits and Pieces (Short Story Collection)

Anatomy of a Poet

My Etsy Shop for Autographed Books:
http://www.etsy.com/shop/CJHeckBooks

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Steve Christie. Hello, Steve! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?
  

It's a crime thriller titled Good Deed. It was published at the end of last year. It introduces DI Ronnie Buchanan, an intelligent and astute man with a wry sense of humour. The story starts with a normal girl who made a bad choice, a stranger doing a good deed which he will regret and two inept, opportunistic thieves who steal something which they are ill equipped to handle. Add an upset crime lord, his unscrupulous fixer Vince, then sit back as the mind games begin, the twists unfold and enjoy a breathless tour around Scotland as DI Buchanan tries to solve the case.

It's available as an eBook on Kindle and Kobo and on paperback from Amazon. It is also available at The Book Depository, Ringwood Publishing and from all good UK Bookshops.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

The old adage "no good deed goes unpunished". Every now and again you'll either pick up the newspaper or watch the news and see some story where some Good Samaritan helps someone out of a sticky situation only for it to come back and, pardon the phrase, bite them on the arse.

LOL.  So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I've always fancied giving it a go. I used to write short stories for my kids when they were younger.  They seemed to enjoy them and now that they've grown up a bit, I thought I'd get my teeth stuck into something a bit more substantial.  So I wrote Good Deed, my first novel.

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Loads. Lee Child, Patricia Cornwell, Ian Rankin. I've recently been getting into George R.R. Martin. I'm currently reading through his A Song of Ice and Fire series.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I work long hours, I seldom get home before eight p.m. each night, so I usually don't get around to my writing until about 10 p.m. Once my kids are settled down Ill put on some music, on my iPod of course, I don't want to waken any one up! Then I'll usually write for maybe about two or three hours. This, of course, means that I end up going to work the following morning looking like a crack addict! LOL.

*Laughs.* Oh, yes, I'm familiar with burning the midnight oil for a story.  

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers, Steve? Any advice?

Stick at the writing and learn to accept rejection and criticism. It comes with the territory.

Good advice.  So, inquiring minds want to know.  What are you currently working on?

I'm writing my second DI Buchanan novel Cold Shot. It's a dark tale of revenge set during a particularly nasty winter in Aberdeen.

Here is the blurb for Good Deed.

Good Deed is a fast paced crime novel that captures the reader from beginning to end.

Described by one reviewer as “Christopher Brookmyre on speed, with more thrills and less farce”, the gripping story of Good Deed rattles along relentlessly, leaving the reader breathless but enthralled. Good Deed introduces a new Scottish detective hero, DI Ronnie Buchanan, who is certain to quickly attract a legion of fans.

The events crammed into Good Deed take Buchanan from his base in Aberdeen on a frantic journey around all the major Scottish cities as his increasingly deadly pursuit of a mysterious criminal master mind known only as Vince comes to a breath-taking climax back in Aberdeen.

The pace of Good Deed is exceptional and unremitting. It is the kind of book that demands to be read in one sitting, but most readers will be so breathless as the saga unfolds without pause that they will need occasional rests before eagerly returning for more.

Here's an excerpt from Good Deed.

Lucy Kennedy pulled off the motorway following the road signs to the Road Chef restaurant just outside Dundee.

It was notoriously expensive but she had no choice, she was exhausted and in need of some caffeine.

She had made good time despite the earlier mishap with the flat tyre but thanks to a helpful stranger shed been back on the road in about ten minutes.

As she entered the restaurant, dazed from the long drive she failed to notice Mark and Liam sitting outside in their parked car but they noticed Lucy leaving hers and forgetting to lock up.

“Here we go,” said Liam. 

Mark and Liam were two habitual criminals who prowled the country seeking victims at roadside restaurants and other such places, they never failed to be amazed by the amount of road users who shattered from a long drive and in need of a coffee would stumble into these restaurants leaving their cars unlocked making their job so much more easier.

Once they had left their vehicle and entered the restaurant, Liam would pull alongside in his car giving Mark cover to rummage through the car to see what bounty awaited them.

On this particular day they struck gold.   

“Holy shit!” said Mark as he unzipped the tartan holdall lying in the back seat. What he'd found were two large packages of white powder well wrapped up in cling film, he knew they must contain a drug of some sort, smack, speed or coke it didn't really matter because judging by the quantity it would be worth a whole load of cash on the street. He took the packages out of the bag, zipped it back up and jumped into Liam's car “wait ' till you see what I've got here buddy” he showed Liam what he'd found.

“Check this, man, it's got to be worth a small fortune.”

“Jesus,” said Liam. “What’s a lassie like her doing carting all that shit about on her own?”

“No idea but it's our shit now, let's go.”

They pulled out of the car park, re-joined the motorway and drove off under the grey, cloud covered sky towards the centre of Dundee.

Lucy, totally unaware of what had just happened, carried her overpriced espresso to the nearest table, sat down and peeled open the small stick shaped packets of brown sugar, poured them into her cup and began to stir her coffee for an inordinate amount of time. She had things preying on her mind some bugging her more than others the main thing of course being how the hell she had gotten herself involved as a drug courier. It had started off small time, a block of weed here and there. Her flat mate Julie had convinced her it was easy money and right enough it did help supplement her meagre university grant, but then she'd got greedy, she took on bigger and bigger amounts, and now four kilos of coke.

She reminisced on how it had all started. It was a typical student's night out, a meal at the local curry house, followed by a pub crawl round Newington. They were a party of six, a strange mix of people, Lucy, her flatmate Julie, Deborah, a mature student big on size and personality, Joe and Eric two gay guys who shared a flat on the floor below and Eric, the cause of all Lucy's troubles.

Eric was a strange guy, the cool student that no one really knew much about, Jim Morrison reincarnated. He picked up the tab for everything, the meal, the drinks, even the taxi home.

She remembered thinking, Jesus this guy must have money coming out his ass, only later on that night back at her flat did she find out where this money came from.

“I deliver a few packages,” he told her as he skinned up a joint on one of Lucy's album covers, one of her favourites. “It’s easy money,” he said. "I could fix you up with the main man if you like".

And that was it, Lucy was in. No more shitty own brand label food from the local supermarket, no more eking out her meagre grant, life was looking up. Or so she thought.

Because of her straight looking plain appearance she was perfect for the task, .because she was so perfect she found herself getting all the bigger jobs. She was quite happy at first, let's face it bigger job bigger pay off. But then the paranoia set in, this couldn’t last; eventually she'd get caught. What would her family say? What if she ended up in jail? All that studying would have gone to waste.

Well, this would be the last, she wanted out and she'd tell them today as soon as she dropped off the package but she’d have to be careful how she went about it, it wasn't like packing in any normal job, a quick goodbye, a few drinks at the end of the last day and then you're off, these guys were scary so she would have to be tactful.

She bought another coffee to go, got her car keys out of her bag and returned to her car to complete the journey.

When she got to her car her heart skipped a beat, shit!, it's unlocked, panicking she looked in the back seat, the holdall was still there, she caught her breath, tried to calm down a bit and got in her car and headed on her way.

Universal Reader Link:  https://books2read.com/u/bMwN6A

 

Author Bio

A Real Ale Loving Scottish Crime Writer. Originally from Aberdeen, now residing in Edinburgh. This is my first novel, available October. Im currently working on my second novel featuring Ronnie Buchanan, working title Cold Shot.

Links:

Find out more...http://about.me/stevechristieauthor

Check out the video on Youtube!  http://youtu.be/nRjrh74zDXE

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/steve.christie.167?fref=ts
Twitter:  @schristieauthor
LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=143876790&locale=en_US&trk=tyah
Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6458799.Steve_Christie

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

Hi, readers!  We have a real treat in store for you today, a poetry spotlight. In these poetry spotlights today and in the future, we will be showcasing poetry by some very talented poets. These poets have graced us with their presence.  

With us today is poet Pam Handa. Here is a little taste of her poetry and her views on love.

 

 

Stupid Cupid

 

Mortals have believed in you right from the start,

Because tiny Cupid you're such a sweetheart.

Your golden wings are a wonder and delight;

Your solid arrows quite impossible to fight.

Who can resist your loving piercing darts

Which strike at random vulnerable hearts?

When you come down racing by to strike,

Men and women who each other could like,

There's no running away from your absolute power,

Or trying to evade your earthly love shower.

The ignorant may call you stupid Cupid

But the wise know you're love's child little Cupid

 

Love

Love, the most unique

Of all human emotions,

To a million folks,

Is a million notions.

 

Simply holding hands,

Or lying on the sands.

Whispering sweet nothings,

Or many other things:

 

A hot, fiery kiss;

Or someone you miss.

A big sacrifice;

An infatuation in disguise.

 

A fleeting smile,

Lasting quite a while

A life-time passion,

Or a strange obsession.

 

For some, it’s a dream

As bright as a sunbeam.

Or a reality stark,

Consuming one like a shark!

 

Whatever one thinks,

Whatever one feels,

It fills one’s very being,

And from what I’m seeing,

 

It brings a special feeling

That sends the head reeling.

Taking away the strife,

Of this earthly life.

 

Making one’s ordinary existence

Full of joy and excitement

An extraordinary resistance,

And mental enlightenment!

 

The Queen of the Heart

 

 The young lady was still in her early teens,

When love came by in a tinsel dream.

 “Would you like to be my queen,” he promptly asked.

 “Oh yes,” she replied, “If forever you will last.”

 “Let’s sign a bilateral pact never ever to part,

 But to stay alive in each other’s heart.”

 

“That’s fine by me,” replied the jubilant teen,

“What about the times when life is not so serene?”

“Why worry about what we may never see?

Let’s dwell on that which will surely be.”

“That’s fine by me, I’ll do my little bit.

What happens to us when old age does hit?”

“Think of all the good times we’ll have enshrined,

In our photo-albums on the side-board lined.”

“If you say so my dear, I’ll gladly believe,

But, promise me this, there’ll be no sigh to heave.”

“When we’ve seen the cliffs of Dover,

And it’s still not quite over,

I promise we’ll retire to where we belong.

In that corner of my heart,

Where I know we'll still be strong.”

 

 

Poet Bio 

 

My name is Pam Handa nee Kochhar. I was born in New Delhi but have spent most of my life in Ghana and the UK. I graduated from the Sacred Heart College Dalhousie, in India. I received my Masters degree from the Punjab University as well as a gold medal for coming first. I started my teaching career in the English Dept of the same university. I married Dr Prem Handa, a Paediatrician, in 1968 and in 1972 we emigrated to Ghana. Today, I am the author of two books recently published by Trafford in the USA. 

Of Kismet and Karma, my first novel, is a cross-cultural blend of fact and fiction, based on my personal experiences in India, Ghana and the UK. My anthology of poems is entitled Wings of the Heart. Both books are available on Amazon.com, as E-books and in all Barnes and Nobles shops. The EBOOKS are really cheap. Get hold of them and spend time on going back to all that stirs the very soul!

Links:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/PAM-HANDA-NEE-KOCHHAR/121487404694554
Twitter:  @handapam

Book Links:  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17246306-wings-of-the-heart

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17240630-of-kismet-and-karma

http://www.ebookmall.com/author/pam-handa-nee-kochhar

Miscellaneous:  http://thevirtualbookcase.wordpress.com/2013/06/02/of-kismet-and-karma-and-other-books-by-pam-handa-nee-kochhar/

Youtube Videos:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VECPWY6qUI 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjrt6Dm_mx8 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N6gjwPYwDws 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOgfateng1A 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsHEVRVo90w 

 

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

Book Review Etiquette

 

 

Authors can’t sell books without reviews. Especially now that a lot of authors are going the self-published route, book reviews are crucial elements that authors seek and crave. Well, good reviews are craved.

Recently, there has been a trend for readers to post reviews before they have even read the book.

A fellow author recently received the following ONE star review: "I did not read it I just downloaded it," says Raebeth Buda, author of ‘Silenced’ and host of the Writing World web site. “Last year I also got a ONE star review that said, 'I haven't read it yet, I will leave a review when I do.'  They have yet to review it. That star has been sitting there hurting my rating ever since. And with only 10 ratings on that particular site, it hurts a LOT.”

It hurts the author because most book review sites give an average star rating, figuring all the reviews into one score. It’s like getting straight A’s all semester, and then getting one F that pulls your grade average down to a C.

“It seems like common sense, but I think more people need to be aware of how much needless one star reviews can hurt. It's great you bought the book, [and] it's great you intend to review it. But leaving a one star 'placeholder' hurts the author much more than leaving no review at all,” Buda says.

Stars on a book review are pretty much equal to the five point grading system used in schools. A five star rating is the same as an A on an essay. It means you thoroughly enjoyed the book. Four stars means the book was enjoyable, but had a few faults. A three star rating means the book barely passed. Anything below three stars warns other readers to pass the book by and buy something else. A one star rating means the author should not have published the book in the first place.

When writing a review for a book, the reader should give a summary of the story to let the next reader know what the subject of the book is about. It also lets the reader know that the reviewer did in fact read the book. It should then point out the book’s virtues and weaknesses. Is it well paced? Does the plot make sense? Are the clues foreshadowed, or does the answer appear out of nowhere? Are the characters believable and likeable? Is it well researched? 

The conclusion of the review then gives an overall reaction to the book: it was a pleasant read, it was a page turner, I couldn’t put it down, I highly recommend the book, I can’t wait for the next one. The conclusion of the review should not be what is called a 'spoiler': the butler did it. It’s acceptable to say that the ending was surprising, but not to say what the surprise actually was.

So, please, write your reviews, but follow the rules and format of a good review. Even if your opinion is bad, every review posted should be good in quality, helpful to other readers, and a true reflection of the reader’s opinions.

 

Guest Blogger Bio 

 

Paula Hrbacek is the author of five books, including Stars Shine After Dark, a sweet Christian romance, available in paperback, Kindle and Nook.

Day Camp in Hawaii, a complete program guide for summer camp or summer school, is available in paperback, Nook and Kindle. For more information see http://paulahrbacek.weebly.com or her author page at https://www.amazon.com/author/paulahrbacek.

She also writes two columns for The Examiner, a free online newspaper; Children’s Arts and Crafts, and Book Reviews.

Links:

LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=104609576&locale=en_US&trk=tyah2

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/PaulaHrbacek?fref=ts

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Paula-Hrbacek/199054570166688?fref=ts

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PHrbacek 

Universal Amazon link:  mybook.to/DayCampHawaii 

Also in paperback at B&N.

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Rebecca Frencl. Hello, Rebecca! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here again.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?

RIBBONS OF MOONLIGHT was released by Solstice on February 13, 2011. I thought it was pretty appropriate that a romance novel came out the day before Valentine's Day.  

Ribbons of Moonlight won the Best Romance 2012 contest after the first of the year! It's a time travel romance--Emma goes back in time to 1773 while on holiday in England for her friend's period wedding. Her coach is robbed by the highwayman who turns out to be much more than she ever expected. Connor drags her out of the coach and into his world turning her heart upside down. The red coats are on his tail and while he has a secret ally, there is also a traitor in their midst. This all seems so familiar to Emma. Can she figure it out and help save Connor while keeping her heart intact? 

RIBBONS OF MOONLIGHT is available in both ebook and print versions at the Solstice website, Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Smashwords.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

This book was actually inspired by one of my favorite narrative poems "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes. It was a challenge to write a book based on a tragic poem while keeping true to the heart of the poem, but not having the book have such a dismal ending! 

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I think I've always written. I remember my favorite toy as a kid was a typewriter my mom and dad gave me for Christmas. I used to write plays for my cousins. I think I wrote my first "book" in 7th grade and I haven't looked back since then. Though, I have expanded my horizons. While, fantasy is still my first love, I've also really learned to love romance, mystery and paranormal as well. 

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Wow. Too many. It also depends on the genre. In fantasy, I love David Eddings and Mercedes Lackey. Though in young adult, I am a sucker for Rick Riordan and Veronica Rossi. I adore Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody mysteries and Lynn Kurland's time travel romances. Diana Gabaldon and Robin McKinley will always have a special place in my heart for their inspiration. 

Do you write in a specific place?  Time of day?

I write wherever and whenever I get the chance. On the couch, at my desk, on a park bench--between meetings, during a test the kids are taking, while my little girl is swinging from the monkey bars. My life is a little crazed so I snatch the time when I can. 

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Don't write what you know--write what you love and keep writing. Perseverance is the secret in this business. There's a quote I recently found that really speaks to me, "If it's important you'll find a way. If it's not--you'll find an excuse."

Don't find an excuse. Find a way.  

Here is the blurb for Ribbons of Moonlight.

Emma Sanders:

She’s a damsel in distress—a 20^th century miss dragged back to the 18^th with no way home and no idea how she got there in the first place.

Connor MacAllister Kane:

He’s the reason she’s in distress--a British highwayman, and a minor noble with not much more to his name than a title and a Robin Hood-like charm who robs the wrong coach.

Now, Captain Nelson Rawlins of His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons, a former childhood friend of Connor’s who sacrificed friendship for duty is on the hunt for the Highwayman and traitors to the crown. The longer Emma stays in Connor’s time, the more she’s drawn to him and drawn into his troubles. She and Connor find themselves struggling to stay one step ahead of the Captain and his corrupt Commander and keep Connor and his roguish cousins from the hangman’s noose. As the Commander’s grip on the countryside tightens, the people need Connor even more, but Rawlins is hot on his trail and there’s a traitor in their midst. Can Emma use her twentieth century wits to keep both Connor and her heart safe?

Here's an excerpt from Ribbons of Moonlight.

 

 

Chapter One

 

She looks so beautiful. 

That’s all Emma could think as she watched her oldest friend in the whole world dance in the arms of the man who loved her. 

With a sigh, Emma touched her champagne glass to her lips. The bubbles burst across her tongue and burned down her throat.  

“Well, Chelle,” she whispered, “we’ve come a long way since our days in the ‘burbs. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more.” She raised her glass to her friend then turned out of the terrace doors leaving William’s strains of the love theme from The Highwayman behind her.

            A cool breeze caressed her skin shifting the ruffles at her neckline and elbows. Emma took a deep breath. The perfume of the Old English roses and night-blooming jasmine smelled as sweet as the wine in her glass. She paced the weathered granite walk, heels catching a little on the weather roughened stones, and braced her arms on the balcony rail to look over the amazing Kircaldy Manor gardens. She leaned over the glass-smooth balustrade and brushed her fingers against the climbing red roses. Petals cascaded and their perfume rose. The guidebook in her guest room back at the inn told her that Kircaldy was one of oldest gardens in this area, dating back to the 1600’s. The tangled roses and curved white stone walks glimmered in the bright starlight. Emma leaned back and tipped her face to the sky. You couldn’t see this many stars in Chicago. The moon looked closer too; huge and swollen with only a thread of cloud across its face. 

Clematis vines crawled up the railings. Delicately closed candy-striped blooms brushed her knuckles. A gentle breeze ruffled the blossoming cherry tree to her right, stirring the stems of the strawflowers. 

            The music behind her changed, shifted from the love theme into a pulsing dance beat that made her rib cage thrum. Glancing over her shoulder back into the ballroom, she watched her friend reach out a hand to Tom Cruise, accepting his congratulations on her wedding. Emma shook her head in amazement with a smile. Yes, Michaela Evers, star of the sleepy summer hit The Highwayman, had definitely come a long way from the small Chicago suburb she’d shared with school librarian Emma Sanders. I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to rubbing elbows with the stars, Emma mused. 

            The bride’s dress whispered silk over silk as she stepped through the terrace doors. “Emma, dear, what in heaven’s name are you doing out here?”

             A seed pearl crown glinted amid the elaborate twists of Michaela’s long blond tresses. The filmy veil was pushed away from her face to pour in a shimmering wave to her hips. Moonlight danced on the diamonds around Michaela’s throat.

            Emma smiled and traced a finger over the tanzanite star hanging from a white gold chain around her throat. Michaela had given it to her as a bridesmaid’s gift just the day before. Emma had tried to tell Michaela that the suite of necklace and earrings had been far too expensive, but she should have learned long ago that when Michaela set her mind to something, she always won.

            “Good lord, Em, you’re missing all the dancing.” 

Michaela latched onto Emma’s arm and pulled her back into the twinkling lights of the Kircaldy Grand Ballroom. Michaela linked an arm through Emma’s and smiled at Megan Daly, star from TV’s Through the Sands of Time, as they passed. 

“Lovely lady,” Michaela muttered. “Too bad she’s stuck on that trashy soap.” 

            “If I recall, a certain star started on a trashy soap. Night Heart wasn’t exactly classic cinema,” Emma replied and set her empty champagne glass on a tray borne by a butler in gleaming black tie and tux.

            Michaela laughed, snagging two canapés from another tray. She handed one to Emma and nibbled on the other. “Oh, Em, you’re the one thing I really miss since I moved to California.”

Emma sniffed at the fancy swirl of pink and white cream on what she thought was a cracker. It smelled fishy. “Well, Chelle, I miss you too.” She stuffed the concoction in her mouth and rolled her eyes in bliss. Whatever it was, it was really good. She looked around for that tray-wielding waiter. 

“Then move to California, Emma.” Michaela’s hand tightened on Emma’s arm. “I worry about you all alone in Chicago.”

Emma swallowed and patted her friend’s hand. Her gaze followed Lester Brym and Alan Saddler as the two muscle men made their way to the bar. “I’m not moving to California, Chelle, and I’m hardly alone.” She pulled her gaze from the action stars to smile at her oldest friend. “I have Alfred.”

Michaela snorted. “That stupid parrot is older than you are.”

“Yes, but he keeps me company and besides, I like living in Chicago.” 

Kim Pierce, the fashion editor of Delirious swooped in to step between the two women. She looked over both Emma’s and Michaela’s period gowns.

“Lovely, just lovely,” Kim murmured. She smoothed her short ebony swing of hair back behind her ears. “A word with you, Miss Evers, or should I be calling you Mrs. Kalver now?” She chuckled and dug into her palm-sized bag pulling out a small notebook. “I’d like to have a word with you about scheduling an interview with you and the designer?” 

“Oh, Em, will you excuse me?” With an apologetic glance, Michaela walked away, smoothing down her embroidered silk gown. 

Emma watched her friend wander off, chattering excitedly to Pierce about the young designer who’d designed all her gowns. Emma brushed a hand over the pale blue silk skirt of the gown Michaela had especially designed for her as maid of honor. It was lovely. A pale blue bodice laced up the front, embroidery and touches of lace at elbow and neckline—just enough to give it a delicate feminine look. The skirt was full and heavy, the type she’d have loved at ten, perfect for spinning around and around.

Emma laughed at herself and leaned against one of the huge marble pillars that supported the carved vaulted ceiling of the great hall. With the cool marble at her back, she watched the revelers whirl by. Candlelight glowed from the wall sconces, bathing everything in a shimmering, shifting light. Shadows wove around the columns and the dancers in the uncertain illumination.

Many of the guests had loved Michaela’s idea of a period wedding and dressed for the occasion. Some wore silks and satins, others muslin, and tartan. 

Emma turned away from the dance floor. She didn’t belong here. She knew that. This glittering world wasn’t hers. It was Michaela’s and she’d never be comfortable there. 

The first time she’d visited Michaela in L.A., Michaela had dragged her to every Hollywood hotspot she could find. 

“I think she was hoping I’d snag a star,” Emma murmured to herself and then shook her head. No Hollywood heartthrob would look twice at a librarian from Chicago.

She pushed away from the column, making her way toward the main doors. Now free of Kim Pierce, Michaela was fully engaged in talking to Luke and Kyle Tredari. Michaela wouldn’t notice if Emma slipped away a little early.

As she approached the doors, the Kircaldy hostess slid out of the office near the doorway. The small woman wore a trim tailored suit in cherry red. Emma looked at it with a little bit of envy wishing she had the courage to buy something bold like that.

“May I help you, madam?” the hostess asked.

“I’d like a ride back to the inn, if you wouldn’t mind calling one of the carriages?” 

Emma rubbed her temples.  It was only ten or so and she was already exhausted. A bath and book in her charming and comfy room sounded so good right now. 

“Of course, Ms. Sanders.” The hostess ducked out the door and very shortly one of the carriages rumbled up to the marble steps. 

Emma felt like a queen, letting the coachman help her into the leather cab of the carriage. Another one of Michaela’s brainstorms was to have all the bridesmaids and guests taken from the church to the hall in coaches—the exact type the highwaymen would rob. 

Emma settled back in the seat. The carriage took off with a jolt, but soon settled into a rocking motion. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the squeak of the carriage rigging were very soothing. The tight knots of tension at her temples began to unravel. She pushed aside the leather curtain and looked out the narrow window. 

The moon bathed the private country road in sliver moonlight. The road stretched like a white ribbon winding through the trees that, according to her guidebook, were over four hundred years old. The night was still and quiet, the only sounds the jingle and clop of the carriage rigging and the horses’ hooves. Not even a breeze whispered through the trees at the road side. 

Emma let the curtain fall back into place. It would be about a half hour or more before they reached the little period inn. She slipped off her shoes and snuggled on the seat, her head pillowed on her hands. The gentle swaying of the cab lulled her. Quiet, alone, safe, she felt her eyes drift shut. With a sleepy little sigh she gave in. 

The carriage jolted to a halt. Emma slid neatly from the leather seat and onto the hard floor of the carriage. Silk and leather obviously weren’t good bed fellows. Her skirt pooled around her. 

“What in heaven’s name?” she muttered. 

With less grace than a baby giraffe she scrambled from the floor and smoothed her skirts back into place Carefully, she dropped to the seat again. 

With a frown, she reached for the door handle intending to ask the driver what in God’s name was going on. It disappeared under her hand, whipped open from the outside. 

“Just lovely,” the man towering in the doorway muttered. He was a dark shadow highlighted only by slashes of moonlight. When he smiled, a beam of moonlight showed missing teeth. Emma’s eyes widened, her heart leaping painfully in her chest. With her hands fisted in her skirt, heart pounding she first heard the voices murmuring outside the cab.

Good lord, she thought a shiver skating up her spine, how many of them are there? 

 

Chapter Two

 

Emma pressed her back against the leather seat of the carriage and stared at the man, her mouth slightly ajar. She didn’t recognize him as a guest from the wedding. He was tall with dark messy hair and a toothless grin she didn’t like at all. 

She swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her throat. Should she scream? What if Michaela had organized the entire scenario and she spoiled the fun by trying to kill the poor actor in front of her? 

“Who are you?” Her voice trembled far more than she anticipated.

“Good idea, luv, why don’t we get to know each other a little better?” he asked levering himself into the carriage. His hair was matted and the stench of horse and sour sweat filled the cab. He licked his lips as he reached for her neckline. A beam of moonlight showed her his grime encrusted nails and hairy knuckles. “Pretty little bauble, that.” She could feel her skin crawl at the thought of that filthy hand touching her. She clutched the necklace he was admiring and shrank back further. 

Emma brought both feet up to chest level, startling the man with a look under her skirt, and kicked. Both feet punched him hard in the chest. Words Emma could barely understand pierced the night as he lurched backward from the carriage to land on the road, arms and legs sprawled.

Quickly, Emma repositioned herself on the seat, back pressed against the opposite door, ready for another attack. Whoever these people were, she wouldn’t let them take her easily. Ugly laughter, both sadistic and frightening, increased the tremble in her hands.

“She’s a lively ‘un. I’m gunna enjoy this.”

Male laughter poured through the door, followed by insults she would rather not hear. 

Good lord, there must be at least five of them. Emma scrambled for her shoes and slipped the two-inch heels on. If she’d had them on when she’d kicked, the man would be gone for good. She wedged herself in the corner of the carriage and drew up her feet, ready to kick out again. She gripped the seat leather with clammy hands, her gaze intent on the swinging door.

Where was the driver? Where the hell were the cops? 

The door at her back whipped open. Emma tumbled out of the carriage in a froth of pale blue skirts. Startled, she screamed and braced herself for her collision with the road. Hands hooked under her arms, stopping her from a painful crash. 

Well and truly over her fright, she kicked and punched, trying to remember every dirty trick she’d been taught about self-defense. The man stumbled. Triumphant, she leaned into him. If he fell he’d let her go. 

“Spirited little dabchick, eh?” 

I’ll show you spirited! Emma skinned her heel down her assailant’s shin.The arms around her tightened. 

“Bloody hell!” he yelled and lifted her right off her feet.

“Let me go!” Emma twisted against the arms that held hers pinned to her sides. “Just wait until the cops get here! I’m filing every charge in the book!”

“Just a bit bats, is she?” A voice off the side asked. “Need a hand there, boy?”

Emma looked over to see the dark-haired man she’d forcibly ejected from the carriage. The man started forward to take hold of Emma. A desperate plan formed in her mind and she settled within the powerful embrace. She watched the dark-haired man approach her as though she’d turned into a wild animal. Her heart thumped in her chest. She blew annoying twists of hair from her face.

When he got within kicking range, she used her captor’s strong hold to lever herself up and kick at the man again, with her shoes on this time. The man howled. His hand whipped up to cover a gash that ran from his forehead to his chin. Blood trickled from beneath his hand.

Emma’s eyes widened. She’d done it! Maybe they would leave her alone, now.

“That’ll be enough of that, Miss.” Her captor’s low, liquid voice slid down her spine. “Stop trying to take a piece of us. Your virtue is safe enough for the moment,” a brief pause, “and your life as well.”

Emma stilled, shaking with rage in the man’s arms. She’d seen enough episodes of The New Detectives to know that a kidnapper’s word was worth spit, but she needed to get him to let her go. If he let her go, she might be able to find a chance to escape. She took a deep breath that turned into a gasp when she realized that her captor’s hands were fully over her breasts. 

“Get your hands off of me,” she ordered, her voice low.

“Will you accept our word, miss?” The arms tightened one last time. “Or do we continue this invigorating and rather entertaining romp?” 

He pressed his groin into her lower back.  A gasp slipped past her lips. All the wrestling around had aroused him. She felt it clearly even through her layers of petticoats and skirts.

Her stomach jumped with nerves. “I’ll accept your word for exactly what it’s worth,” she whispered.

The arms stayed locked for a moment as her captor seemed to weigh her words. Then, he released her abruptly. Her stomach lurched. She let out an alarmed cry, but the man caught her by the elbow until she regained her balance. With a deep breath, she gathered her skirts in her hands, and turned to look at her captor. 

He was tall. She had to tip her head back to look at him. She saw dark hair, longer than she was used to, pulled back into a tail. A small breeze tugged at some loose strands. His eyes were shadowed, but one dark brow rose at her study. She dropped her eyes from his face. He was dressed in a long coat, brass buttons gleamed in the moonlight.  She couldn’t quite tell the color of the coat, the light was too uncertain, but the white shirt beneath shone in the moonlight.  

With a wary glance she looked around. The coach still sat in the road, the horses stamping in their traces. One man stood with the horses, the reins in his hands, another popped out of the carriage cab shaking his head. Two more secured the unconscious driver to a tree. Emma saw a trickle of blood slipping down his face from under the powered wig. 

They were all dressed like her captor in long coats and boots and they were all staring at her. She swallowed, a lump in her throat. She wondered if they could see the pulse jumping in her throat? She clasped her hands together and looked back at her captor.

“What do you want from me?” she asked making herself look up at him. 

He must be one of Michaela’s more eccentric movie friends. She also noticed for the first time that there were horses tethered to the nearby trees. This looked like something out of a movie set. In fact, it looked like a scene directly out of The Highwayman.

With a scowl, she tore her eyes away from his extraordinary face and looked around the clearing. She fisted her hands on her hips.

“This is absolutely ridiculous. Did Chelle put you up to this?” she demanded glaring up at him. “I can see it now.” She threw her hands up, “Chelle thought I’d need a little excitement in my life so she put you all up to waylaying me from the reception.” 

Emma looked around at the four actors loosely ringing her, their mouths hanging open. She looked back at her captor. 

“I must admit it’s awfully authentic. And she does have amazing taste in men, but I told her before that I’m not interested.” She brushed invisible dirt from her skirts and turned away from the man. “Well, it’s been exciting, but I’m exhausted. Tell Chelle you tried to get me to go along with it all, but that I just wasn’t in the mood.” She started back toward the carriage. “Someone nudge the driver and tell him the jig is up.”

“She’s not a little bats, Connor,” the man who’d originally grabbed for her said, “she’s absolutely stark staring.” 

“Something’s not quite right here, Adam,” Emma heard the man murmur as he reached out and grabbed her as she passed. Emma tried to shrug his hand off her arm. 

“I told you I’m not interested. I want to get back to the hotel.”

The fingers tightened around her arm. Her intended retort died on her lips. His eyes were not amused. He wasn’t laughing. Boy, he’s good. 

Her gaze darted around the clearing. He was correct, something wasn’t quite right here. The men were not dressed in quite the same style of clothes as she’d seen at the wedding. They were also dirtier than the average party-goer. The man who’d said she was bats was the worst—matted hair and missing teeth. One of the other had dirt smeared down the side of his face. The sleeves of the coats were raggedly and the boots mud encrusted. And if she wasn’t mistaken, that man over in the corner just pulled a musket out of a saddle holster. Weaponry had not been included in any of the costumes she’d seen and that one looked way too authentic to be a prop. 

She turned back to Connor’s unsmiling face. She felt her breath hitching and forced herself to take deep slow breath. She wiped sweaty palms on her skirt.   

“You’re not an actor, are you?” she asked quietly. 

He shook his head. 

She looked at the other men. They moved closer and the smell of horse and fire smoke wafted over. Moonlight gleamed on a pistol barrel in one hand.  “They’re not actors either, are they,” she whispered making him bend down to hear her.

He shook his head again.

They stood nearly nose to nose for a silent moment, her eyes intent on his. “If you’re not actors and you’re not here because Chelle sent you, who are you and what do you want?” Her breath hitched again, coming faster. Her heart hammered in her chest and her knees felt weak. Emma didn’t think she’d be able to run now if she wanted to. 

A satanic smile lifted the corners of his full lips. He leaned forward until Emma smelled campfire smoke on his jacket. She wanted to step back, but couldn’t. She needed to hear his words, to know why they’d stopped her carriage and fairly accosted her. Connor raised his eyebrows and beckoned her to come closer. Against her better judgment, she tipped her head and moved another inch.

 “We’re highwaymen, milady,” he whispered in her ear, “and what we want is…you.”

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/4joPnY

 

Author Bio  

   

When I was a kid growing up in the near Chicago suburbs I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to teach and I wanted to write. I’d spend hours over the little typewriter Mom and Dad bought for me when I was little clattering away at stories and plays I’d wheedle my cousins and brother into performing. I think I wrote my first “book” in 6^th grade and had a friend illustrate it for me. I never really looked back from there.

Now, I can say that I’ve achieved both of my goals. I’ve been teaching 8^th graders for more than 15 years, sharing my love of words with hundreds. I always tell my kids that it’s not that they don’t like to read they just haven’t met the right book yet. I make it one of my missions in life to put those books into their hands.

My love of literature lead to my debut Solstice novel, Ribbons of Moonlight. I’ve always loved poetry and “The Highwayman” has always been a personal favorite. I always thought there was more to that story and now there is.

So, here am I living—still living in the Chicago suburbs, a little further out than where I first started, but I can still see the skyline on my drive in to work. I married my high school prom date and we share a beautiful little girl, two spoiled hound dogs and a love of reading and all things Disney. Overall, I’m happy where I am, but I’m also looking forward to seeing what the next several years bring. Hopefully, it will bring me several more books on this author page!

You can find me at:

http://rebeccalfrencl.blogspot.com/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rebecca-L-Frencl/115163871892050?ref=hl

https://twitter.com/rlfrencl

Amazon Author Page:  https://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-L-Frencl/e/B00EQDG5C4/

 

The Shattered Prism was just released in June 2013 through Solstice Publishing.

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/3LwyAJ    

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.