Tag Archives: Author

Welcome to the “UNDER A FALLEN SUN” Blog Tour! @JohnCoonSports @4WillsPub

Greetings! Today on The Indie Spot I am hosting author John Coon during his blog tour. John is sharing his thoughts on writing a compelling and entertaining story! Take it away, John. . .

 

 

Who’s Driving Your Story?

Ever watch a horror or science fiction movie and quickly become frustrated with the direction that the story takes? We’ve all experienced this feeling from time to time.

One trait common to these bad movies is characters who take a particular action simply because the script requires them to do it. Their actions and behavior defy logic and don’t ring true to how a real person would react when confronted with the same situation. What was designed to move the story along only serves to shatter the suspension of disbelief.

Taking this approach to building a story as an author will only alienate your readers.

Never underestimate or insult the intelligence of your audience. Readers will notice when you construct  plot armor and force your characters to do your bidding like puppets on strings. And they will not like it one bit.

Let Characters Drive the Plot

There’s a simple thing you can do as an author to move a plot in a plausible and realistic direction. Invest sufficient time in creating each character you intend to place in your story.

You should know each character as well as you know a family member or close friend. Sketch out their life histories, physical characteristics, personality traits, hobbies, personal beliefs, and other pertinent backstory details before you write your novel or short story. This will give you a better idea of how a particular character will react if you drop them into a particular situation.

Creating dynamic fleshed-out characters will take your story in unexpected directions. Let those characters hop into the driver’s seat and steer through the twists and turns of the plot. You will create genuine tension and suspense and your readers will be unable to put your story down until they finished the final page.

Say No to Cardboard Characters

One glaring sin common to poorly written novels and stories is an abundance of stock characters who are walking and breathing stereotypes. Even good authors can fall victim to relying on a cardboard character.

You can’t always avoid using stock characters. If stock characters didn’t have so many real world counterparts to draw from, they wouldn’t exist.  On the other hand, you can avoid populating your narrative with a slew of cardboard characters. You can even take the stock characters and give your own twists.

In my horror novel, Pandora Reborn, I took a stock character of a crazy hermit in Dean and gave him a dynamic presence in the plot by fleshing out his story. One way I did that is to give him a tragic backstory where the antagonist murdered everyone he loved in their previous encounter 55 years earlier. It turned Dean from a potentially laughable character to a deeply sympathetic figure.

I took a similar approach in new novel Under a Fallen Sun. I let my audience see an inside perspective on the antagonist alien race through the eyes of Melody. It lets them learn the aliens’ motivations for coming to Earth and the tragedy and desperation driving their actions and behavior. It helped make what the aliens do in Travis feel more believable and, ultimately, even more terrifying.

When characters drive the plot, everyone wins. The author gets a more dynamic and engaging story and the readers are rewarded with a richer reading experience.

 

BIO:

John Coon has possessed a love for writing since age 12 when he typed out his first stories on an old typewriter belonging to his parents. For 15 years, John has worked as a sports journalist. His byline has appeared in multiple publications and on multiple websites nationwide. John currently writes for the Associated Press and Athlon Sports. He is a graduate of the University of Utah and currently resides in the Salt Lake City metro area. John published his debut novel Pandora Reborn in 2018. Under a Fallen Sun is his second novel.

 

Links to purchase Under a Fallen Sun:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

John’s website and blog

Social Media

Twitter: @johncoonsports

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jcoon

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.  
Thanks for supporting this author and his work!

 

 

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A Solid Collection of Essays!

The Reclusive Writer & Reader of Bandra: Essays

Rating: ★★★★★

The Reclusive Writer & Reader of Bandra: Essays by Fiza Pathan is at once heartbreaking and uplifting. The author shows within this wonderful collection of personal essays that life can be whatever you make of it. Through rejection by her father for the sin of being born female, to her own discovery of new friends found in the pages of books, Pathan shares the course she plotted for herself in this world.

These essays offer snippets from the life of the author. The reader is invited to tag along for the coming of age of a young woman dealing with a reality so many of us couldn’t possibly comprehend in our own insulated little corners of the world.

Pathan is an overcomer. She found her refuge in the bookstores and libraries of Mumbai, India. It is between the covers of many books that she found who she really can be—her true identity. And it is here, in this collection, that she lures us readers in for a glimpse of her world.

This book is beautifully crafted by an accomplished storyteller. Fiza Pathan’s style puts the reader right there beside her, listening to an incredible woman telling her own stories as only a true author can.

Get your copy HERE

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA – Bernard Foong @bernardfoong

Vignettes Parisian by Bernard Foong

Vignettes Parisian

Vignettes Parisian is a collection of four short stories about the Author’s past and present experiences in the French City of Love and Romance, commonly known as Paris.

 

Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve

It is impossible not to have a close encounter with fashion when I am in Paris. Even if I had to wait in the freezing cold for an hour and a half to enter the Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve (Christian Dior Couturier of Dreams) exhibition at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs (Museum of Decorative Arts). My husband, Walter, and I were the lucky few who arrived early before the museum opened its doors. The late arrivals were banished to the back of the queue for a five hours wait before admission was granted.

This spectacular exhibition was worth the wait. Not only were the lives, times, and accomplishments of Christian Dior, one of the great French couturier and his successors well documented, the exquisite fashions and well-thought-out displays were equally impressive.

Since my first visit in 1966 to the French capital of romance, luxury, and fashion, my love for Paris has never waned. Before I left sunny Maui, I had designed and made a haute couture gold, silver, and black embossed velvet fleur-de-lis patterned coat to wear during my recent holiday in France. It was at this exhibition that I received compliments for my one-of-a-kind creation.

A stranger approached me at the exhibition to buy the coat off my back because he loved what I wore. Perhaps I should be the next designer to take over the reins for this resplendent Maison – The House of Dior. After all, I am a knowledgeable and seasoned fashion designer who knows every aspect of the international fashion industry.

Shopping In Paris (Then & Now)

I am one of those blessed individuals with a pair of discerning eyes and can detect items I wish to purchase in cramped spaces on my crazy shopping sprees. It was in such a circumstance that Walter and I found ourselves in the middle of the crowded shopping Avenue, des Champs Elysées.

A sole of my shoe had divorced itself from the body of my long-lasting suedes and left me to hobble around Paris like a circus clown with flapping feet. I had to take immediate action to remedy this unanticipated situation before the remainder of my footwear disintegrated onto the wet and soggy ground, while my beloved, sniggered at my fashion malfunction.

I remembered an amusing incident that happened in 1969 at this boulevard. Back then, I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fashion student. Accompanying Moi was Count Mario, an accomplished Vogue fashion photographer, Andy, my model-looking lover and Valet, and Sammy, a flamboyant young fashionista. The four of us were shopping at the avenue, that drizzly day.

To elongate his petite stature beneath his wide bell-bottom jeans, Sammy wore a pair of eight inches high platform shoes. He also donned a fitted denim jacket over a sassy body-hugging bodysuit. To complete his eccentric ensemble, his dyed cornflower yellow, emerald, and turquoise hair flowed behind him like an exotic mane as our quartet floated down the street.

Eyes turned in our direction as we trotted around Paris in style. Before I realized what had transpired, Sammy was flat on the pavement. Colorful socks bounced around him like raptured pom-poms. The lad had stuffed pairs of rolled-up socks inside his footwear so he could fit his tiny feet into the platforms. He had stumbled on the wet and slippery sidewalk.

Mario, wasted no time whipping out his camera to capture this unanticipated fashion faux pas, while Andy and I looked on in shock.

As if modeling for a Vogue fashion shoot, the quick-witted Sam posed this way and that on the wet thoroughfare while the photographer clicked away at the gaffe. A pedestrian circle had formed in the middle of Avenue des Champs Elysées to witness this “fashion happening.” Advertently, our friend had transformed an embarrassing situation into a photo-opt as the applauding crowd showered the boy with accolades. By the time Sammy got on his feet, he had saved his face with poise and grace.

 

The Magical Power of The Written Word

“Why are there beds located at different corners of the bookstore?” I asked Monsieur Mercier, an assistant at the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.

“The beds are available for writers to stay a night in Paris for free,” the man responded before he resumed, “ Are you a writer? Do you intend to stay the night?”

Surprised by the man’s inquiries, I evinced, “I am a writer. But no thank you to the lodging offer.”

“What genre of books do you write, Monsieur?” Mercier queried.

“I’m an autobiographer,” I replied. “Because of its controversial and provocative contents, my books are often classified under the Erotica genre.”

The bookseller questioned, “What are the titles of your books, and what is the author’s name?”

A HAREM BOY’S SAGA; A MEMOIR BY YOUNG. It’s a five-book series,” I declared.

“I believe we have your books in the store. Are the titles: INITIATION, UNBRIDLED, DEBAUCHERY, TURPITUDE, and METANOIA?” he promulgated.

I nodded, delighted by his information.

The Frenchman led me through a series of narrow pathways covered with volumes and pamphlets of the written word. When he finally extracted five volumes of my autobiography from a shelf, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest.

“I read the series. What a compelling teenage life you’ve led. I wish my school had a secret fraternity program like yours,” the teller quipped smilingly.

He recommenced, “Our store is a focal point of English literature in Paris. Anais Nin, Henry Miller, and Richard Wright are frequent visitors. We also host literary activities, like poetry readings, writers’ meetings, book readings, writing festivals, literature festivals, photography workshops, writing groups, and Sunday tea.

“Ms. Sylvia Whitman, the owner, might invite you for a book reading at our store.”

“That will be splendid. Unfortunately, my husband and I are in Paris for a short period. Maybe we can arrange a book reading and signing session when we are in Paris again,” I proposed.

Monsieur Mercier and I had exchanged contact information before I left the Shakespeare & Company bookshop. Hopefully, during my next visit to Paree, I will get to meet Madam Sylvia Whitman with a book reading and signing gig in place.

 

S.O.W. and R.E.A.P.

Over the years, I have been asked by many, “Why do you love Paris so much?” My reply is always the same – S.O.W.

Although the Parisian cityscape has changed over the years, these three alphabets continue to shadow my existence whenever I am in or out of Paris. S.O.W. is also a reason Walter and I chose France as our home away from home.

In the autumn of 1966, when the Simorgh (one of my Arab patriarch’s private jet) touched down in Charles de Gaulle airport, I had contracted the romance bug. Back then, the ebullient Moi, an inquisitive teenager with a quest for adventure, was whisked to the Paris Ritz Carlton in a luxurious Bentley by my host, Prince P. I had fallen head-over-heels in love and in awe with both the prince, Andy, my then chaperone and Valet, and Paris, the city of romance. That was before our entourage visited the haute couture fashion Houses of Chanel, Dior, Ungaro, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Patou, and the fancy eateries, such as Café de Flore, La Belle Époque, Maxim’s, and last but by no means least, Le Folies Bergers. Back then, these infamous Parisian establishments were places to go, to see and be seen. Nowadays, they are tourist attractions.

Through the subsequent years, I had accompanied many princes, princesses, sheiks, sheikas, and their aristocratic Arabian entourages to the French capital. Most significantly, this city of love and romance had taught me the art of Seduction (S), Originality (O), and Wit (W). Some may say that wittiness is a congenital trait, but I purport it as a learned art of human relationships. Whatever definition one chooses to use, I had returned to this electrifying metropolis of S.O.W.; where I had sown many a wild oat. Now, with my beloved husband in tow, I’m here to R.E.A.P. its rewards.

“What the hell is R.E.A.P.?” you ask.

I will explain:

RRomance continues to exist in this alluring Capital of Love; even amid an influx of foreign refugees and political upheavals. Another series of stories, I will narrate another time.

EElegance in this sordid city of high culture is a trait Walter and I find irresistibly seductive.

AAuthenticity is historicity in this Center of Romance. And I am not referring to the faux reproduction of the Las Vegas ‘Paris’ in Nevada, United States of America.

PParis equals Sophistication, Originality, Wit, Romance, Elegance, and Authenticity. But last and by no means least, this French capital is where Perfection reigns supreme.

PARIS – Mon Paree!

 

Bernard Foong (aka Young)

***

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Bernard Foong RWISA Author Page

 

 

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA – Jan Sikes @rijanjks

She Dances With a Memory by Jan Sikes

SHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY

 

JAN SIKES

 

Gertrude McNabb placed a gnarled hand on her arthritic back as she bent over to take a chocolate cake from the oven. She inhaled the sweet aroma and put it on a rack to cool.

A black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired man with twinkling eyes sat nearby on the cabinet. “This is for you, Hiram. I didn’t forget it was your birthday. It’s your favorite. I’ll always remember how your face would light up when I baked this special recipe for you.”

Gertrude picked up the framed snapshot, held it against her heart, and shuffled into the living room.

“We might as well make use of the time while I wait for your cake to cool. Then I’ll frost it with your favorite French vanilla icing. The kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids are all going to be here in a couple of hours, and it will be nothing but pure chaos,” she said.

The mahogany stereo cabinet from the 1960s occupied the same spot in the living room that it had since the day Hiram McNabb brought it home as a Christmas surprise. They’d spent many happy days and nights listening to record albums.  Hiram never tried to hide the fact that he adored Rosemary Clooney. But, not Gertrude. For her, it was ol’ Blue Eyes himself that got her blood going.

Oh, the wonderful and countless hours they’d waltzed away across the living room floor to the beautiful music that wafted out of those state-of-the-art stereo speakers.

She adjusted her glasses and thumbed through a stack of record albums. It seemed to take forever nowadays to do even the simplest task. She pulled out a favorite and held it up in front of the photo she’d perched on the coffee table. “Since it’s your birthday, my dear, and such a special occasion, how about Nat King Cole?”

Her fingers, once nimble and efficient, struggled to remove the round disc from its package.

“Remember how this one caught my eye in the record store, but we didn’t buy it?” She chuckled. “And then you brought it home the very next day.” She blew out a sigh.

Once she had the disk secured on the turntable, she took the pins from her silver hair, and it tumbled down her back.

She clicked on the stereo and waited until the tiny red light turned green, then gently placed the needle onto the black groove.

Then with a great flourish, she picked up the photo and held her arms out for her imaginary dance partner.

Even though she hardly moved from the spot where she stood, with her eyes closed, she was transported back in time, back to days of youth when it had been impossible to imagine ever growing old.

“It was fascination, I know, seeing you alone with the moonlight above,” Nat King Cole sang.

A smile graced her lips.

She whispered, “Hiram Edward McNabb, you swept me off my feet the first time I saw you. You were so handsome in your Army uniform. I’ll never forget that night at the county fair. My older brother and sister took me, and since they wanted to stick around for the dance, I got to stay with them.”

She paused and steadied herself.

“You asked me to dance and didn’t let me sit down one time the whole night.” She giggled. “From then on, I knew we were meant to be together. I’d always hated my name, and you agreed that Gertrude sounded like an old lady, so you called me by my middle name. I was your Rose.”

Memories swirled around in her mind. Sweet remembrances of laughter, of falling in love and of daring to live the fullest life imaginable flew by the way scenes from a movie might do.

No, they hadn’t been wealthy, but Hiram made a decent living for them, and they always had what they needed. However, it was his steadfast love for her, for life, and the music they embraced that kept her excited and happy for over sixty years.

As impossible as it seemed, he’d now been gone over two years. Never a day passed that she didn’t carry on a conversation with him. It started with a good morning greeting and ended with a good night declaration of love.

Sometimes, she could swear that he answered her.

The needle reached the end of the record. She set the photo back down and focused her attention on choosing another album.

“Rosie.”

She turned around. “Hiram?”

No one was there. Then she heard it again. Was she going daft?

“Well, I’ve certainly let my imagination get the best of me. I guess that’s what happens to old ladies when they’re alone too long.”

As she reached for her favorite Frank Sinatra album, a hand brushed against hers.

Now she was sure she was losing what little bit of sensibility she had left.

When she was a child, her relatives shared stories about spirit visits from beyond the veil. To her, it was nothing more than hogwash and products of overactive imaginations. After all, what did old folks know?

As hard as it was to admit, she might have been wrong about that, and a little hasty to judge. Perhaps Hiram had shown up to celebrate his birthday.

Whatever it was, she would enjoy it and soak up every moment, even if it wasn’t real. She could make it true in her mind.

With Frank Sinatra crooning a love song, she reached again for the photo but instead, chose to leave it sitting and simply held out her wrinkled and trembling arms.

Her feet moved, and she twirled just like she’d done thousands of times before. She threw back her head and laughed. She was twenty again, as Hiram swept her across the big wooden dance floor inside the SPJST Hall.

Song after song played, and still, they danced, they laughed, and they kissed.

Then the record reached an end and she was met with deafening silence. She opened her eyes, surprised to find that she stood in the same spot where she’d been. She truly had been waltzing and twirling with Hiram.

“I’m tired now, my love.” She moved toward her easy chair. “I just need to rest awhile.”

Perhaps one day before long, she’d be waltzing again with her sweetheart for the remainder of eternity. But for now, she had the memories, and she’d continue to dance with them until that day came.

She reached for the photo and pressed it to her heart.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she smiled.

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Jan Sikes RWISA Author Page

Books by Jan Sikes

Jewel by Jan Sikes

Jewel

aniline2

VooDoo or Destiny by Jan Sikes

Voodoo or Destiny: You Decide

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A Soldier's Children by Jan Sikes

A Soldier’s Children

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Video

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA – Mary Adler @MAAdlerWrites

Black Notes Beat by Mary Adler

 

 

BLACK NOTES BEAT

I have studied and observed crows for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”

Over the years, I have told my family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that I don’t know where to begin.)

During the non-nesting period of the year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place. They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even dynamiting their roosting places at night.

Like many natural creatures, they are good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates their beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky–one small group after another–as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they are together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others where it is. They share, but only within their own flock.

One evening, after watching them move across the sky, I wrote this:

 

Black Notes Beat

Black notes beat

Unfurling dusk

Across the bruising sky.

 

Quarter notes, half notes

Rise and fall.

Whole notes

Rest on treetops.

 

An arpeggio of eighth notes

Silently swirls,

Scribing a nocturne

in the fading light.

 

Softly they spill

to the nighttime roost:

Rustling,

murmuring,

settling,

hushed.

 

Now the still moment,

the last note fading,

No bows, no curtsies,

No fear of reviews.

 

They need no applause to perform their works.

 

Mary Adler

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Mary Adler RWISA Author Page

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shadowedbydeath
“SHADOWED BY DEATH”  by Mary Adler
Blurb:

San Francisco, 1944. Sophia Nirenska, a Polish resistance fighter who survived the Warsaw ghetto uprising, finds safety in California until someone tries to kill her. She insists political enemies want to silence her, but homicide detective Oliver Wright, on medical leave from the Marines, believes the motive is more personal. He and his German shepherd, Harley, try to protect Sophia, but she insists on doing things her own way—a dangerous decision.

Oliver guards Sophia as they travel from an Italian cafe in Richmond to communist chicken farmers in Petaluma where her impetuous actions put them both in mortal danger.

When Oliver rescues a girl and her dog who are running for their lives, he discovers the dark secret at the heart of the threat to Sophia, a secret with its roots in Poland. When he does, he is forced to choose between enforcing the law as he knows it and jeopardizing Sophia or accepting a rougher kind of justice.

Shadowed by Death accurately portrays the fears and troubles of the communities of northern California as they bear the burdens of World War II and celebrate the gift of finding family among strangers.

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA – Wendy Scott @WndyJayneScott

The Awakening by Wendy Scott

The Awakening by Wendy Scott

(An excerpt from ‘Prophecy and Pirates’ my unpublished first fantasy novel).

Evarna gazed at the tinker’s sleeping form and resisted the urge to trail her fingertips through Rick’s locks. For both their sakes she had to leave now before he awoke. They lived in contrasting worlds; he roamed the forest with a free spirit, but as an aristocrat’s bastard, she battled the protocols and restrictions of the Baron’s Court. As satisfying as this romantic interlude had been, she must be on her way.

The chill of the morning air vanquished the warmth she’d experienced in his arms as she eased out of the feather quilt. She untangled her discarded clothes from his and slipped into them. Last night they’d been shed as the lovers had fumbled toward the bed in a lip-locked embrace.

The wagon’s interior was a treasure trove, and she wished she had more time to explore. The shelves jammed with instruments, jostled scrolls, and jars filled with curious items drew her gaze. On the window ledge two doll-sized chairs nestled a miniature table. Evarna’s hand hovered close to a silver harp, itching to touch the strings, but she lowered her hand before her fingers betrayed her. What nonsense. A tone-deaf goose possessed more musical ability than she did. Rick wouldn’t appreciate being woken by the sound of mutilated chords.

His abode hinted at depths of character she wanted to delve deeper into. For a moment she lingered at the door and glanced back at his tousled hair. The urge to dive back under the covers and cuddle up against his muscular length was almost more than she could control. Instead, she averted her gaze and whispered, “Farewell, Tinkerman.”

Sighing, she stepped outside. Tail thumping erupted from between the wheels, pinpointing where Stitch had spent the night. Usually, her dog made a fuss about always bedding down next to her. She felt a blush bloom on her cheeks. Last evening she hadn’t given her furry friend a moment’s thought after the tinker’s first kiss.

A moist tongue licked her hand, and the dog leaned against her legs as she stroked his fur. She kept her voice low. “Hey, boy. Time to go home.”

Stitch stalked over to the fire pit and stared into the suspended pot. Evarna chuckled and fed him the remains of yesterday’s stew.

“Not feeding you. Now, that’s something you would not easily forgive.”

***

The sound of horse hooves drifted off into the distance. Rick’s eyelids snapped upwards, and he bounded out of bed. He hummed as he gathered up his clothing and tossed them on the mussed up bed, ignoring the tapping sounds emanating from the small window above the door.

Naked, he jerked the door open, streaked across the camp, and plunged into the lake. The surface churned into a maelstrom of white water as he re-emerged onto the shore. Huffing, he sprinted back into the wagon, his breaths trailing him like mist.

Two small, winged creatures swooped and followed him through the ajar door. Their tiny wings shimmered like rainbows as they swirled around his head before landing on his pillow. Twin pixie expressions peered up at him, their violet eyes gleaming with mischief. Golden hair framed identical faces and the easiest way to tell them apart was by the colour of their gowns. Yasmin favoured pastel pink, while her sister, Jasmin, wore lavender to compliment her eyes.

“Hrumph! You shut us out.” Yasmin pinched her nose. “We had to snuggle up to a smelly dog to keep warm. Now you’ve got yourself a lady friend, you think you can ignore us as if we’re not good enough company anymore.”

“I don’t understand what you see in her.” Jasmin crossed her arms and glared up at him. “She doesn’t even have wings!”

Elbowing her sibling out of the way, Yasmin flicked her hair so wildly it swept over and covered her face. From beneath the cloud of hair came a muffled voice, “I thought you’d prefer blondes.”

Rick grinned down at the pair of outraged pixies, drawn up to their full height of six inches. “And pray be, how was a poor fellow supposed to choose between two such lovely ladies as yourselves?”

The sisters clasped hands. “He’s got a point there; we could never let a mere gyp come between us.”

“The tinker is lucky that we give him the time of day. Fancy him thinking he’d be acceptable to either of us.”

Rick shook his head, showering the pixies with droplets of the water. They both squealed and scurried backward.

“Stop mucking around and put some clothes on for goddess-sake.” Jasmin wrung the water from her gown.

After a token pass with a towel Rick grabbed his pants and began dressing. “Evarna is the one I’ve been searching for. The prophecy foretold her arrival.”

“How can you be sure she’s the one?” Jasmin waggled her finger.

He placed a hand on his chest. “Her magic awakened my heart. So we must gather all the fairy folk we can and march for Carnavalla.”

Yasmin plucked a dog hair from her dress and brandished it like a sword. “And how do you expect we’ll find the lost city of the Gypnees? Legend says it disappeared hundreds of years ago.”

“Carnavalla was hidden from mortals on purpose, it’s only sleeping and I’ve several gyp tricks I haven’t shared with you.”

Rick frowned. “Unfortunately, Evarna’s in for a few magical surprises. I’m going to have some explaining to do when we next meet. I hope my future wife is the forgiving type.”

Yasmin arched her brow. “But does she love you?”

“Of course she does, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Wendy Scott RWISA Author Page

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA – Nonnie Jules @NonnieJules

Silent Tears by Nonnie Jules

SILENT TEARS

by Nonnie Jules

 

I cry these silent tears for her

For her loss, for her pain, for her heart

Breaking when she looks into their eyes

Her children –

she feels their loss, their pain, their hearts breaking.

The memories –

the hardest

Yet, there’s no getting away from the reminders of what used to be.

There once was a HE

HE sat, parented, loved, even laughed

Yes, towards all ends there is laughter some say

But his chair is empty now

Just as their hearts

Hollow as the tree he chose.

He left it all there

His back against a world filled with painful memories of a childhood unprotected.

His pain…

Bottled up in the bottles of poison he consumed

Reckless abandon he gave to it

But quit…

he could not

would not

was it his choice not?

In the end, the call of the poison was stronger

and he had to answer

he was forced to answer

given no choice but to answer…

was the way he felt.

His choice gave her no choice

Single parenting

A thing for some

but…

It wasn’t her thing

That is

until

he left her

no choice.

 

She’ll be fine

Kids are resilient

They’ll be fine

Time heals all wounds

All clichés but true.

 

Still…

I cry my silent tears for her

For the husband she once knew.

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