The Scariest Night of the Year by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 https://books2read.com/The-Art-of-Growing-Older

I am a writer who lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. I write fiction, non-fiction, and some poetry all set in Canada. My published fiction covers mystery, holiday romance, and Canadian historical novels for adults and young adults. My published non-fiction covers travel writing and a memoir. In my memoir, The Art of Growing Older, I talk about aging with attitude and how is it possible to live a good long life.

I don't send out my poetry to many magazines so have only had one poem published. The following is an example of my Hallowe'en poetry set in Edmonton.

It is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

My friends and I are trick or treating

When suddenly we hear.

 

A screech and a shriek

And out of the sky

A witch on a broom dives

At my friends and I.

 

We duck and we scatter

Consumed with great fear

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

 

“Don’t be afraid” she cackles.

“I’ve only come to see

If you want to go flying

On my broom with me.”

 

We stare at the witch

Not sure what to do

Her hat is all black

And her dress is, too.

 

Her nose is hooked down

With a wart on the tip

But there’s a gleam in her eyes

And a smile on her lips.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” she says

When we hesitate

“My name is Kathy

And I don’t have time to wait.”

 

We look at each other

Then without any frowns

We nod and we grin

And jump up and down.

 

“How will we fit?”

I ask skeptically

For the broom is too short

To hold us all perfectly.

 

“Just hop aboard,” she crows.

“And you will see.

Climb one at a time.

Right up behind me.”

 

We all leap on easily

There is plenty of room

For the handle grows longer.

It is a magical broom.

 

When we are all settled

She gives a laugh and a hoot

And up into the sky

All of us swoop.

 

We zig through the buildings

Of the lighted downtown

We zoom up the Whitemud

And then back on down.

 

We stop at Fort Edmonton Park

An historic place so vast

The board sidewalks, the steam train

The covered wagons of the past.

 

There is a Ferris wheel

And a merry-go-round

With lots of horses

Going up and down.

 

Kathy calls out with delight

“On to West Edmonton Mall.”

And with cheers and shouts

We whizz through the halls.

 

The stores are all decorated

The children dressed in creepy gear

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

 

We streak through the night

Down to the Edmonton zoo

To see the zebras and lemurs

And the pelicans, too.

 

But instead of the tigers

The camels and gibbons.

There are zombies and ghouls

And skeletons and goblins

 

They stretch and they reach

They lunge and they grasp

Trying to catch the broom

While my friends and I gasp.

 

But Kathy the Witch

Laughs with glee

As we dodge and we dart

And get ready to flee.

 

“Come back, come back,”

One of the ghouls bellows.

“Yes,” pleads a skeleton.

“We are really nice fellows.”

 

Kathy turns the broom

As we cringe in fear.

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

 

“Ah, ha,” yells the goblin

And as we fly by

He scrambles to reach us

But Kathy stays too high.

 

“Nice try,” she chortles

As she waves goodbye

We fly away from the zoo

And we all give a sigh.

 

“Where are we going now?”

I ask, looking around.

Then I see we are arriving

At our favourite playground.

 

My friends and I laugh

As we dip and we glide

Through the net climbers

And go backwards up the slide.

 

We loop de loop

Holding on tight

Zagging through the swings

As we enjoy the night.

 

“On to your school,” Kathy calls

And we head on our way.

Flying to the building

Where we spend our days.

 

The doors swing open

Letting us in

We swoop down the hallway

Making a din.

 

The custodian jumps sideways

As we draw near

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

 

The flight finally ends

Kathy the Witch slows her broom

We all climb off easily

For there is plenty of room.

 

“Good night, my dear children.

It sure has been fun.

But I have to go now

It’s time that I run.”

 

“Thank you,” we call

As she flies out of sight.

We look at each other.

Wow, what a flight!

 

But our bags are empty

So to a house we scurry

Yelling trick or treat

We have to hurry.

 

Someone opens the door

Their face full of fear

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year. 

Making funny characters without making fun of them

 When I tell people I've written a humorous series set in a senior citizen community, they often ask, "Are you making fun of the senior citizens?" The answer is, "No, I'm creating laughable situations."

In the Whistling Pines cozy series, we deal with the senior citizens tactfully and with respect. They present us with "situations" that are laughable. In one book, one of my favorite characters walks into a wedding reception and starts moving the name markers around on the tables so she and her friends can be together, and close enough to the head table to hear what's being said. (Something that one of my elderly relatives actually did).

Sure, we're laughing at Hulda, who's outspoken and feisty. But we're not laughing at her as much as we're laughing at the things she does and the havoc created by her actions. In another book, she suggests that her art class is ready to move from still-life, to painting a nude. That's chuckle-worthy, but the humor comes in when we discover their nude model is the daughter of a very conservative minister and his congregation pickets the art gallery during their classes. 

In "Whistling Librarian" we're confronted by Hulda, who seems to show up at inopportune moments, rendering unwanted opinions. The residents want to know when Hulda is approaching, before she can interject herself into a discussion. The Swedish handyman steps in with a solution worthy of Solomon. 

Because of an apparent haunting of the library, it's decided there will be a seance to evict the ghost. During the seance, the Danish ghost complains that she isn't going to move to the Norwegian Lutheran Church. Because of dwindling congregations, the local Methodist and Presbyterian Churches have merged into what the locals term "The Methbyterian Church". So, the medium suggests the ghost move to that church as an alternative to spending eternity with Norwegians.

There are endless quirks we authors can point out to create humor, without making fun of anyone, well, other than a non-existent ghost. 

Check out the ghostly seance in "Whistling Librarian". It's co-written with my new partner, Anne Flagge. Anne's well experienced in telling humorous stories about senior moments - she might be the Hulda character's granddaughter.

whistling librarian - BWL Publishing

https://books2read.com/Whistling-Librarian

What if vampires existed on the island of Napoleon's final exile? What can a young maid do to stop them? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase this novel click HERE

I wrote this fanciful novel after reading about a story of vampires involved with Napoleon's failed conquest of Russia. Why not set up these enigmatic creatures on the remote island of Saint Helena, a place of myth and hardship?

Enjoy the surreal existence of vampires during Napoleon's final exile. Just who is one of the undead, and who isn't? Young maid Isabelle, a member of the emperor's household, will soon find out. And she must rush to stop a wicked attack.

Here is an excerpt:

Isabelle envied the handsome white stucco colonial house with light gray shutters nestled in its verdant garden. But the Union Jack—the emblem of their imprisonment—that rippled from a flagstaff in front of the structure’s Georgian porch had marred the effect.

This beautiful scenery almost eased her distress over the bat-dream of three nights past, or had that part been real? She stifled a quiver.

“Do you like working here?” she asked the maid who had arranged many of the other ladies’ wraps.

She was a mulatto girl with slightly brownish skin and plump lips. “Yes, it’s one of the best places on the island to work.”

“I imagine it would be.” Isabelle stepped to the ballroom door, watching the ladies twirl like flowers in their gowns of pink, blue and yellow; silks, taffetas and muslins. A reminisce of life back in Europe. She sighed. Not that she would have danced in such company. She turned and helped the other maid arrange wraps and hats in scents of perfume, talcum powder and perspiration. “These English bonnets are not so pretty. Do you like Governor Lowe?”

“I don’t see him much.” The maid held up a wrap with intricate lace on the borders, her gaze admiring. “I mostly assist the Missus.”

“Lowe seems a man of quick temper.” Isabelle said this as nonchalant as she could manage. She caressed a white ostrich feather on one of the hats.

“He can be, but he does not sleep well.”

“How do you know that?” Isabelle kept her tone conversational.

“His valet. . .is my special friend.” She grinned. “He says the governor wanders about late at night.” The maid twitched her lips. “But I should not speak ill of my employer.” Now she watched Isabelle, embarrassment glinting in her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Isabelle decided to leave that topic—though she found that information significant. “Do you know I’m the one who found that poor, dead girl in Sane Valley?” She again pictured Amanda’s distressed face.

The maid started and backed up a step. The feathered hat in her hands wavered. She set it down. “A very terrible sight, I’m certain.”

“Are they still investigating the death?”

“I don’t think so.” The maid averted her gaze and plucked at a ribbon on a bonnet.

“I thought your valet friend might have known whether they thought the death an accident or something more?” In the resulting silence, Isabelle spoke again: “I’m new here, but,” she ran her fingers along a satiny pelisse, feigning indifference, “I wondered if you’ve heard of an animal called the beast?”

                                       

“Everyone knows of that.” The reply sounded more like an accusation, the maid’s eyes sharpening.

“Has anyone ever seen it? Isn’t it more a superstition?”

“No, it’s real.” The mulatto girl twisted at the bonnet ribbon, then turned her back. “But we keep our mouths quiet here.”

For more on me and my books, visit my BWL author's page

https://bwlpublishing.ca/lewis-diane-scott/

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

18 with 72 years of experience! ...by Sheila Claydon

Find my books here

"The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been." 

Madeleine L'Engle

How true that is!

I know the book cover for Miss Locatelli doesn't look at all relevant to Madeleine L'Engle's quote, but it is, because when the heroine, Arabella Locatelli, turns her life upside down to save the family jewellery business, she discovers all the things her grandfather has been hiding from her all her life.  She learns that he was young once, and reckless, and so were others she didn't know existed.  Of course there is a hero in there too, and a lot of other things including the beauty of Italy, but mainly it is about the importance of family, how we make decisions, and the acceptance of whatever life throws at us whatever age we are.

Why am I blogging this today? In my 90 year old sister-in-law's birthday card I wrote

 You are 18 with 72 years of experience! 

Those years have given her 4 children, 10 grandchildren, 2 step grandchildren, 1 great-grandchild and 2 step-great-grandchildren. She has had at least 6 homes across 3 countries, and many, many adventures. She is physically frail now but not so frail that she couldn't, with help from her family, organise a celebratory lunch party, and what a party it was! Everyone who could be there turned up.

Her whole family, her extended family and a few close friends spent a Saturday together. The weather was kind, the food was good, and it was such a joy to see everyone catching up after, in some cases, years of absence. 

Of course there were speeches, a cake with candles, old memories invoked, and glasses raised. But best of all was later when, the celebrations over, just the family reconvened at the home of one of her daughters where us oldies watched and listened to our grandchildren and our great-nieces and great-nephews all sitting and chattering together. Aged between 19 and 29, some still studying, others well established in jobs, most with partners of a similar age, there were a lot of them. As they sat in a circle on the floor and talked about their adventures and their plans for the future it made us cross our fingers and hope they achieve everything they are aiming for, for it's a long road to 90 and much can happen along the way. 

Remembering them as babes in arms, as toddlers, as carefree children who briefly turned into awkward teenagers, and see how they have all grown into kind, hard working and thoughtful adults was wonderful. It was lovely also to see how they took the time to talk and play with the tinies in the party, the great-great-nieces, who, almost asleep on their feet, were far too excited to go to bed, instead commanding the attendance of their many aunties and uncles at every possible moment.

And of course there were also the nieces and one nephew. Yes there were some grey hairs and wrinkles but to us they were still the children we had loved, cared for at times, holidayed with, and always enjoyed. Whether they can remember us when we were younger is a moot point but it doesn't matter because we can. At 18 we were immortal. Now we are just thankful for the many years of experience that followed. We remember what it was like to be young, to live, love, to make mistakes, to dig ourselves out of a jam, to have plans and adventures. We were there once even if to the younger generations such a thing is unimaginable!

As for our sister-in-law, she, like the little ones, fought sleep for as long as she could but eventually she gave in and opted for an early night. When I spoke to her the following day she said she'd had the time of her life. I think at 90, she deserved it! What a milestone.

Short extract from Miss Locatelli

"So what happened next?" Arabella could hardly bear to ask.

"Not at all what I expected and I still feel sick when I think about it now. In my innocence, because I was still very young, I just wanted to give them an hour together...something for Sophia to cherish once Paolo and Bernadetta returned to their life in Florence. I certainly didn't imagine for one minute that they'd elope."

Arabella shook her head in disbelief. "There must have been more to it than that because they only had such a short while together. Not enough time to make plans. Besides, whatever else he is, my grandfather is kind. He's never wittingly hurt anyone in his life."

"Not in your lifetime perhaps cara, but he lived for many years before you were born, and people sometimes do things without a thought for the future, or for anyone else's feelings, when they are young and in love."

Are you an October Person? by Nancy M Bell

 

To learn more about my books go to www.bookswelove.com

Are you an October person? I am for sure. An old friend and author first asked me that. She was an October person, always going out to fight the good fight with all the banners flying in the wind. I'd like to think I'm more than a bit like her.

Aside from that, I have always loved the transition seasons of the year. The miracle of spring after the long  cold nights and short days of winter. But autumn is my favourite. The glory of the maples burning against the vibrant blue of the sky, the last rose of summer blooming into the middle of October- another one who is throwing her banners against the sky and defying the frosty night of the full harvest moon.

I like to write about October people as well, when I was researching Discarded I found Louis Riel and recognized another October person. That being said, things don't always turn out well for October people, but darn we go out when we go with flying colours.

I love the colours of fall, the sepia tones of the dry fields, long grasses whispering in the wind, birds hunting the fallen grains in the shorn crop fields. And the wonder of the wild geese calling into the wind as they begin their journey. It always lifts my heart and for a moment I fly with them, my wings stroking the air.

So to all you October people out there...keep on keeping on!

Until next month stay well, stay happy