Time for a story--Tricia McGill

Find links to all  my books here on my BWL page

Deep into research and planning for my next book, I realised that time had run away with me before I decided on a topic for my latest post. I hope this short story that I wrote many years ago will suffice. Sadly, it says a lot about the state of some of our children in these times, and the poor conditions thrust upon them. It is called The Kitten.

The demons were at his heels. He was panting when he reached the house. It stood, dark, forbidding. He knew it was empty. For the past two years since the Grimwalds had moved out no one had been brave enough to occupy it, even for a night. 

           He climbed through the hole in the fence that was well known by all the local kids. He had come here once with the Wells Street gang, but had heard they never used it as a meeting place any more. He was an outcast now, belonging to no gang. His mum was always bad-tempered and drunk most of the time; had been since his dad went away. What was it about grown-ups that made them take all their problems and misfortunes out on their kids?

            The house loomed before him, dark windows glaring down like black glass eyes. Did he have the courage to go inside? Well, there was only one way to find out. A gust of wind sent a carton flying about and it caught him on the shins, scaring him, making him shudder. He felt as if he had stepped into a movie he watched once, where a werewolf lived in the cellar of a house just like this one. His teeth chattered and he shivered wildly. What was he doing here? He must have gone mad.

            Mad or desperate? Where else could he go? His mum had a new boyfriend with her—some pathetic creep she'd picked up. Greg, his best friend, had been ordered to keep away from him. Funny ideas some grown-ups had. They could only get together at school now. Of course he could go and hang about near the station, but all the druggies got there. He didn't fancy getting mixed up with that lot; he'd managed to keep out of their way up to now.

            He wasn't welcome with the gang any more, since he'd refused to take part in their shop-lifting caper—to prove his bravery, they'd said. What was brave about nicking a few silly bars of chocolate and some cigs?

            He reached the tree where he knew he could get into the house through the upstairs window, and began to climb. He reached the second limb up when a pitiful sound stopped him in his efforts. "Meow...." it came again.

"Where are you? I can hear you, but I can't see you," he called in a loud whisper, and received another yowl in response. Up another foot he went until he could get a hold of the branch hanging over the balcony. A scruffy ball of fur began to hiss at him as he sat back on the branch, and he saw a small dirty-white kitten further up, its coat all wet, its eyes wide and staring. It hissed again and he chatted to it for a few minutes in what he hoped was a comforting tone. He didn't know much about animals, for he'd never been allowed to keep a pet, but he felt a strange empathy with this little creature. It looked just like he felt. Lonely. Sad. Miserable, and confused.

            "Come down then and you can come inside with me," he called, and to his surprise the kitten obeyed, dropping onto the branch beside him. "Wanna come into the house with me?" he asked, and it began to wipe its wet nose on his hand. It sniffed at him a bit and then jumped onto the top rail of the balcony, making a sound in its throat as if calling to him.

            He tentatively crawled along the branch and followed the kitten as it jumped down. It turned to make sure he followed before disappearing through a gap in the double doors.  He pushed the gap a bit wider and went after it. The room was so gloomy that he couldn't see the kitten, but then felt it smooching about his ankles. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was able to follow it to the door, which creaked as he pushed it open. The wind whistled mournfully down the passageway. Strangely, he didn't feel so frightened now he had the cat to keep him company. Stealthily they went down the stairs, and then he heard the strange noise. His flesh began to crawl, goose bumps rising on every inch of his body.

            "Who's there?" he whispered, his voice coming out odd and shaky. He'd heard of knocking knees but until that moment hadn't known just what it meant. "Come out, if you know what's good for you," he cried, not having a clue what he would do if a man came out carrying a gun or some other weapon.

            A funny scuffling sound was followed by a dragging noise and if the cat hadn't decided at that moment to smooch round him again he would have fled. His feet felt as if they were glued to the floor. As if in a dream where you couldn't move he watched as the door to what he guessed was the kitchen slowly opened. A scrawny hand appeared around its edge, the fingers bent and twisted, like talons.

            He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a small yowl just like the cat had made. A face, a terrible face, all lined and flabby, with skin hanging in folds beneath each eye followed the hand. The hair surrounding it was like the strings on the filthy mop that his mum kept outside the back door.  He managed a scream then, but before he could turn and run the thing had moved to clamp those long talon-like fingers over his arm. In terror he shrank from the vile smell coming off what he now saw was an old woman.

            "Let go of me," he ordered with as much bravado as he could muster.

            "Not until you keep quiet, silly little dope. What d'you want to do, waken the dead?" she asked, giving an unearthly cackle that made him shudder anew.

            "Are you dead?" he asked croakily as she released him. He thought of running but decided to stay and see what happened. She certainly didn't look like a ghost, and ghosts didn't stink, did they?

            She took out a piece of rag from the pocket of her cardigan and blew her nose noisily. "Not me. Want a bite?" She offered him a piece of bread. "Nice house isn't it?" she asked companionably. "You must have been mighty desperate to come in alone boy. Tell Old Jane your sorry tale and perhaps I'll let you stay."

            She picked up the kitten and stroked its wet fur before sitting down on the floor. He joined her, feeling safe now as he took a bite of the bread.

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A Regency Christmas by A.M. Westerling

 First off, I would like to wish all our American friends a Happy Thanksgiving! Hope everyone is enjoying a wonderful turkey dinner with loved ones with perhaps a dish of NFL football on the side. 

And what comes after Thanksgiving? Christmas! During the Regency era, Christmas was referred to as Christmastide. It spanned the period from Christmas Eve to January 6, or Twelfth Night, which marked the official end of Christmastide.

On Christmas Eve, families brought greenery indoors, but not before then as it was considered bad luck. Traditional decorations included holly, rosemary, bay, laurel and mistletoe. Evergreens were considered either symbols of eternal life or fertility symbols. Also brought in was the Yule log. It was kept burning as long as possible, at least to the end of Christmas Day and perhaps even until Twelfth Night. Splinters were set aside and used to light the log the following year.

The decorations were taken down and burned once Twelfth Night was over as leaving them up past that date might bring bad luck. Even today, some people take down their decorations before January 6. We do that although I never knew that was the reason!

Christmas Day was a national holiday. It was mostly a religious festival and included charity to the poor. Gifts weren’t usually exchanged although small gifts might be given to children. People went to church and returned home for a splendid Christmas dinner with friends.  Personally, I love decorating the dinner table for Christmas dinner. (As an aside, Christmas trees did not become popular until later in the 19th century so were not part of the Regency era.)

Usually a goose or turkey was served, or for the gentry, venison. Another popular dish was boar’s head, a kid of potted meat dish. This was followed by plum pudding, so called because one of the main ingredients were plums or prunes. These puddings were doused with brandy and set aflame, a key entertainment of the season.

Food played an important part throughout the season as there were a lot of parties and dishes that could be prepared ahead of time and served cold were popular. The wassail bowl was a common drink. Similar to punch, or mulled wine, it was prepared from spiced and sweetened wine or brandy. Apples garnished the bowl from which it was served. Mince meat pies, made from dried fruit, chopped meat, sugar and spices, were also considered staples of a Christmas feast.

St. Stephen’s Day, the day after Christmas, was a day for charity. The gentry gave their servants “Christmas Boxes” which might contain food, old clothing and other castoff items. Often, the staff would be given the day off. Churches collected money and distributed it to those in need. This is how the term “Boxing Day” originated. Also, this was a traditional day for fox hunting and the start of festivities for the remainder of Christmastide.

From the ceiling hung kissing balls and boughs made from twigs, greenery and decorated with seasonal fruit such as apples and of course, mistle toe. No lady could refuse a kiss beneath these. A mistletoe berry was picked for every stolen kiss and once the berries were gone, the practice was over. During the Regency, Christmas carols weren’t popular other than hymns sung in church.

Twelfth Night signaled the end of the season and was marked by another party. Activities during these parties included games such as hoodman blind, hot cockles, snap dragon and bob apple as well as more drinking, eating and dancing. Sugared cakes were part of Twelfth Night and these were the precursor to today’s Christmas cake. Traditionally a slice was given to all household members.  

Sadly, this extended Christmas season came to an end shortly after the Regency period due to the disappearance of the rural way of life and also the Industrial Revolution and the need for workers to continue working through out that season.

It seems only proper to give the closing words to Jane Austen: “I wish you a cheerful and at times even a Merry Christmas”.

*****

You might enjoy my Regency era Christmas novella, Evelyn's Beau:

 As a favour to the local vicar, Lady Evelyn Kendall agrees to organize a Christmas pageant involving disadvantaged children, never realizing it would lead to disaster for both her and Lord Oliver Harrington, the man she loves. 

The ebook is available at your favourite online store HERE. A print version would make an ideal gift! Available on Amazon in both the United States and Canada. 

Find all my books on the BWL Publishing website HERE.

My Poetry Moment by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

https://www.bookswelove.com/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

My Poetry Moment

      Over my writing career I have had articles, short stories, travel books, and mystery, young adult, and science fiction novels published. And one poem. When that one poem was accepted for publication, I felt I had taken my writing to another level. I decided, though, that my contribution was going to be different, that I was going to take the poetry community by storm. I wanted to make my mark, to stand out in the poetry world. And to do that I came up with a new poetry sub-genre that I called Script Poetry. Just like a movie script I set up the scene and the tone for the poem and give some background of the story in the poem by using a script layout. It made the whole poem more visual and that way I could get right to the meat of what I wanted to say. 

     I enthusiastically sent out my script poems and waited for the accolades to come in.

    Surprisingly, the publishers were not as galvanized about this new style of poetry as I was. No one accepted them for publication. 

     But never underestimate the power of a script poet scorned. At the same time as I was planning my burst onto the poetry stage, I was writing my mystery novel "The Only Shadow In The House," the second book of The Travelling Detective Series. I gave one of my characters the career of a poet and her specialty was Script Poetry. Needless to say the publishers and critics in my fictional world were highly impressed with the poems. The poetry was very popular with the reading public and the poetress won many awards. 

     To quote from my book: One critic wrote that her poems have an innovative, revolutionary style that is shaking the foundations of the conventionally staid poetry community, while another critic called them insightful and powerful. 

     I have taken one of the script poems from that novel for you to judge for yourself.

 

Fade In
Act One
Exterior-Farm House-Night.
There is snow on the ground. Stars twinkle in the clear, night sky. A vehicle pulls into the yard and a woman climbs out. She stares at the house then takes a deep breath. She releases it in a vapour. With slow tread she climbs up the steps and enters the darkened house. Inside, she stops and listens.

 

There is no noise in my house, it is dark and silent.
Today, I buried you. Is this what it is like in your grave,
total quiet, total darkness?
I flip on the light and wander the house
looking at the possessions that
represented a life that never existed,
except in my own mind.
This has been our home for nineteen years
but it now feels alien to me.
Because from now on I know that mine
will be the only shadow in the house.
I must leave here soon.

 

End Act One
Fade Out

 

Fade In
Act Two
Interior-Farm House- Night.
All the lights are on in the house. The woman is in the kitchen. She pushes over the shelving holding plant seedlings and pots. She heads to the dining room and goes to a china cabinet with no doors. All the shelves hold figurines and dishes and knick knacks. They crash to the floor with a sweep of her hand. The ones that don’t break, disintegrate under her foot.

 

“Damn you, Ben. Damned you to hell!” I yell.
I want you to hear. I want you to know
the sorrow and the pain you have brought me.
I go from room to room, expunging.
I spray your shaving cream on the walls.
I dump your aftershave in the tub.
I grab a knife and shred your clothes.
Finally, there is nothing of yours left.
I feel some satisfaction.
You destroyed my life and now I have
destroyed everything that represented yours.
“There you bastard,” I say. “Rot in hell.”

 

Fade Out
End Act Two

 

Fade In
Act Three
Interior-Farm House- Night
The woman is standing in front of a picture on the living room wall. The furniture and floor are littered with debris. She takes the picture off the hook and stares at it a long time.

 

I find our wedding photograph on the wall.
I’d had it enlarged for our tenth anniversary
as my loving gift to you.
Were you as pleased as you said you were
or was that just a sham?
I smash the glass against the corner of the table.
I cut my finger removing the shards.
I look at you smiling back at me.
Were you an impostor in our marriage?
For now I wonder how many other
women did you see over our nineteen years.
I slash the picture with the knife. How symbolic.

 

End Act Three
Fade Out

The Baddies in My Books by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

I always have trouble creating evil characters. I would say that most have mine have been flawed in some way rather than truly evil. Except for, maybe, Sir Peregrine Styles in my first Regency romance, His Dark Enchantress. Sir Peregrine was very much a depraved character, particularly in the satisfaction he derived from causing pain or trouble to others. He was a narcissist, manipulator, and opportunist all rolled into one character but none of that was greatly surprising given the era and strata of society he grew up in.

People being people, and our characters are people if only in our minds and books, good and bad can

come from anywhere. The best of families could have one bad apple. A family in the poorest area of town may have a dad with a heart of gold and a mum who will do anything for her children first and her neighbours after that.

People can and do change and here Rose of Sharon in Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath springs to mind. Circumstances can mould a person. Disappointment after disappointment may eventually turn a happy, positive person bitter and cause them to seek revenge against those he or she believes responsible. Being brought up in an abusive household may produce another abuser or someone who would never lift a finger against another person.

As authors, building the backstory for a flawed or evil character is as intriguing and circuitous as those of our main characters and, dare I say, might take a bit more of a psychological twist. Writing historical fiction means dipping into the social history of the era whether, in my case, it is the Regency or Edwardian eras. The class structure was pretty much adhered to. People ‘knew their place.’ But within that structure, the mores of the Regency became stricter through the Victorian era and began to ease again in the Edwardian era, especially the La Belle Epoch era in Europe which dated from the early 1870s up until the outbreak of World War 1.

Regency characters who held ambitions to rise above their place in society might be referred to as ‘mushrooms.’ The term ‘nabob,’ originally denoting an official under the Mughal Empire, came to be used somewhat derisively for a pretentious person, especially one growing his own wealth rather than inheriting it.

My current ‘baddie’ is one Ruby Baker in Phoebe Fisher, the third book in my series Those Regency Belles. Ruby is a barmaid with took my hero’s promises to heart. In a drunken moment as an eighteen-year-old and about to embark on his first voyage, Andrew promised to bring her jewels from India. Ten years later, Ruby arrives on his doorstep to collect them. However, now Andrew has inherited a title and gained a wife. What will Ruby do? I’m still working on that. 

Victoria Chatham

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Married Protagonists? by DeanHovey

 

Although it's hard to top Dashiell Hammett's "The Thin Man" characters, Nick and Nora Charles, the prospect of using a husband and wife team as co-protagonists was intriguing. Not that I planned it. 

I've probably explained my somewhat chaotic writing process. Ideas bounce around inside my head until they start to form patterns. At that point, I dive in and write an opening chapter. Following that, I create a rough outline (that I may or may not consult as I write), then I write an ending. That's the organized part of the process. Then the characters take over. When the dialogue flows, the plot and story go in unexpected directions. 

I was on a mystery conference writer's panel discussion with Monica Ferris (Crewel World and A Stitch in Time). Monica explained that her characters had taken over a manuscript. To regain control, she'd shredded 100 pages, then had a stern discussion with her protagonist about who was the writer and who was the character.

At the time I thought Monica, who is a flamboyant character in her own right, had a screw loose. Over the years, I've learned to listen to the voices of my characters. They often have an interesting twist, revealed through their dialogue, that wasn't part of the outline. Those twists take my often linear outlines, adding branches, subplots, and sometimes adding characters who add richness to the story.

So it was with the Doug Fletcher mystery series. In Stolen Past, Doug, a retired detective, is working as a part-time National Park Service ranger. He's drafted by his supervisor to initiate a murder investigation when the FBI declines to pursue it. Doug's female superintendent, happily leaves him free rein to pursue the investigation, asking only for a daily update so she can answer her boss's questions. Their professional interaction grows into professional respect and friendship. I had no intention of carrying Superintendent Jill Rickowski beyond the first book. Then Jill started talking to me. She pointed out that her comfortable friendship with Doug Fletcher offered me me the opportunity to take the Washed Away plot in ways I hadn't envisioned.

Did I want married protagonists? Not really. Do I enjoy writing about my married protagonists? Yes, immensely. Although one of my proofreaders says I write better mystery than romance, the chemistry between my protagonists is warm and their wry banter is fun.

One of the Doug Fletcher Mysteries fans sent me an email that summed up the comfortable relationship between the main characters. "Doug and Jill are people I'd like to invite over for a beer and discussion." Another reader put it differently, "I wish Doug and Jill were my relatives."

In Grave Survey (BWL Publishing, January 2022) their unique and individual skill sets play off each other when the Fletchers are thrown into the foreign southwest Florida environment. In a place where police are mistrusted, and federal officers (like National Park Service Rangers) are hated, they're assigned the task of finding two missing surveyors who've been platting oil drilling leases in Big Cypress National Preserve. Fletchers find themselves seeking answers in a place where the local residents often show open contempt when questioned.

What would you do if a homeowner met you at the door with a shotgun? You'll see Doug and Jill's response in Grave Survey.

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