Today I have a book spotlight for you on the fantasy novel, Legacy by Michelle E. Lowe. Enjoy.
Legacy (Volume One) by Michelle E. Lowe
Indigo Peachtree has spent most of his life making toys for children. This kindly old toy-maker, however, has carried with him a secret he wishes to remain unknown. Yet as with most secrets they tend to come up to the surface over time. Tarquin Norwich, a ruthless lord, has come to learn about a journal containing everything Indigo desperately wants to protect. When the toy-maker goes underground, Tarquin seeks help from a witch, Mother of Craft, to go about finding other ways to obtain what he desires.
Mother of Craft tells him that in order to find Indigo, and his journal, he will need two outlaw brothers.
He sends his children, Archie and Clover Norwich, across the English Channel to snare the infamous outlaw, Pierce Landcross who knows the whereabouts of the journal.
Tarquin and his eldest son, Ivor, capture Pierce’s estranged brother, Joaquin Landcross, to find the missing toy-maker.
As Pierce is being pulled back to England, his dire situation flips completely around when he’s saved by a crew of Apache privateers known as the legendary Sea Warriors.
Instead of fleeing with his seabound mates, Pierce decides to return to England, taking Archie and Clover with him, to try and save his old friend, Indigo. Going back means Pierce will encounter old dangers as well as face a part of his past he would much rather leave behind.
Pierce Landcross awakened in his hotel room after a day’s sleep. He had arrived just the evening before, tired and hungry. After eating at the downstairs restaurant and pub, he’d gone to his room and fallen asleep the moment he fell onto the mattress. He had stayed in the same position upon his belly until his body fully restored its restfulness. With a groan and deep yawn, Pierce rose out of bed, stretched, and went over to the washbasin. After cleaning his face and the rest of the sleep away, he looked at himself in the mirror. The room glowed with the afternoon light, giving him a clear view of the scar.
It was his daily reminder of betrayal and heartbreak. Every detail of that horrible night played out in significant fragments; the punch that brought him down, the knife, the look on the cutter’s face, the abandonment. Every time he touched the scar, he could almost feel the dull, yet jagged blade tearing across his skin.
Author Bio:
Michelle E. Lowe is the author of The Warning, Atlantic Pyramid, Cherished Thief, the action adventure/fantasy novel with the elements of steampunk, titled Legacy. Children’s books, Poe’s Haunted House Tour, and the three part adventure children’s series, The Hex Hunt. She is also a mother, wife, and painter. Her works in progress are the continuations for Legacy. Currently, she lives in Lake Forest, California.
You can find out more about Michelle and her books at her website: www.michellelowe.net
Today I have another Fireside Chat (with the debut of its new logo). Richard Dale will be interviewing the immortal, Gabriel Lennox, the main character from The Gabriel Lennox series by Monique Desir. Enjoy...
A Fireside Chat with Gabriel
Lennox
“Welcome everyone, to
another Fireside Chat. I’m Richard Dale, your host. Today, our guest is the
immortal being, Gabriel Lennox.” Richard nods to the man sitting opposite
to him. “Welcome Mr. Lennox. Would you
care to begin bytelling our audience
a bit about yourself.”
Gabriel reaches out his hand and gives Richard’s a firm
shake. “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Dale. There’s really not much to
say about my past. Sixteenth century British parents bore my twin sister and
me. All dead though. There were witch hunts in those days, notorious for their
cruelty. I’m the last of my mortal bloodline. I’ve lived for almost 500 years.”
Gabriel silently stares at the untouched glass of wine in front of him. “I’d rather keep the remainder of my rather
maudlin background to myself and share the much more pleasant present. There’s
nothing like the present, eh?”
Gabriel laughs and smiles. “I’m currently the owner of a Host Club service in Florida,
which caters not only to the Tampa Bay area’s ladies of the night, but to
wealthy women of all shapes and sizes. I encountered these fascinating
establishments while visiting Japan and just had to open one here. After all,
what better way to explain a mansion full of abnormally young, beautiful, and
age-defying men away to the rest of the world? I also self-publish books about
the 17th century swashbuckling opera singer and bloodsucker – I
added that juicy little tidbit—, Frenchwoman, Julie d'Aubigny, under the droll
penname I.M. Alucard. Both the business and writing work wonders in paying the
bills. After all, I have blood-children to provide for and clothe. And yet,
most importantly, both keep me entertained year after year.”
“An interesting array
of activities and obligations” Richard nods again, his expression rather
passive. “If I might inquire, you are one
of the Chosen, vampires if you will, though I know you are not fond of that
term. And yet, you have rejected their way of life. Why?”
Gabriel leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes. “Because
I simply find any addiction deplorable. And most importantly, the vampires’,” he enunciates the word with
enough poison to kill an adder, “flavor of immortality leaves a bad taste in my
mouth. Are the vampires of legend truly immortal? Of course not. When one
really analyzes their nature, it’s quite pathetic really. Hide away all day,
stalk the dark, drink blood, seduce this person or that. Try to rule the world
or their insignificant and small region of said small world. Rinse and repeat. How
do these goals set vampires a part from any ordinary human being? I want more
than blood, lust, conquest, and darkness. I want to be my own god with no
shortcomings – especially the ultimate shortcoming – death. I need to conquer
that and then be able to do as I please without any inhibitions.” He shrugs his
shoulders, frowning. He reaches for the glass, handling
it delicately by its fragile handle and twirls the blood-red contents before
draining it dry. “And sadly, I have learned that my desire comes at a price. A
price that I’m unwilling to pay. So, I will discover another way. If there is a
will . . .”
“A very determined
attitude. What would you consider your greatest character flaw?” Richard
smiles, adding, “And what would be your
most virtuous trait?”
Gabriel grins, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “What if
they’re one in the same?” He waves his hand in the air, as if dismissing his
own question. “I’ve been called obstinate and I will claim the insult and
accept it as a compliment. Stubbornness has safeguarded my life. However, since
you didn’t say that the trait and character flaw could be one in the same, my
most virtuous trait is loyalty. My friends and those who I have sworn to
protect can depend on me.”
“Fascinating. As a
member of the paranormal set, how do you view your fellow supernatural beings?”
Gabriel’s jawline stiffens and his voice deepens with
resolve. “With caution. Creatures of darkness, such as demons, fallen angels
and the like are on my personal hit list. My ultimate passion in life is to
hunt and destroy demon-kind. There’s no love lost between us. I learned that my
maker deceived me into binding a pact with such monsters and I will not rest
until every last one is sent to the abyss. She even went so far as to enthrall
humanity to these beasts.” He pauses, clenching and unclenching his hand, a
faraway look in his emerald-green eyes, as if waiting for an inner, fuming tide
to ebb away. The lines in his young and handsome face relax. “I have
encountered elves and find them to be both equally charming and obnoxious. I
suppose it’s a cultural thing. I look forward to encountering other
supernatural beings and seeing where they fit in the paranormal puzzle.”
“I don’t disagree with
your assessment of demons, elves I have yet to encounter.” Richard grins,
and continues, “What would you consider
to be the best quality of human nature?”
“I suppose, resilience. You know, the courage to carry on
even when defeat appears to be the only possible outcome. I suppose such overly
optimistic thinking can also be rather foolish, but” he breaks off, chuckling,
“it’s rather endearing, eh?”
“Quite. What is the
strangest occurrence that happened to you in your long life?”
“The strangest occurrence I’ve experienced was a repetitive
dream I had of a beautiful woman. She appeared every now and then as I slept to
pass the time. But then, one evening I encountered her. She was weeping and
resembled a spectre. I ached to touch this vision, but was interrupted. That
first time I had glimpsed her was in 1888. And now, just a little while ago –
no more than a week – I believe I saw her sitting in a coffee shop parking lot.
Our eyes met and she slipped into her car and drove away. I wonder what this
means.” He brushes the tips of his fingers across his lips, looking deep in
thought.
Richard pauses for a moment to let his guest compose himself,
and then asks, “What is your best memory?”
“Hmmm. That’s another excellent question. Slaying my first
fallen angel, which is also my worst memory. You see, in order to conquer him,
I had to absorb his essence. Little did I know what that entailed. And as you
might realize it didn’t end well. You see, we’ve been somewhat er, uh . . . fused – for lack of a better word.” Gabriel
crosses his leg over his knee and sighs. He taps the side of his head with his
index finger. “He usually talks, spouting on and on about what I don’t know.
And on occasion, he gives me advice on how to defeat others like him. But as of
late, he’s been very quiet . . . too quiet.” He sighs again and fixes Mr. Dale
with an intense stare. “If you know of anyone who can exorcise a demon, please
send him or her my way.” He crosses his arms against his chest, trembling as if
someone had walked over his grave. He forces out a laugh. “I suppose there is a
bright side to this: I won’t grow bored devising a plan on ridding myself of
him.”
“I’m afraid I can’t
help you on exorcism. I tend to shy away from anything dealing with demons. I did
recently interview a priest, but I don’t think he practices that discipline.” Richard
clears his throat. “On a different subject, what do you do for relaxation? Are
you fond of reading, listening to music, or other leisure activities?
I enjoy gardening and enjoying the beauty of my labor. And
there is of course reading and writing. A long time ago I amused myself with
the notion of dating. But after several awkward first dates, I’ve come to the
conclusion that modern women and I don’t have much in common.”
“One last question. What
is your idea of perfect happiness?”
The shadow of a smirk plays on Gabriel’s mouth. “I have
never entertained such idyllic thinking. In an imperfect world, how could one
grasp such a state? And for the sake of argument, once one has obtained perfect
happiness, how would one maintain it? That is a riddle I would love to unlock.”
“Well thank you Mr. Lennox,
for agreeing to this interview. It has been enlightening.”
~*~
You can find the first book in the Gabriel Lennox series on Amazon
Today on Drabble Wednesday, I showcase the horror in the things
we leave behind…
Secrets Behind the Shutters
Flapping in the wind of the oncoming storm, the shutters of
the abandoned house rattled and thumped. Bang!
Bang! The loud and violent cracks shattered the interminable silence that
surrounded it, and something inside the house shuddered. This thing shifted, a black void coiling
around itself.
The walls of the house imprisoned it, existence bound by rotting
wood and broken glass, and its own fear. It swallowed the interior within impenetrable
darkness, no light passed beyond the windows; not in, nor out. It lived only as
a consequence, birthed by hate and blood, doomed to haunt this spot for
eternity.
~*~
Leftovers
The rusted old truck, a relic even before the Fall, waited
on the broken asphalt as the night closed in around it. A light dusting of snow
gathered over its metal frame, as the first flakes of winter tumbled from the
sky.
Its owner parked in a hurry, motor still running, rushed to
pack up and leave before the calamitous world and its horrors caught up with
him. The old faithful truck waited through the night and the next day, waited until
its motor sputtered and its gas tank bled dry.
And there it remained.
No one was coming back.
~*~
Dolly Dear
The doll sat on a trunk in the attic, her porcelain face
cracked, moth holes and stains marring the fabric of her dress and its lace yellowed
with age. No one played with her anymore. She was forgotten. What she witnessed
was forgotten.
Yet, she remembered.
Her memories burned with images, the horror her unblinking glass
eyes saw that day. Her beloved child
killed. Slashed and savaged, cast off blood soaking into the doll’s dress. Those memories made her tremble.
That’s why she liked the attic, so quiet and peaceful. Here
the doll could remember good times, not the horror…
Today I present another Fireside Chat for the paranormal anthology, Beyond the Wail. In this character interview our intrepid Richard Dale sits down to chat with Father Mahoney, from the story The Poltergeist and Aunt Betty by Ginger C. Mann.
And don't forget to keep scrolling down past the interview for a giveaway, book trailer, and a listing for the book's wonderful blog tour.
And now I give you...
A Fireside Chat with Father Mahoney
“Welcome everyone, to
another Fireside Chat. I’m Richard Dale, your host. Today, our guest is Father
Mahoney, of the St. Philip’s Catholic Church in Lake Charles, Louisiana.” Richard
nods to the man sitting opposite to him. “Welcome
Father.Why don’t you begin bytelling our audience a bit about yourself.”
“Thank you,
Richard, and thank you for having me here. A ‘bit about myself?’ I am a son of
Irish immigrants from Chicago, and now I'm the newest priest at St. Philip’s
Catholic Church in Lake Charles, Louisiana. It's a beautiful parish, and the
church is over 100 years old. This is my fourth year to serve there.”
“As you said, you are
now firmly established in your faith, but you essentially rejected the Church
for some time in your younger days. Care to elaborate on the reasons for your
crisis of faith?”
Father Mahoney pauses. “There was a time that I rejected the church, yes. It is
difficult to remember it, but I will tell you a brief account. As a child, I was
badly bullied by a minister. I was raised a strong Catholic, and my family was active.
Of course, as a son in a an active
church family, I soon became an altar boy. It started out well for me, but as
time passed, I discovered that the priest who advised me was not a gentle man.
In fact, I now recognize that children frightened him. For any tiny mistake I
made, he was careful to berate me publicly. He used other tactics, too – no, no
details, but many things that kept me in fear of him. He was good at control,
and he terrified me so completely that he gave me nightmares. I was too
frightened of him to ask for help, so this went on for some time. One morning,
after I served Mass especially poorly, he grew so angry that he began to hit me. I was lucky that my mother was standing
there to witness that, or it could have gotten much worse. She pulled me away
immediately, and took action with church authorities. However, like so many abusers,
this priest was not disciplined. I stopped serving on the altar, but the next
week, another child was up there in the same position. That burned in my gut
until it wore me down. I could not let it go, and neither could my family. We
left the church over it. After awhile, I could not stand the sight of any church.
My mother returned to a different one after a few years, but I was sure I would
never go back.”
“Yet you did, but not
before pursuing other interests, such as ghost hunting.” Richard pauses
slightly. “Your first substantial paranormal encounter was at Auschwitz. How
profound an experience was that, and are there any ongoing consequences?”
Father
Mahoney closes his eyes, as if struggling with himself. He looks down, then
gathers his strength and faces the host. “This is less of a reaction and more of
a story, Richard, if we have the time?”
Richard
nods. “We do.”
“First, your
audience needs to know that I considered myself an Atheist before I studied the
paranormal. In fact, I rejected all spirituality. God’s representative hurt me,
and for me that made God a monster. So, I wrapped all spirituality in the same
package with that monstrous God, and threw it out. I chose psychology as my
course of study, but then I discovered parapsychology. I liked that subject a lot, mainly because it tended to view paranormal
activity as a mental condition, and nothing else.
“I was fond of ghost hunter groups back
then. I found them so easy to ridicule: plenty of gadgetry, lots of heartbeat
monitors and ultra sensitive cameras, and for what? Time-lapsed, blurry melodrama. Oh,
and folklore. They were great at folklore. Tell a story, find a blur in a
picture frame. Tell the story again, and sell the blur.”
“Not
an uncommon reaction to these types of groups.” Richard murmurs sympathetically.
“Apologies, Richard, I am being
unkind. It's an echo of who I was back then, and I hope I am not the same now.
I often cringe at how callous I used to be. Well, there was a group of ghost
hunters who tolerated me, even though I was a young Ph. D. student who “knew it
all,” and talked to them like they were idiots. However, they were
thick-skinned and refused to take it personally. They dismissed my ideas about
as thoroughly as I dismissed theirs, and then we would go out for beers
afterward. I enjoyed giving the “logical rebuttal” speech in the middle of
their films – the kind that set their
entire premise on its ear. They enjoyed pipping me the rest of the time, and so we called it
even.
“So I was
happy when they approached me with a “special project”. They wanted to film a
sequence on location at Auschwitz. (Don't even ask me how they worked that out
with the bean counters at the University.)
Before I knew it, we were there on site, hunting for disembodied spirits and
fog wisps. They set up their thousands of wires and their beep-boop machines
and started crawling the place dressed in jumpsuits and night vision goggles.
Comical. Then, it happened.
“I didn't follow the troop, I just
sat there in the middle of the courtyard. Looked to be the same one where
prisoners were brought for mass meetings by the Nazi keepers. As an abused
child, my heart breaks for the oppressed. I found myself remembering the victims
of the slaughter, thinking on them solemnly. I told myself I might have said a
prayer, back when I believed in anything. Instead, I grabbed my sketchbook. I had
pasted a list of Auschwitz victims inside
the front cover. I studied it for a minute, thinking about how their lives
ended. Then, on a whim, I began to mention them out loud. Right there in the middle of the courtyard, I spoke
about about ten names at random.
“I paused and looked up from my book
for a moment. A skinny man stood there, staring
me down. I thought for a moment that he was with us, but then I noticed that he
was almost naked. His face and form faded back and forth, as if he were made
out of mist. His eyes sagged like pits. Before I could react, another man came
forward. Both of them stared at me in the same way, as if they were trying to
make up their minds about something. The first one spoke. He said, “Do you see
us?” All I could do was nod.
“Then, I noticed something else, Richard:
looking around that courtyard, I saw no fewer than ten wispy forms wandering the grounds. I watched them walk
right through the ghost hunters, who ignored them. On a hunch, I began to speak
again, reading the same ten names from that list in my book. One by one, they
wandered in my direction. When I passed their names, they wandered off again.
Most of them sat down, hugging their legs. Some of them stood up on occasion, and
they would begin to flail as if they were taking a beating. I was looking at suffering
people, but never once did I see any of their oppressors. Furthermore, my
colleagues continued to turn a blind eye, and so did their equipment. Not so
much as a “blip” registered on the
paranormal tracking devices. Looked like another folklore-telling,
smudge-selling outing for them. I was the only witness to this scene, or so I
believed.
“The place was dark and dank, and
the people looked to be in hell. I witnessed them there, still in their torture
chamber, as if their souls languished here after their bodies left them behind.
I wept openly, casting about for something to do, some way to help. I focused, not
with my eyes, but with my heart. I concentrated on my connection with them. As
I did so, their forms grew clearer. I
sat there beside them, watching their agony and weeping tears of grief.
“It was then that I looked up. Above
the scene, misty like the spirits around me, I saw a radiant light in the sky. Something
felt . . . alive in it. To look at it filled me with joy. I turned to the man
next to me and tapped him on the shoulder. I pointed up, trying to ask him what
it was. He stared at the ground and hugged his knees. I tried again, he shook
his head and wailed. I sat and cried with him. It was all I could do.
“I moved on to the woman next to
him. I sat by her and said, “I see you.” She was startled – so startled that she
looked straight at me. One of her eyes was missing, and the other was streaming,
either with tears or disease. I reached
out my hand, and she took it. Felt like a downy feather, her touch. I said,
“There is something up there. A beautiful light. What is it?”
“It was then that I witnessed my
first miracle, Richard. She raised her face and looked straight into the sky. As
she looked, the eye that had been missing reformed itself in her skull. Her
flesh filled out and hair grew on her head. She was suddenly young and
beautiful. She stared back at me, two crisp blue eyes wide with surprise. “I
don't hurt anymore,” that is what her face said. She turned away, and I saw her
take the hand of the man next to her. He tossed her off initially, but she
shook him until he looked up angrily, with war on his face. Then, he caught
sight of her, all new and restored like she was. He said, “Schlomit?” Then, he
looked past her and froze in place. As the light in the sky bathed his eyes,
his body straightened into a handsome young man. He gazed at Schlomit, who I
assumed was his wife, and they embraced each other.
“The two of them walked away after
that, hand in hand. They were headed toward the light that healed them, but I
honestly can't say where they went. For my part, I gazed for a moment on that
spectral light. Nothing logical about this, but for the first time since my own
abuse, I thought I might be worthy of love.
“Now, we scientists like to have cross-validators
in these little field experiments, so imagine my surprise when I caught the
tour guide staring straight at me. This was no university educated “paranormal
specialist.” It was a minimum wage adult, babysitting a few college kids on a
ghost safari. He didn't speak, he just pointed to each and every spirit who
remained on the grounds, and then up to the sky. He saw exactly what I saw. We
locked eyes. Knowing that my German was as rusty as his English, I chose not to
speak out loud; but eyeing each other, we made a gentlemen’s pact nonetheless.
One by one, we approached every spirit and encouraged them to look up; look
away from their private hell. Some of them listened. Some of them did not.
“We had to leave, and I could not
give my debunking speech on the ghost video. I took all kinds of snark for it,
but I didn't care. Instead, I buckled down, focused on trying to help the
victims I could still see. In the end, I could not force any decision on them.
I could just show them and watch the healing, or respect their decision to
suffer. If they suffered, I would sit next to them, hold them, and cry. That
changed a man's mind once. Just one man, but it was enough to make me keep
trying. I stayed in that same courtyard until my colleagues dragged me out.”
Father
Mahoney pauses, visibly upset. “Someday, Richard, I will go back. I will sit
with those souls for an eternity in that squalid place, if there is a chance of
saving even one more of them from hell.”
There is a moment of silence before Richard speaks. “Well. A profound experience indeed. I’m not
quite certain what to ask as my next question—wait, I believe it’s time for some
refreshment.” They are interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman carrying a
tray with shot glasses and a decanter. “I
see Jenkins has brought the whiskey. Wonderful.
I believe it’s just the thing we need.” Richard smiles as Jenkins sets the
tray down and waits. “Care for a nip?
It’s an excellent Irish whiskey. Jameson I believe.”
“Jameson is
a fine whiskey, thank you Richard. I'm still an Irishman to the core. I do love
a nip from time to time.”
Jenkins pours two glasses of liquor, serves both men, and
then retreats. Richard Dale takes a sip of whiskey and asks, “As someone with a gift for interacting with
the otherworldly, what most fascinates you regarding the paranormal and ghosts
in particular?”
“On a different
subject, do you have any hobbies outside the Church?”
He smiles.
“I love a good game of chess. I was once a tournament champ all across the
Midwest. Care for a match, Richard?” He turns his head. “Or perhaps you,
Jenkins?”
Jenkins blinks, and replies. “I shall have to decline, sir.
I don’t play. But thank you.”
Richard smirks somewhat. “Yes, I believe Jenkins is a bridge man. I’d be happy to take you up on
your offer of a game, after the interview. And speaking of such, what is your idea of perfect happiness?”
“I have
seen and felt perfect happiness. It is in that Presence that I saw for the
first time in Germany, and still see today. I dream of spending every moment in
that eternal Light.”
“And admirable
sentiment, Father.” Richard finishes his whiskey and sets down the glass. “What is your fondest memory?”
“Ah, this
is where I can tell you about Her.
“After some time in Auschwitz, I
began to remember my own mornings of hell, when I was beaten down by my
tormentor. They paled in comparison to what the wailing spirits of Auschwitz had
seen, but somehow my stay there made my monster rear its ugly head again, and
so my nightmares returned. I found myself crouched in a ball, an
eleven-year-old boy sniveling, waiting for a troubled priest to beat me up
again. I would not uncurl for anything or anyone, because he was as real to me
as you are Richard: standing above me, holding a stick. My instinct was to protect myself.
“I felt a touch on my shoulder.
Downy, like the touch of Schlomit. The wind blew my hair, and I smelled roses.
The touches persisted, they would not leave me alone. I finally peeked out
through my fingers, the way kids do sometimes. A woman looked back at me. I
never saw her face clearly – its form kept shifting; but I saw she was a spirit.
She was made of light, though, not the misty, grey, filmy stuff I saw in the
other ones. She pointed with her hand, inviting me to stand and look at
something. I was too frightened, so I hid my face again.
“She did not leave me. Instead, I
was surrounded by the fragrance of roses, and little downy feathers seemed to
fall all over my skin. I peeked through my fingers again. Her face was still
there, out of focus, but . . . I could tell she was weeping. She surrounded me with
herself, light and fragrance and feathers. Wind through my hair, and soft
melodies in my ears. I struggled between self-defense and enchantment,
determined to keep safe, but wishing I could look at her longer. Finally, I
dropped my hands. Fingers made of light lifted my chin, feathers in the breeze caressed
my face and urged it up, up, up. Without knowing what I was doing, I looked
straight into the sky and gazed on that radiant light. She held me there while
I took it all in. The love, Richard, it was indescribable. Nothing hurt me
anymore, not even my most secret fears. I fell for Her that day, and She has
been with me ever since, an adorable Presence by my side.
“You see, priesthood is a logical
vocation for a man like me. There is not a woman alive who could take Her place.”
“Quite amazing. As to
your vocation, what is the most rewarding aspect of being a priest?”
“It continues
to reward me when I see the healing of a broken soul. One does not have to be a
ghost to suffer, Richard. I lost my love of the Catholic Church because
someone's bad actions defaced God. I strive every day to right that wrong, and
represent God with kindness. Sometimes, one of the sufferers listens, “looks up,”
and sees the love that waits for them. Those are good days, Richard. Very good
days.”
“One last question. Have
you ever met anyone else with your particular gift for seeing ghosts?”
“A relevant
question! The answer will surprise you. I find that almost everyone has this
“gift”. It's just a question of focus. Some minds are especially attuned to the
unseen. I find that these are people whose minds are not burdened by
expectations of “real” and “normal”. I notice that many children and animals
see exactly what I see.
“Other minds are sensitive as well:
people who are diagnosed “mentally ill” sometimes are seeing spirits that walk
the earth. Where it gets dicey is when they can see actual spirits, but then
hallucinate others. I find that I can sometimes guide these types, and help
them to tell the real from the imagined, and do some good. Spirits usually want
to be seen by someone, and they often gather around a
living person who can discern them.”
Well thank you Father
Mahoney, for agreeing to this interview. It was a distinct pleasure. Now for
that game of chess…
What is it about fear and the unknown that pulls so passionately at the human heart? Perhaps we are drawn not to the darkness itself, but to the resolution, the overcoming of what we most deeply dread. After all, the more terrible the struggle, the greater the victory when it comes at last. Presented in this anthology are twelve remarkable stories of the darkness that overshadows us, and the resolution that may be found beyond them. They are stories of fear and oppression, but ultimately stories of hope, stories that will take you BEYOND THE WAIL.
Today I present a Fireside Chat. Our intrepid Richard Dale interviews Elizabeth Young, one of the characters of the story Date Due by Danielle E. Shipley. Date Due is included in the paranormal anthology, Beyond the Wail. Be sure to scroll down past the interview for a giveaway, book trailer, and a listing for the book's wonderful blog tour.
Fireside Chat with Elizabeth Young
“Welcome everyone, to
another Fireside Chat. I’m Richard Dale, your host. Today, our guest is writer,
Elizabeth Young.” Richard nods to the woman sitting opposite to him. “Welcome Ms. Young.It is a great pleasure to have an author of your immense talent here
today. I’m quite the fan. I’ve read most of your stories and essays, and look
forward to reading your first book.” He smiles broadly, positively gushing.
“Why don’t you begin bytelling our audience a bit about yourself.”
“Well.” Elizabeth’s brows rise, gentle black arches in a round
brown face. “Isn’t that interesting. Here I’ve thought myself to be relatively
unknown, only for your interview invitation to arrive scarcely an hour ahead of
an e-mail from a publisher expressing interest in my work. I can only suppose
an imminent change in fortune. Ahead of that, there’s little enough to tell
about me. Or perhaps it’s only that the price an author pays for the crafting
of fiction is the famine of words left to speak of themselves. Still, I have
managed to scrape together a professional bio.”
She leans back in her seat, her low voice gone huskier as
she speaks as if weaving a tale. “ ‘Elizabeth Young has not always considered
herself a writer. But from as early as she knew that words come together to
make stories, she has loved them both. She finds herself drawn to fictional
worlds where the ordinary and extraordinary live in subtle harmony –
paranormal, contemporary fantasy, anything with an underlying magic that makes
her blood sing. A current resident of the American Southwest, in the hours
between grading the papers of her community college World Literature class, she
fills her own pages with dreams.’ ”
“You are too modest. You
have many fans, myself among them.”He
smiles. “But I’m sure you want to get on
with the interview, not hear me prattle.” His expression changes slightly,
becoming more serious. “The life of a
teacher must be fulfilling.As must
be the life of a writer. Tell me, what would you most like your readers to gain
from your work?”
“Oh, nothing so grand.” Her full, red lips pull into a
slight smile. “I only wish to grant them the temporary divorce of body from
soul. These forms are so limiting, are they not? Restricting us to little more
than what we can see, taste, touch, and so forth. A good story will take you
out of yourself. Allow your spirit into others’ minds and hearts. Your world
expands, immeasurable. You live a thousand lives. That is no small magic, and
I’ve found I have the knack.”
“A great knack, I
assure you. Who are your personal inspirations and influences in the world of
literature?”
“Most anything with atmosphere, something providing a sense
of place so present, you can almost feel its nearness brushing up against your
skin. I’ve found it often enough in prose, though poetry does a fine job of it,
too; I love a thoughtful haiku – the whole of a hymn in the space of a breath.
Hmm, naming names… Francis Hodgson Burnett’s secret garden. L.M. Montgomery’s
tales of Prince Edward Island, and Tolkien’s of Middle Earth. The folklore of
Russia, Ireland, China… And Poe,” she reflects. “I have long felt drawn to
Poe.”
“Fascinating. I too,
enjoy reading Poe. Such an interesting author, with a intriguing life. And
speaking of intriguing, what is the oddest thing that has ever happened to
you?”
Elizabeth pauses to consider, her eyes on the ceiling,
nostrils softly flaring outward with every measured exhalation. A finger idly
strokes a dark twist of hair fallen over her shoulder. “Aged five or so,” she
recalls. “Visiting with my father’s parents – both of them writers, too, as it
happens. I was going through the books on their shelves, looking for words I
was just beginning to learn how to recognize. But they wouldn’t stay still on
the page. The letters shimmered and danced, seeming to drift out of alignment,
toward my hands. I was at once alarmed and bespelled.
“My father blamed ocular problems, my mother blamed
dyslexia. They allowed my grandmother to school me through much of my
adolescence; she had experienced the same phenomenon, growing up, and so knew
how to help me through until the printed word stayed where I wished it to. I’m
very grateful to her being there, to keep the experience from scaring me off of
reading. I think of her every time I come up for air from a story that’s held
me enchanted, or whenever I see a word seeming to shimmer out of the corner of
my eye. I owe her the greatest part of me.”
He leans forward, an eyebrow raised. However, as Richard is
about to reply, they are interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman carrying a
tea tray. He leans back with a smile. “Oh,
I believe it’s time for our tea break. Thank
you Jenkins.” Richard nods as Jenkins sets the tray down and waits. “Care for a cup? It’s an excellent Earl Grey.
We also have lemon cake.”
“Yes to the good Earl, if you please.” Elizabeth sits up at
attention. “I can never refuse a cup a tea.”
Jenkins pours two cups, serves both tea and cake, and then
retreats. Richard Dale takes a sip from
his cup, and asks, “As one who has
brushed the paranormal, I must broach the subject with you. What are your views
on things beyond our reality, such as magic, or ghosts?”
Elizabeth’s eyes regard him mildly over the rim of her cup,
kissed with lipstick. “I’m none too certain they are so very far beyond. An
author of fiction encounters many things, having opened their mind to
possibilities so often dismissed as unreal. For better and worse, there’s a
good deal more magic beneath the surface of things than the average person
suspects, I think.”
He sighs. “I have to
agree with you there. Strange things abound, closer than one cares to know.”
He clears his throat, and changes the subject. “On a slightly less esoteric subject, what is your idea of perfect happiness?”
A faint crease appears between her brows. “It strikes me as
unattainable. Everything comes at a cost of one kind or another, so you’ll
always come up shy of perfection.” Her lips twitch into a smile. “That’s just
something you resign yourself to after a fruitless quest to write ‘the perfect
book’. Still, I believe perfect contentment
is possible. It all comes down to whether you determine that what you’ve gained
is worth the price you’ve paid.”
“And in that vein, do
you have any hobbies to aid your contentment?”
“Outside of reading? I enjoy traveling, particularly to
places a bit off the beaten track. Walks in the woods are ever inspiring to me.
A ramble through the sequoia giants of Yosemite in early winter…” Her gaze
drifts faraway, voice turned wistful. “The trees’ breath mists same as ours, in
the cold. Tumbles from the trunks like smoke. They look like dragons.”
“What a charming
image.” Richard sets his teacup down.
“What is your most prized possession? Why do you value it so much?”
“My own person. It may not be much to look at, as bodies go,
but it is essential. It… anchors me. Provides a point of contact here, in this
world, so my spirit can wander through worlds of imagination without the worry
of drifting out of reach. For all my fondness of travel, I do like returning
home again.”
“Yes, no place like
home as they say. One last question. What would you consider to be the best
quality of human nature?”
“Its courage,” she says, without hesitation. “It takes such
bravery to be human. So much to fear. So much to dare.”
“Well thank you Ms.
Young, for agreeing to this interview. It has been a rare delight.”
“The pleasure’s been mine, Mr. Dale.” She extends a hand for
a farewell shake. “Perhaps the next time we meet, I’ll have that first novel
written.”
Richard shakes her hand warmly. “I look forward to reading it, Ms. Young, and another meeting.”
~*~
Beyond the Wail
What is it about fear and the unknown that pulls so passionately at the human heart? Perhaps we are drawn not to the darkness itself, but to the resolution, the overcoming of what we most deeply dread. After all, the more terrible the struggle, the greater the victory when it comes at last. Presented in this anthology are twelve remarkable stories of the darkness that overshadows us, and the resolution that may be found beyond them. They are stories of fear and oppression, but ultimately stories of hope, stories that will take you BEYOND THE WAIL.
