Blogmas 2018 – Day 14 #christmas #blogmas #blogmas2018 #christmas2018

Today I share with you an excerpt from one of my unpublished novels, Rocks and Flowers in a Box. Below is a Christmas scene from 1945:

Tristan and I lounged on the couch. My eyes lingered on the tree, the warm glow of the strands of lights the only source of illumination in the living room. Beyond the window where I watched Tristan pace among his rocks, what seemed another lifetime, snow fell in a whimsical ballet in the silent night.
The snow had been coming down when we stepped out of the church at midnight an hour ago. When we arrived home, we stood, hand in hand, in the driveway and listened to the stillness. A world at peace. A world not at war for the first Christmas in six years.
“How are you not asleep?” I whispered to Tristan, nuzzling his ear with my nose.
He chuckled. “Some nights are worth staying up.”
“Tell me your favorite Christmas memory.”
He kissed the top of my head and placed his hand on my stomach. “This one, right here.”
“But this isn’t a memory yet.”
“It will be, one day. Every moment at passes pushes it into the past.”
“Don’t wish it away so quickly.”
“On the contrary, my darling. I’m cherishing it.” He cupped my chin with his hand and brought his lips to mine in a gentle kiss.
When we broke apart, I gazed into the low light dancing in his eyes. I rested my hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes as he leaned into my touch.
“Do you remember when we saw Meet Me in St. Louis last year?” I asked.
Tristan’s eyes popped open. “I wasn’t expecting that question, but yeah, sure. Why?”
“The song Judy Garland sang…’Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’…do you remember it?”
Tristan chuckled. “I hope you’re not asking me to sing it.”
I giggled. “No, of course not. I was just remembering the lyrics. I can’t recall all of them, but something like all our troubles being out of sight in the following year or something.”
“Yes, I remember. It spoke of hope to you. You cried during that part of the film.”
I nodded. “I was just really hoping, you know…that with it being Christmas and all, that Chucky would come home.”
Tristan sighed. “I know and I’m sorry. I know how much he means to you.”
“Would it be too much to wish for one more miracle? You’re alive. I’m pregnant. Now, if only he were here, why, it would make the perfect Christmas.”
“I’m not great at it, but…do you want to pray?”
I took Tristan’s hand and squeezed it, nodding, my eyes on the verge of spilling over.
He enclosed my hands in his and whispered, “God, I’m not good at this. I don’t know what the right words are, but my beautiful wife tells me that You don’t expect us to come with poetic words. I’m a writer. I’m used to writing eloquently, but when I speak, I mess it up. What I’m trying to say is…thank You. Thank You for everything You’ve already given us. It’s more than I could’ve imagined. Me, especially me. Now, if You could just bring back my darling’s brother safe and sound, that’d be great. I see the sadness in her eyes, even when she smiles. Thanks for listening…and thanks for Christmas and what it means. You know what I’m getting at. Um…amen.”
“Thank you.” I kissed him. “That was the sweetest thing.”
“I sounded like a fool.” Tristan yawned. “Maybe I’m just too tired to think straight anymore.”
“No, you got it all right.”
“I got it right when I met you.”
We share a lingering kiss. Then Tristan took my hand and pulled me to standing and guided me into our bedroom.

Poetry Tuesday – The War/We

The soldiers we made

The lives that were paid

The battles we waged

The souls we enraged

Because of this war

Well, not anymore

The fields lay silent

Our spirits are bent

The price paid in blood

The boots stained with mud

A mother’s heartache

Crushed in the wake

She cries bitter tears

For all the years

Another child dead

From hatred we bred

The enemy’s face

Is filled with disgrace

When with mirrored eyes

We see past the lies

The war starts within

Because of the sin

Of failing to love

Of rising above

Deceit and despair

And move to repair

Every broken heart

This war tore apart

Dry the tears and see

Not you, not me–we.

-written 09.24-10.09.18

 

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Excerpt from Hannah’s Rainbow

“I would like it very much if you were all here with me,” Hannah said, wheezing.  She coughed several times.

“Mom!” Abbi exclaimed, rushing to her side.

The coughing spell subsided, and Hannah shook her head, holding up a placating hand.  “No, no, it’s nothing.  Please don’t make a fuss.  There’s nothing to be done.  Just, please… be here with me.  And call my siblings, please.  They need to know.  Harry would be devastated if he couldn’t come in time…”

“I’ll make the calls,” Abbi said, trying to occupy herself.

Brenda exchanged a look with Abbi and nodded, drawing up a chair next to Glen.  Abbi left the room and made the calls she dreaded.  Irma said she’d be on the first plane out, but Abbi thought, with a sinking heart, that she would be too late.  Within the hour, Harry was at the door.

Abbi supposed she could have let Alan or Tom answer the door, but she was a bundle of nerves as she flitted about the house.  When she opened the front door and saw the pain etched in every line of her uncle’s face, she couldn’t compose herself to speak.  Harry entered and hugged his niece.

“Chin up, Abbi, child,” he said in his usual gentle manner he’d used with her since she had been small.

Abbi half-laughed, half-hiccupped.  “I’m not a child anymore, Uncle Harry, but thanks.”

“Ah, you’re a child to me, old fart that I am.  It’s okay to fall apart, to be like a child, especially right now.  Where is she?”

“This way.”  Abbi couldn’t help but smile.  Her uncle always knew how to make her laugh.

Harry fell silent as he followed his niece to his sister’s side.  He took Hannah’s hand in a similar manner as she’d held his all those years ago in the hospital after he had been in the accident.

“What’s this all about, then?” he asked.  “I always imagined the roles reserved here, sis.  What are you doing in this bed, hmmm?”

Hannah’s chuckle came as a rasp, then a cough, but her eyes shone with mirth.

Recovering, she said, “You never let up, do you, silly brother?  I guess the good Lord has use of you yet here.”

“Can’t imagine for what.”

“There you go again, selling yourself short.”

“You think you know what’s best for me, eh?  Leaving me ain’t it, Hannah-panna.”

“You never stop, do you?”

They exchanged their friendly banter for a little while longer before Hannah grew serious.  “But don’t ever stop, Harry.  Don’t ever stop making people laugh and smile.  It’s what you do, who you are.  You and that big heart of yours.”

Eyes shining with tears, Harry said, “There’s one person whose smile I haven’t seen in far too long.  You tell Kathy when you see her – you tell her I’m coming for her soon.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Then it’s settled.  Maybe you can leave after all.  Don’t let an old bugger like me keep you.”

Harry hugged Hannah one last time and said his farewells to her children.  After he left, Hannah’s eyes implored her youngest daughter, then her other children, to sit with her.  Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult, so she didn’t waste her words.  Each breath, each utterance, and each heartbeat were precious, now more than ever for Hannah.

Hannah’s eyes slipped shut, and her hands fell loose at her sides.  To her children, she appeared to be sleeping with difficulty, as every breath was labored, rattling through her chest and out again.

 

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My new novel, A Laughing Matter of Pain, is now available for pre-order here.My novel, Lorna versus Laura, is available for $4.99 here.

My novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful, is available for $5.99 here.

A Laughing Matter of Pain Release on 9/29! #newrelease #bookbuzz #bookpromo #historicalfiction #familylife

harryquote2

Reserve your copy of A Laughing Matter of Pain on #Amazon today: https://buff.ly/2QzItyl
#NewRelease 9/29!

Laughter can hide a lot of pain that’s drowned by the bottle and good times.
Even in the darkest depths of a prison cell, there is hope.

Throwback Thursday Artwork #throwbackthursday #art #artwork #amdrawing

the_phantom_of_the_opera_by_sindie11Just the front of the Phantom of the Opera DVD case, drawn in 2008. I’ve seen the movie, read the novel, and seen the play both off-Broadway and an amateur version.

LIKE WHAT YOU’VE SEEN?  PLEASE SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG, WHERE I POST A PIECE OF ARTWORK EVERY THURSDAY. ALSO KEEP UP-TO-DATE WITH MY WRITING PROJECTS!

My new novel, A Laughing Matter of Pain, is now available for pre-order here.
My novel, Lorna versus Laura, is available for $4.99 here.

My novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful, is available for $5.99 here.

 

Review of The Memory Tree (Carson Chronicles Book 2) by John A. Heldt

memorytreeThe Memory Tree is the second in the Carson Chronicles series, immediately following the events of the first book, River Rising. Please read my review of the first book here.

In book two of the five-part series (books three through five still to be released), we follow the Carson family from 1889 to 1918. The five Carson children, all young adults, pass through the portal in Sedona, Arizona, on the summer solstice, following their missing time-traveling parents’ schedule. Since the Carson children were unsuccessful in locating their parents in 1888-89, they must continue their journey in 1918.

The riveting story is told from different character points of view (third person limited) in each chapter. The oldest of the clan, Adam, is 28 and is happily married to his Irish bride, Bridget, who he met at a hotel in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, in 1888. They settle in the Duluth, Minnesota, area, where the whole family at first congregates at the beginning of the novel when they strategize their next moves. The Carsons have ancestors in several areas of the country, one of which is Duluth, and knowing that Tim and Caroline, the parents, intend to visit several of their relatives while in 1918, the kids decide their best option would be to split up in those different locations and try to intercept them. Adam and Bridget wind up moving into a remote cabin next to one of their ancestors. Life seems peaceful for them with good news on the horizon, but then all that is rocked.

Greg, age 26, the next oldest, is the adventurer in the family. He agrees to travel to Baja California. He has to illegally cross the Mexico border. He is already a wanted man from a shootout 29 years earlier, and once in Tijuana, his troubles don’t lift. He meets vivacious, gun-toting Patricia O’Rourke while there, but he once again finds himself caught up with the law and on the run.

Natalie, age 24, is the oldest sister, and is the independent, ambitious journalist of the family. She takes a job with the Minneapolis Post after being selected for her impressive job of interviewing a World War I soldier. She is given the opportunity to go to France to be on the frontlines to interview soldiers directly in combat, and she takes the trip, meeting dashing Lieutenant Tom Jackson among the injured soldiers in France. Despite the war drawing to a close, the horrors of battle are never far and have devastating consequences for some of the men Natalie has come to know and love.

Twins Cody and Caitlin, age 18, travel to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where they meet up with their friend (and Cody’s first love) Emma Bauer Jackson from 1888. Emma is overjoyed to see them and is let in on the Carsons’ time-traveling secret. They meet an ancestor, but so far, there is no sign of their parents passing through Pennsylvania.

Tim and Caroline spend much of their time with Caroline’s ancestors in Mexico and come to learn of Greg being close by. They begin traveling throughout the United States, just on the tails of their children. They leave a message in several newspapers in the ad section that they will meet them in Sedona on December 22, and while the kids see this note, Tim and Caroline are unaware if their children ever see it.

The book is a huge journey of several paths crossing and dividing, of the importance of friends and family, of loss due to war, illness, and natural disaster, and of a family trying to overcome the challenges they face to find each other against the odds. John A. Heldt tells a masterful tale that is carefully researched for historical accuracy, with regards to events, places, and period details. His characters are engaging, heartfelt, sometimes humorous, and the type of people you would want in your family. He always brings the narrative back to the importance of staying together as a family, of the love and hope that keep humanity persevering.

It was a pleasure to read this historical fiction book about time travel and family. I look forward to reading and reviewing the next one.

5 out of 5 stars

Purchase The Memory Tree on Amazon.

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My new novel, A Laughing Matter of Pain, is available for pre-order here.
My novel, Lorna versus Laura, is available for $4.99 here.

My novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful, is available for $5.99 here.

 

Passion, Love, Memories Speak Across Time – How Vincent Van Gogh’s Life Inspires

Yesterday’s room next door–that feeling of being in a room, separated by a simple wall that might as well be a chasm, from the room right next door, only that room belongs to yesterday. The echoes of voices, the dim music, words on yellowed paper, dried paint, a brush of a kiss, the faded picture of a loved one, the extinguished lives of those gone before…memories.

I press my ear to the wall.
The voices come muffled at first,
But if I listen closely,
Their love stories become clear.
The distant piano music always plays in the background,
But its song still has a story to tell.
Photographs hang from this old wall,
Frozen smiles where laughter’s echo lingers;
A feather-light finger touch caresses those tender faces.
I close my eyes and see more openly
As the wall fades away.
I reach, step, grasp, hold.
I hug every precious memory thread,
Knitting a fabric of a life that embraces me in return
As I sing along with the piano
And write rainbows onto black and white pages.
You see, yesterdays are all blended into today –
And I wonder what story my children will one day tell
Of my today in what becomes their yesterday’s room next door.
-Yesterday’s Room Next Door by Cynthia Hilston, 05.28.16

The first time I read something that made me wish I could reach across the vast expanse of time and talk to, touch, hear someone long dead was when I read Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. That was in 2006. I reread her novel last year, and Charlotte’s words still hold in my beating heart. I read her words, words penned 170 years ago, yet she felt as close as a breath. I longed to know her like an intimate friend and mourned the loss of someone I had never actually met…and yet we had met in a way. I did know her.

Then that thick, impenetrable wall cracks. Bit by bit, pieces of drywall, wood, brick, stone, whatever material the imagination can conjure, it falls. Passion, love, memories…they speak across time, and yesterday’s room next door becomes one with today’s room. We all inhabit one Earth.

vangogh1As I finished reading Lust for Life by Irving Stone (1934), the biographical novel of Vincent Van Gogh, tears blurred the words on those last pages. Van Gogh is dead. I know that. He’s been gone for 128 years. And yet…yet I was walking with that small group of mourners behind a black hearse on the day the few people who appreciated and loved him in life buried him. I followed up the hill, through the cornfield in Auvers–one of many Van Gogh painted. They buried his body, yes, but his passion would never be buried. How can you bury such passion, after all, when he has painted it into being with every brushstroke imbued with life? He lies under sunflowers, those faces of gold and orange he painted so tenderly, painting the life the flows through all of creation.

I often gaze upon my large print of Starry Night as I lie in bed. Van Gogh painted this most famous of his paintings while he was in the asylum at Saint-Remy-de-Provence. He was there in June 1889, a little over a year before he died. This print is a cheap imitation of the real thing, yet it’s the closest physical item I possess to one of his creations. Again rears the feeling of removal from the past. (Note: I plan to visit New York’s Modern Museum of Art at the end of September, where this painting is housed.)

He saw beauty in the ugliness of the world, in the common, the everyday, the struggles. He suffered mental illness, disease, starvation, being a social outcast, never receiving the accolades for his hard work during his lifetime. Seven people mourned at his grave.

Now millions visit art galleries across the globe to gaze upon his paintings, those priceless works of art.

When he painted, the need to create poured out of him–unbridled, wild, free. He could just a soon stop painting as breathing. I understand that urge, that desire, that drive, that passion. When I write, it pours from me like water from an overflowing cup. I’ve been asked how I can write whole books. To people who are not writers, they cannot grasp how I can write so many words. I reply, “I can’t not write.” Vincent couldn’t not paint.vangogh2

Van Gogh tried many professions, all of which led to failure, to a feeling of self-doubt, of feeling worthless. He was an art dealer, a teacher, a minister, but none of those jobs were his livelihood. When he began drawing at age 27, he found his niche and never looked back, even when life continued to be a struggle.

Now, I haven’t had the life of poverty that Van Gogh lived–often by choice. I majored in biology in college and worked in a research lab for several years before having kids and becoming a stay-at-home mom. My kids are still young, so I continue as a homemaker. I wrote fan fiction for many years, afraid of writing something original. Yet the urge to write original works of fiction nibbled at my soul for years. I could no longer ignore it, and since 2015, I haven’t looked back. I’ve embraced my passion, my raison d’etre, just as Van Gogh did. And I love it.

Van Gogh’s life inspires passion, but his ability to take his pain and turn it into something beautiful drives deeper. He loved, felt, lived deeply, passionately. He didn’t shy away from ugliness, but rather embraced it and created imperfect wholeness from brokenness.

I weep for the lost love this remarkable man experienced, for his misery, for his agony, but I also cry in happiness at his legacy, his imprint on this earth. He saw no separation between the ground on which we walk and the people who trod it. All was one. All is one–one amazing, gorgeous creation under a whorling ball of lemon sun.

In Lust for Life, Vincent is visited by a mysterious woman named Maya, which means “illusion.” She says she’s been following him throughout his journey as a painter, but he asks her how this is possible. He even grows angry at her when she persists that she loves him. He has longed to receive a woman’s love all his life, so why now? She tells him his works will one day be on display throughout the world. He, of course, doesn’t believe her, for why would anybody want to buy one of his paintings after his death when they never did during his life?

Oh, Vincent, how wrong you were. Maya was real.

LIKE WHAT YOU’VE READ?  PLEASE SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG, WHERE A NEW BLOG POST GOES UP THE LAST FRIDAY OF THE MONTH AND OCCASIONALLY OTHER FRIDAYS. ALSO KEEP UP-TO-DATE WITH MY WRITING PROJECTS!

My new novel, A Laughing Matter of Pain, is available for pre-order here.
My novel, Lorna versus Laura, is available for $4.99 here.

My novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful, is available for $5.99 here.