Claire Winters is heartbroken when her husband of many years says he’s found a new love and wants a divorce. While having a pity party with her best friend, Jade, they come up with a daring idea. Together, they construct a Voodoo doll and with the help of several bottles of wine, create a ceremony to bring the same heartbreak to Daniel Winters as he brought to Claire. But do they go too far? You decide!
MJ’ Book Reviews
A short halloween quick and enjoyable read about revenge and the mistakes and shortcomings we have as humans. Any action born out of revenge ain’t going to be a good choice! Not scary more relationship based with voodoo element. Thought the ending was a fun twist. I think the story could be interpreted in different ways but my take was her guilt manifesting.
My rating 4 stars.
Recommended for those who like to celebrate this season but don’t want to read a book which is full of gore, or is too scary.
Jan Sikes is also featured on Robbie Cheadle’s blog. Robbie is sharing a review for Voodoo or Destiny and Ghostly Interference:
I’ve been an avid reader all my life. I can still remember the excitement that surged through me the first time I realized I could decipher words. There’s nothing I love more than losing myself in a story.
Oddly enough, I never had any ambition to be a writer. But I wound up in mid-life with a story that begged to be told. Not just any story, but a true story that rivaled any fiction creation. Through fictitious characters, the tale came to life in an intricately woven tale that encompasses four books. Not satisfied to stop with the books, I released music CDs of original music to match the time period of each story segment. In conclusion, to bring the story full circle, I published a book of poetry and art. I was done.
Wrong!
The story ideas keep coming, and I don’t intend to turn off the creative fountain.
I love all things metaphysical and often include those aspects in my stories.
I am a member of the Author’s Marketing Guild, The Writer’s League of Texas, Story Empire, and the Paranormal Writer’s Guild. I am an avid fan of Texas music and grandmother of five beautiful souls. I reside in North Texas.
I’m pleased to announce that I am a contributing author in Claire Plaisted‘s Ghostly Rites Anthology 2020 with my story: – No. 1 Coven Lane.
I’m thrilled that my good friend Colleen Chesebro, (The Changeling, and Samhain’s Song – Poem,) and Adele Marie Park, (Tommy,) are also contributing to this anthology this year too! Along with Cathy Lee Chopping, (Catfish,) C Weave-Lane, (All Hallows Eve,) Elizabeth Green, (The Faebell Ring,) Mary R. Woldering, (Night Route,) Mara Reitsma (The Mind’s Eye,) Wendy Steele (Sweeter Than You,) Michael Lynes, (The Trick,) Karen J Mossman, (Terror at the Office) and poetry – His Breaking Mind by Natan Annabell-Hanson.
Ghostly Rites Anthology 2020 Media Kit
BLURB
A book of Eleven short fiction Halloween stories, some based on fact. Along with two poems.
This year’s Ghostly Rites Crew are: Natan Annabell-Hansen, Colleen Chesebro, Cathy-Lee Chopping, Mary Woldering, Mara Reitsma, Elizabeth Green, Wendy Steele, Michael Lynes, M J Mallon, C Weave-Lane, Karen J Mossman, and Adele Marie Park.
The Stories are written in the English Language and Grammar of where they live.
Margo is an old, lonely lady, who lives next door to No. 1 Coven Lane. Everyone in the neighbourhood has heard about Margo’s weird next-door neighbours, Anita and Frank. Their daughter Freda is home from university paying them a visit. One day, they waylay Margo whilst she is out walking with Prudence, a fine pedigree cat. It is clear from their conversation that Margo’s memory is not what it used to be. But is this a ruse? Or is the old lady much more crafty and wicked than she seems?
Author Bios
Colleen M. Chesebro is an American Novelist & Poet who loves crafting paranormal fantasy and magical realism, cross-genre fiction, syllabic poetry, and creative nonfiction. She loves all things magical, which may mean she is experiencing her second childhood—or not. That part of her life hasn’t been decided yet.
A few years ago, a mystical experience led her to renew her passion for writing poetry and storytelling. Colleen sponsors a weekly Syllabic Poetry Challenge, called Tanka Tuesday, on her blog where participants learn how to write traditional and current forms of haiku, senryu, haiga, tanka, gogyohka, tanka prose, renga, haibun, cinquain, Etheree, nonet, and shadorma poetry.
Colleen’s syllabic poetry has appeared in the Auroras & Blossoms Poetry Journal, and several other publications. She’s also won numerous awards for her flash fiction.
Colleen is a Sister of the Fey, where she pursues a pagan path through her writing. She lives in the Sonoran Desert near Phoenix, Arizona with her husband and black cat, Freyja. When she is not writing, she is reading. She also loves gardening and crocheting old-fashioned doilies into works of art.
Fantasy and horror writer, Adele Marie Park originally hails from the Orkney islands. Rousay is a small, but archaeological important island, dubbed “The Egypt of The North.”
The oral tradition of passing down stories fired the young Adele’s imagination with tales of trolls, faeries, sea monsters, witches, ghosts, and seals who could change into humans.
The landscape of the island fascinated her as moorland hills swept down through green fields to the shores of secluded beaches, where black volcanic rocks might be a troll or a sleeping giant.
Reading the Hobbit at an early age inspired her and in her teens she turned to Stephen King, James Herbert, Anne Rice and Storm Constantine to appease a mind hungry to delve into the paranormal.
Throughout her life she never gave up writing but it was an ongoing medical condition which forced her to give up work that began her passion to publish her writing for others to read.
Genres may come and go, but Adele’s writing encompasses a solidity which does not change; the overcoming of obstacles in one’s life, love, death, grief and pain all infused with those supernatural elements that one sees out the corner of the eye or feels when one is alone in the house at night and a floorboard creaks.
To connect with Adele, and learn more about her work visit these sites:
M J Mallon – My alter ego is MJ – Mary Jane from Spiderman. I love superheros!
On the 17th of November I was born, in Lion City: Singapore, (a passionate Scorpio, with the Chinese Zodiac sign a lucky rabbit.) My early childhood was spent in Hong Kong. During my teen years, my parents returned to my father’s birthplace, Edinburgh, where I spent many happy years. As a teenager, I travelled to many far-flung destinations. It’s rumoured that I now live in the Venice of Cambridge, with my six-foot hunk of a Rock God husband. My two enchanted daughters have almost flown the nest, but often return with a cheery smile to greet me.
During the day, I work in an international sixth form with students from around the world. I’m the meet and greet lady who welcomes them to their new college and issues them with late slips when they don’t get to their lessons on time!
I write YA fantasy, paranormal, horror/supernatural short stories, flash fiction and short form poetry. More recently, I have produced and compiled an anthology/compilation set during the early stages of COVID-19 entitled This Is Lockdown.
I’ve been blogging for many moons at my blog home Kyrosmagica, which means Crystal Magic. From time to time I write articles celebrating the spiritual realm, inspiration and my love of nature, crystals and all things magical, mystical, and mysterious.
Born in New Zealand, Cathy-Lee Chopping was raised in a low socio-economic area until her parents sold all their worldly possessions and moved her and her sisters to Perth, Western Australia in 1995. For as long as she can remember, Cathy-Lee has been writing short stories, from tales of a childs imagination, to the angst of teenage heartbreak, to fan-fiction featuring characters from her favourite movies and television shows. She was first published in “Love from the Other Side”, a Ghostly Writes publication in 2017, and has since been featured in six anthologies with Plaisted Publishing House. Cathy-Lee has plans for an anthology of her own, for release in early 2021, and is working towards finishing her first full length fantasy novel. Cathy-Lee enjoys fun outings with her young family, playing video games with her eldest son, and reality television shows.
Cathy-Lee has a Facebook page, where she is beginning to build her online community. Pop by and visit sometime and follow for future projects.
C Weave-Lane resides in a cottage in Perth W.A. by
the Swan River and Wetlands with her cats Salem, Dumbledore and Storm the pup. It is here she combines her loves of Nature walking, reading and creating Magical stories with hints of the Past
Elizabeth Green has always wanted to be a published author, and recently made that dream come true. Her parents never told her not to be a writer; instead they would hand her a pen, and tell her if she intended to be an author, she might want to actually write something. They were correct.
She loves mystery, mythology, folklore, and magic, and incorporates those elements in her stories. She holds a Bachelor of Science in Anthropology, with minors in Geology and Ancient History. Elizabeth is a trained Severe Weather spotter, and a member of the SkyWarn network of tornado spotters. There is nothing she likes better than a good thunderstorm, and living in Indiana she gets to enjoy a lot of them.
Elizabeth is a voracious reader across multiple genres, both fiction and nonfiction. She loves to cook, and is an avid gardener. Her other hobbies and interests include sewing, knitting, and many forms of needlecrafts. She collects fossils, and is a serious caffeine lover. She is also a certified SCUBA diver, but has not been diving in far too long; her dream is to dive in the ocean instead of midwestern quarries. She loves to travel.
This is Elizabeth’s third published short story. She is currently at work on a novella that will be published by the end of 2020, the first in a series of darker fairy tales. In the works are two historical novels, and a fantasy series involving Egyptology, angry mummies, and more than one good curse.
Mary R. Woldering is an author, artisan, art historian, madwoman, visionary and devoted wife to Dr. Jackie F. Woldering, mother of Ruth and Thom and grandmother of five. She lives in Mentor, Ohio.
Karen J Mossman lives on the beautiful island of Anglesey, just off the north Wales coast. She lives with her husband of over forty years and their two dogs. Karen is an avid reader and a book blogger.
Visit her website where you can see and experience her love of stories – www.karenjmossman.com
Mara Reitsma has been interviewed on Kyrosmagica here is the link:
This is an excellent video tutorial from Dan Alatorre. He reads from his introductory story in the forthcoming anthology Spellbound and discusses the story processes that he employs to create mystery, ambiance, vitality and atmosphere.
What do you include when you write a short story? What does it mean to show and not tell? How much setting is appropriate, or description? These and other writing tips are here in this 53 minute vi…
This is inspired by my frequent visits to the Botanic Gardens in Cambridge. It truly is a magical place.
Mr Sagittarius
I know I am dying so I have come to bid all my loves and especially my dearest orchid a final farewell. I pray I will surrender my soul to a place that will be as sweet as this hot house garden. I have a bequest in my pocket. It includes a generous sum of money for a park bench in honour of this magnificent garden. I will ask for a few simple words to be engraved on my bench when I pass to the garden of death.
It will say:
Mr Sagitarrius Died This Day in This Snow Drop Garden.
Forgive me – I am ninety two,
I forgot all but two of my loves’ names,
My first and my last.
But I remember my orchid.
Love is a garden.
It is divine.
Everyday my old limbs pay a visit to the Botanic Garden in Cambridge. I hate routine, but my aching joints oblige when my lonely soul is in need of feminine company. It is winter and in this season of chills, chilblains, snow and ice my favourite haunt is the glasshouses. There my ancient heart is warmed and I reminisce about… LOVE.
My eyes begin a familiar journey. First alighting on one of many beauties, my first love! The bird of paradise flower which I stumbled across in Papua New Guinea when I was an innocent. I was an adventurer, then. But, once awakened by the attentions of Ruth I became a Casanova! I fell in love, or perhaps in lust with Ruth – a dark-skinned beauty. I still remember the curve of her youthful skin and the way she used to gyrate her hips to entice me to join her in bed.
I linger in silent contemplation remembering Ruth and our amorous nights. Oh, what regrets followed the sudden demise of our fiery liaison. The never-ending jealousies were a sign of my Sagittarius failings, and my dare I say it?
Inability to commit.
Here I go again. Even at my advanced age my old knees fight the urge to rest and move on… longing to see… my next conquest.
There she is! Oh sigh. What a divine creature. Twirling on tiptoe, my ballerina flower. Yes, how you could dance, pirouetting on pointe. I remember you in Swan Lake. How perfect you were, your tutu twirling around as your hair remained still. Such a picture of perfection characterised by that tight bun. How I relished swiftly untwirling your hair and removing all of your clothing the very same night. And dare I say it? There was an encore! But even you could not keep my attention for long. Not when there was such a fire in my belly.
There she is! Wicked creature, I blame this red glory for breaking us up.
She rose up to demand my attention like a pompon ablaze, sharp-witted with spikes of outrageous character. Oh, how this strange flower reminds me of her. She had bright red hair, and such a quirky personality. I was hooked and yet, I regret, her true name escapes me, so I nickname you Calliandra. My mind is not as sharp as it used to be. Please forgive me, my beautiful red bonnet.
If by any chance we ever meet again I would rest my head on your shoulder. I’d begin by stroking your hair to get close to you. I’d caress you until intoxicated by your scent I would trace tiny trails of tender kisses down your perfect body. Sigh, the memory of this is almost too much for me. I feel quite giddy. Let me rest for a moment in a quiet corner. Or, I fear that some well-meaning but overzealous first aider will attach that defibrillator to me! Please don’t bother. It’s not needed.
I should have known you wouldn’t let me rest you selfish wench!
Narcissus, my daffodil.
You command attention and I obey. Your beauty is cunning and without compare and yet I sense there is something lacking.
You are too selfish.
You cannot love.
My orchid….
I should have visited you first. Please forgive me dearest sweetheart. You were the most exquisite of them all. My last, my first true love, an oriental flower, slender, graceful, full of charm, but, oh so fragile. I should have known. Oh, how I miss you. Now I am a ghost and lost without you. I settled for you, forgetting all others. Now I, this ghost of regret, understands the true nature of love. And now you pay me back for my thoughtlessness – your cruel ghost avoids me.
Today, the moon is full and high in the sky and a group of nineteen men travel with brave hearts to the mouth of the Snow Snake Cave.
The wind is biting cold. Each man carries a pack of provisions on his back and thoughts of his loved ones in his heart. They know that this journey might be one to their deaths and yet they trudge on.
At last after many exhausted steps they arrive at the forbidding entrance of the cave. It is no ordinary grotto. This cave is fashioned out of layer upon layer of snow. The mouth of which is an ice sculpture of a snake’s jaw gaping, its eyes furious and wide. The old man above is exquisite, his hair and snow beard fall in intricate icicles. He is leaning to one side, his hand of snow pushing down on the snake as if it coax it to move.
The Old Man of Snow startles the men, he stirs, his snow encrusted eyes open wide as he bellows,
‘Dare you approach us? I think not little men. I will crush you like ants and feed you to my friend the Snow Snake.’
The men stop so suddenly that they almost fall over with exhaustion. Several of them stagger backwards frightened by the sheer size and forbidding nature of the Old Man of Snow. But, one amongst them stays still, resolute and strong.
He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and replies. ’I have come to meet with the Old Man of Snow and the legendary Snow Snake. I wish to discuss what you’ve done with the countless others who have ventured here. That is all that I and this brave group of men want – my old friends back. We are not greedy men. We don’t desire wealth, or gold, we only want happiness.’
‘Happiness?’ the Old Man lifts his hand and pulls at his beard. The Snow Snake begins to wind his tail back and forth causing a volley of tiny snowballs to fall.
‘They are lying Old Man,’ said the Snow Snake, hissing. ‘They mean to trick us. Don’t allow them passage. If you do, I will swish my furious tail even more and they will be crushed under an avalanche of snow.’
‘Silence, Snow Snake! I am sick of your reptilian attitude. Let them speak. I have never heard a human ask for so little before and I am curious if indeed they speak the truth.’
The humble man bowed before the Old Man of Snow and then kneeled on the cold earth. ‘I swear by the almighty that I tell the truth. I, and my men are simple farmers, we tend the earth, eat our crops, and milk our herd. We don’t need riches and fame.’
‘You are a wise man. Unfortunately, your friends who came before you were foolish and greedy. They tried to steal from the Snow Snake and he and I were very angry.’
‘They were wrong to do so and I apologise on their behalf. Please forgive me for asking but what happened to their foolish souls?’
‘Within the cave there are a multitude of tiny snow snakes who wriggle free when they smell greed. These tiny snakes are lethal, one bite of their venom stilled these greedy mens’ hearts and froze them for all eternity. Here, come. I grant you entry to see the power we possess so you will not dare to steal from us. The ice sculptures of your friends are very beautiful.’
The men muttered. Some made as if to turn back but the leader spoke again.
‘Men come with me, we must pay our respects to our old friends.’
One replied, ‘Are you mad? They may do the same to us. How can you trust the Old Man of Snow, the Snow Snake and his allies the tiny venomous snakes?’
‘I only know what is right and good,’ replied the humble man.
‘So will it be,’ said several of his followers, but many turned away, retracing their steps back from where they had come.
The few that remained were granted a passage into the mouth of the Snow Snake’s cave. But the snake hissed and rattled his snow tail in a show of extreme displeasure.
The Old Man of snow stamped his snowy boots, and the snake stopped.
Once inside the cave, the humble man and his band of followers saw nothing but ice and snow. They heard no sign of life, no trickle of water, but still they walked on.
As they turned a corner, the cave widened, and they entered a room which was ablaze with a colourful array of magical stones. For a moment even the humble man was tempted to pop one of these magnificent stones in his pocket but then he remembered the Old Man’s warning.
The men began to question their desires. ‘Surely one small stone for each of us wouldn’t be a wicked thing to do?’ they clamoured.
The humble man turned to them in turn and spoke. ‘We are here to save our friends, not to steal. We must save them, or bid them farewell. Follow me.’
With much grumbling and moaning the men finally did as they were told and were rewarded with the sight of the ice sculptures.
How beautiful they were. Each of the trapped men had been saved for all eternity in a moment of rugged, albeit, frozen handsomeness. None of these men would ever age, hunger, or cry, ever again.
The humble man touched each sculpture and openly wept, greeting each by name. His tears fell on the sculptures and caused them to melt, little by little. His followers did the same. Soon the tears flowed so freely that each and every sculpture broke apart to reveal their living friends within.
All were reunited in the most beautiful moment. Hugs and words of regret were shared. They were no longer as rugged, or as handsome as they had been whilst enclosed in ice, but they wept true tears of joy that they lived. They could now go home to their beloved family and friends.
The Old Man bellowed so loudly that he could be heard. ‘Humble man, you are blessed by a natural inclination to fortune and good sense. Your heart is kind. Take one stone – a magical Sphene – back to your village. You are worthy. It will make your harvest plentiful forever more.’
The humble man wept, glad that he had not succumbed to greed’s desire but had been rewarded for his earnestness. He paused for a moment unsure how to proceed. Which stone was a Sphene? His fingers trailed the masses of crystals and alighted on a single one. It was plain in comparison to the rest, a clump of layered plates and flattened wedge-shaped crystals. But when he placed it in his hands it glowed in a dazzling array of colours.
He cried, his friends cried too, and they hugged each other. They started to move back towards the mouth of the cave.
The snow snake hissed. ‘How dare you, Old Man? I thought you were joking! That Sphene is our treasure. My treasure! Stop this immediately, or I will kill them all.’
Inside the cave, there was a rustling noise as a billion tiny snow snakes appeared, hissing in fury they slithered menacingly towards the men. The men clutched their hearts in fear, their eyes wide with panic.
The Old Man didn’t reply. Not one word slipped from his lips. Instead, he blew from his mouth, and continued to blow. The tiny snakes were blown back, tumbling and rolling into snowballs whence they had come. The wind picked up as a flurry of snow began to trickle from the Snow Snake’s body. The men ran as the Snow Snake’s body started to break apart, as small pieces of the entrance of the cave were thrown to the wind.
‘Hurry!’ shouted the Old Man. ‘If you don’t run, you will be crushed under the Snow Snake’s broken cave body.’
The men ran as fast as they could. Just as they exited the mouth of the cave the roof of the snow snake cave began to crumble.
The Snow Snake’s mouth blew apart in a final raging hiss before it crushed back together, closing the entrance to the cave forever more.
The men collapsed to the ground, safe but breathing heavily.
Once the humble man had recovered his breath he spoke. ‘Why did you protect and save us, mere strangers to you, above your companion the snow snake?’
The Old Man of Snow lifted his hand and cupped the area around where his heart would have rested. ‘There is no room for a greedy heart. It is lonely to live alone but it better to live alone than to blight the gift of true magic with greed.’
The Canadian army was widely viewed to be one of the finest fighting forces in WWI, acclaimed by friend and foe alike. However, historical figures and newspaper articles do little to illuminate the true nature of war. For that, one must see through the eyes of those that fought the war. One must stand in their shoes, sleep with their dreams, and shudder at their fears. This venture into the fictional lives of John and Greg attempts to offer that experience. Bound by friendship, these young warriors embark on a journey of trial and tragedy in Conflict, a 20th Century historical fiction. They face death, loss, and grief as compatriots fall in battle and hopes of glory die with them.
Review:
I don’t normally read war novels/short stories but I made an exception after I sneaked a peek in the look inside feature of Conflict on Amazon.
I loved how Eric Halpenny used quotes and/or poetry from Wilfred Owen, General Horace Smith-Dorrien, Major John McCrae, Sir Robert Borden, Kaiser Wilhelm II, memoirs of David Lloyd George, excerpts, war diary entries, military songs and letters from real and fictional soldiers in the novel, giving the narrative a very human feel.
This is a powerful WW1 short story about two fictional characters, Greg and John as they ‘leave boyhood and childishness, naivety and innocence, behind,’ to join with the brotherhood of men in war. Chronicling their heroic journey through the living hell of WW1. There are many aspects of the novel that moved me, thoughts expressed about: the young soldier’s naivety, the building of trust, endless suffering, (even the weather became an enemy,) patriotism, and the futility of war.
Greg’s experience of being haunted by a German that he killed at close quarters provides a stark, disturbing reminder that the enemy is human, has a face, a life, friends and family .
Conflict is an exceptionally riveting read, evoking strong emotions. I read it in one setting, in one morning.
The ending is so sad and so true to life. You will have to read Conflict to see what I mean!
Highly recommended for everyone! Even if you don’t normally read war novels/short stories.
My rating 4.5 stars.
Have you read Conflict? I’d love to hear your views on it if you have…
It was such an unexpected but lovely surprise. To say I was gobsmacked is an understatement! I’m sure I blubbered a whole lot of nonsense when I went up on stage to accept my award… talk about unprepared! OOPS!
The bash is such a fun and informative event. I have been lucky to be able to attend every single bash (all four in total.) It’s a way to connect beyond the virtual world with like-minded authors and book bloggers.
If you haven’t been to one before, I urge you to do so – you won’t regret it.
This year I noticed a new trend. Many book bloggers won awards. Book bloggers work so hard to promote a love of reading and to promote authors who might otherwise not be so successful. So keep up the hard work.
Feeling slightly emotional at winning the Best Overall Blog at the #bloggersbash awards. Thank you SO much if you nominated me or voted. I am thrilled ❤️😍 pic.twitter.com/CfHsfXbxE7
I took a few photos… Here are three lovely lasses – Esther, Ritu and Willow. Ritu did an awesome job with her speech. I truly believe she is wonder woman! Her energy and enthusiasm for blogging needs to be patented.
A special treat went to Little Miss Bad – Sacha Black – Organiser of the Bloggers Bash…
But, I’m a bit alarmed by an odd sprinkle of fairy dust floating into Sherri’s specs…
Then came the panellist questions, one came from Lucy At Blonde Write More’s readership who asked a very dodgy question – Do you write your blog posts in the nude? Graeme Cumming’s expression, and the laughter from the panellists says it all. But, Geoff is looking very thoughtful… His body language and that blue beard Smurf look speak volumes…
After teasing his beard again and again Geoff Le Pard admitted that he’d indulged in writing blog posts in the bath! In the nude, (well you can’t have a bath fully clothed can you?) Of course you can’t.
I wonder whether there were bubbles? Blue ones perhaps, to cover up the necessary!!!
Moving on from Geoff’s confession Suzie Speaks strange expression below suggests an ability to see Sacha’s weird martial art movement behind her…
What a day to remember! In typical Marje fashion I had a bit of an accident when I got home. I fell on the stairs. Total Miss Clumsy! Pleased to report that no harm done just a touch of bruising…
Getting back to Geoff’s confession about his habit of blog posting in the bath. Do you think this could be a new blogging trend? Or, is this a unique characteristic that only a blue-bearded Geoff could master?
I’m glad I came across this prompt via Sacha Black for her Flash Writespiration – Burnt Edges, I was looking for a writing stimulus for a competition I’m thinking of entering and burnt edges was it. I read a very sad blog post on Cybele’s blog – In Memory of Her Beloved Brother a very personal and moving tribute which got me reflecting on the preciousness of life, and this developed into a theme for my piece of flash fiction: Suicide. I have heard some shocking stories via family members and in the wider community that really got me thinking.. about the terrible suffering of family and friends of suicide victims.
Sometimes there’s a happy outcome when suicides are prevented but sadly this is not always the case. Sometimes dreadful injuries are sustained by the person attempting suicide which have a long term effect on the person’s future quality of life and/or underlying depression can still remain unchecked waiting to rear its head once again.
If only we could prevent more suicides from happening. Young people are so vulnerable. If only that were possible.
While I’m on this terribly sad topic I thought I’d mention that I read Me Before You by Jojo Moyes fairly recently.
Here’s the synopsis:
Lou Clark knows lots of things. She knows how many footsteps there are between the bus stop and home. She knows she likes working in The Buttered Bun tea shop and she knows she might not love her boyfriend Patrick.
What Lou doesn’t know is she’s about to lose her job or that knowing what’s coming is what keeps her sane.
Will Traynor knows his motorcycle accident took away his desire to live. He knows everything feels very small and rather joyless now and he knows exactly how he’s going to put a stop to that.
What Will doesn’t know is that Lou is about to burst into his world in a riot of colour. And neither of them knows they’re going to change the other for all time.
Lines can become blurred. Assisted suicide is such an emotive topic – people tend to have very differing, and deeply felt viewpoints both for and against. So my piece of creative writing flash fiction is exploring some of these thoughts in a very concise way – only 200 words, to consider what a person would or wouldn’t do to ease a loved one’s daily pain and suffering, when they are suffering from an incurable disease that has stripped them of all dignity, or perhaps have had a life changing horrendous accident, that has left them with constant pain and no quality of life. What cost would that be to the individual who assists their loved one to die? Guilt would always play a part in that decision.. and guilt can be a bit like a jailer..
Here’s my piece of flash, which I have entitled Suicide Burns. The far reaching effects of suicide are like a fire engulfing all in sadness who come near.
Suicide Burns
We all have burnt edges in our lives but mine exist as a form of evidence, a folded piece of paper scarred by a torched flame of memories. The suicide note had intentional burnt edges around the colourless paper creating a waving motion, a final goodbye. She’d wanted me to remember those precious smoke filled memories spent together, before her debilitating cruel illness burnt joy to dust. The note cast a warming glow each time I opened it. I smelt the aroma of logs, her sweet perfume rekindling long lost memories of our passionate love making, the embers of the open fire caressing our naked, youthful bodies.
After her suicide, I placed the folded note next to my heart. For days it remained untouched until I unfolded it’s sad, weary edges. How I longed to hear her thoughts, to say one last farewell, but her silent note told of the pills that I’d stockpiled. The note was no longer in my breast pocket. It was evidence of my confession: loving her too much. Her ghost danced alone, a pain free sparkle of brilliant illuminating light. The prison door claimed my guilt, a small price to pay, my sweet dearest love.
Until the next time.. please do feel free to comment…
Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx
My fun (totally not serious but nevertheless 90% true,) author bio on Wattpad – Link below.
Marjorie Mallon was born in Lion City: Singapore. She grew up in a mountainous court in Hong Kong. Her crazy parents dragged her spotty soul away from her exotic childhood and her much loved dog Topsy to the frozen wastelands of Scotland. There she mastered Scottish country dancing, haggis bashing, bagpipe playing and a whole new Och Aye lingo.
As a teenager she travelled to many far flung destinations to visit her abacus wielding wayfarer dad. On one such occasion a barracuda swam by. It stopped to view her bikini clad body, longing to take a big bite. With dogs' fangs replacing barracudas' teeth, she returned to her mother's birthplace: Kuching, Cat City. There, Blackie, a black-hearted dog sniffed her frightened butt, whimpered and ran away! Shortly after this extraordinary event an angry female Orang-Utan chased her unfit ass out of the Malaysian jungle believing that she was a threat to her babies! She still monkeys about, would love to own a cat, or a replacement Topsy but refuses to entertain murderous dogs, or over-protective monkeys.
It's rumoured that she lives in the Venice of Cambridge, with her six foot hunk of a Rock God husband, and her two enchanted daughters.
After such an upbringing her author's mind has taken total leave of its senses. When she's not writing, she eats exotic delicacies while belly dancing, or surfs to the far reaches of the moon. To chill out she practises Tai Chi and Yoga on the crest of a wave. If the mood takes her she goes snorkelling with mermaids, or signs up for idyllic holidays with the Chinese Unicorn, whose magnificent voice sings like a thousand wind chimes.
She is a child of the light and the dark. Her motto is simply this: Do what you love, stay true to your heart's desires, remain young at heart, and inspire others to do so, even if it appears that the odds are stacked like black hearted shadows against you...
It has been an age since I joined in #BlogBattle and I’ve missed it but I’ve been very busy editing my manuscript so I have a bit of an excuse! Anyway, this week the prompt word just seemed to speak to me: Voice. I have just the story in mind! It’s an idea inspired by my current WIP novel, The Curse of Time, which I’m currently sharing on Wattpad, (Prologue and first few chapters….)
My short story is a YA Fantasy… with a touch of wacky humour. This short story takes a quirky look at what might have happened if the main character in my WIP: Amelina, had her missing dad return as a zombie!
The Knock At The Door – The Buried Voice.
I heard a knocking coming from the front door, a light tapping, but persistent sound. I ran downstairs. Through the frosted glass I saw a hazy silhouette. The knocking stopped. I opened the door a fraction and peered out.
I spied a half dead living body exhibit, a horror museum zombie. I staggered. This thing was gasping for breath, making terrible rasping sounds. His eyes were bleary, sad pools of stagnant misery. I clung to the door frame, seeking support, almost mimicking him. I wanted to run, to escape this visitor, but instead I let him in. I don’t know why I did. Somehow it seemed the right thing to do. One thought gave me comfort; I figured that if this stranger turned nasty I could run faster than he could. He hobbled into the house, each step a slow, painful shuffle. I pulled the dining chair out for him. He didn’t sit, he collapsed. I didn’t know what to do next. I hovered for a moment uncertain. His breathing continued to rattle in his rib cage, so I rushed off to get him a glass of water. When I returned he held the glass with his pinky extended, his hand shaking, the water spilling. He lifted the glass to his lips, drinking in gulps that tugged at my heart.
‘Amelina,’ he croaked, his eyes swimming out to reach mine.
The ocean currents of his sad lost eyes drew us together. The shock pummelled me with a force that I couldn’t begin to describe. His voice couldn’t say the words he longed to say, those syllables were lost on some faraway shore, yet I knew what was in his heart.
He had my name in his heart. Of course he had. I knew who he was, of course I did. That pinky told me before he did. He’d always had trouble bending that finger, ever since he’d broken it, mucking about on a family holiday in Cornwall.
I heard the sound of mum turning the key in the door; she didn’t have a clue what was coming. She was adrift in the sea and had no idea.
She walked into the hallway.
‘Amelina, I’m home,’ she yelled.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t say a word. That pinky still had me transfixed.
Mum walked in and saw us. She staggered, and swayed.
‘What, the….. who… is….’
He lifted the glass with trembling hands and she saw the truth.
Poor mum. It was all too much for her; she swayed, and then fainted.
Mum was out cold. I didn’t know what to do. Zombie like dad took over; he picked up his glass and waved it in mum’s direction. I got the parental message. Water. That’s when I heard it, this plaintive meowing coming from the patio. A black cat had his nose pressed against the glass. I rushed to get mum the water, passing by the patio door on the way to the kitchen I didn’t stop to think I let the strange cat in.
Before the water even reached mum’s lips, she came to, stirring.
I gave the cat a bowl of milk. It seemed the thing to do. He supped it up as if he was starving. I gave mum the glass of water; she swallowed it down gulping back tears.
By now Mum had clocked dad. This second viewing couldn’t have been a pretty sight, but she braved it. She didn’t cry out. Instead the expression on her face almost hiccupped as if she was swallowing her shock, a bitter watery pill. She must have noticed the cat too but didn’t object. I expect she didn’t have the energy.
Much later that evening mum and dad were getting reacquainted. The reunion, if you could call it that must have been slow and painful. A chat with halting words, a slow shuffling to get to know each other again. I withdrew to my bedroom.
Nothing could quite match that first shock of seeing dad but what happened next came close. I saw a tiny person captured in my bedroom mirror. I thought I was hallucinating. So I tried to wipe her away with a flannel.
‘Hey, stop that,’ she scolded, ‘I don’t need a shower, you’re making me all smeary.’
I stepped back. This was crazy. First dad reappeared, then the cat fell in the door, and now I had a talking girl captured in my bedroom mirror. WTF. I recognised this tiny person; it was Esme, a girl from my school who’d vanished suddenly with no explanation.
I closed my eyes willing her away. I just couldn’t take anymore. Things like this just didn’t happen to an ordinary girl like me.
When I reopened my eyes, she was still there, frowning, as if I’d captured her and put her there, like I made it my habit to be her jailer. She scowled. I ran through the house and checked each mirror. She was in all of them. Every single one. Ugh.
I had scowling Esme on tap.
A dad, who kinda did the, kinda didn’t do the zombie dude scuffle.
And a black cat who craved attention.
Sometimes fate ladles out wicked blows. Our once happy family was a distant memory, and laughter became a cruel joke.
Now we’re an unhappy family of three plus a mirror girl and a strange black cat with a white handkerchief fur necktie. This cat dude knows how to dress. Yeah, he came house hunting in his Sunday best looking for loser owners. Our sad house remembered its past, shrunk, and became a reflection of our sorrow. Nothing was ever going to be the same, but one sad fact remained, the curse wasn’t trapped.
1000 words max fictional tale (or true if you really want)
PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
Go for the entertainment value!
State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
Have fun!
#Blogbattle is a wonderful community of short story writers via Rachael Ritchey, do pop over to her blog to find out more:
Hope you enjoyed my short story. Please do comment about my current WIP – The Curse of Time – here or on Wattpad, I’m looking for feedback – all opinions gratefully received.
Rachael is doing things differently this week as it one year since she started #BlogbBattle so to celebrate this one year anniversary we have been asked to :
Choose one of your #BlogBattle stories from the past year
Edit it however you would like
Reblog/repost it next week on Tuesday, March 15th.
Make sure you specify the genre and the theme word
I just found out about this today so without further ado I’d like to repost one of my old stories which I originally wrote on September 29th. It features Ryder, my male protagonist in the Krystallos Cottage… flexing his blood moon muscles. Hope you enjoy…
Genre: Fantasy.
Title: Blood Moon A Rip of A Ride
It began with a rocking horse, a child’s toy. Ryder discovered this antique treasure in a quirky street window, down ‘the lanes,’ in Brighton. He strolled along, his rocking horse in hand and joined the queue for the busy student bus back to campus. A couple of ladies stared at his greediness, his decadence, taking up two empty seats. Undeterred he smirked, patting the rocking horse’s head. The ladies glared. The corners of his mouth flattened into a sharp line, a knife edge of confrontation.
When he arrived back at his flat his flatmates exchanged knowing glances, cataloguing Ryder and his rocking horse even further in the oddity section. Only Olivia, his recent conquest gave him the benefit of the doubt. He appreciated that and made a mental note to reward her later. A midnight kiss perhaps.
The perhaps became a definite. When he left the warm embrace of slumbering Olivia the moon lay heavy in the sky, its orb a perfect circle of complete mysteriousness. Ryder hung out his bedroom window staring, pleading with the moon to notice him. He dangled precariously, goading the moon to come closer. The pumpkin moon glowed blood red, a bleeding heart, surrounded by an uncaring sky. The rocking horse began to move slowly absorbing the moon’s vital energy. Ryder could hear it’s creaking joints jarring to and fro behind him. Next he heard the sound of an ice cream van, its tune winding its way towards him. He hung further out of the window wondering about this strange phenomenon, an ice cream van in the middle of the night. He grabbed his jacket, rushing to catch the van before it disappeared.
Outside he dashed, his senses overflowing with midnight promises, a feast of sugary ice-cream. But, no van appeared. He waited. Displeased. Again he heard the jingle of the van teasing him, laughing at his foolish, childlike desires. The music grew louder and louder, he covered his ears about to turn away, now desperate to escape. The van came to a screeching halt just as he took his first step. Ryder smiled. The hatch opened, and a man peered out. He had a round face, the roundest face that Ryder had ever seen, vanilla white, pock marked, hair as black as the midnight sky.
There were no signs to indicate what kind of ice cream he sold. So Ryder waited for him to speak.
“Well, I haven’t got all night, what do you want?” said the man, as his creamy white face turned a surly red.
“I’m not sure,” replied Ryder, “What ice creams do you have?”
“Ice creams? What? No ice creams here young man.”
“But you’re riding in an ice cream van, playing an ice-cream jingle .”
“That’s true, but that’s not what I do.”
“What do you do?” asked Ryder, frowning.
“Hop aboard, ride the van and you’ll find out,” said the man, his face returning to its original brilliant white.
Ryder hesitated. This was strange, but Ryder thrived on strange, so he agreed. The man opened the back of the van and Ryder climbed in.
Inside the van Ryder could see only darkness. Blackness drifted towards him filling his senses with a bleak sense of loss. The man handed him a tiny torch that gave off a brilliant light.
“Come,” he said.
The van was motionless, yet Ryder could swear that he felt movement. They walked and walked further into the darkness.
Suddenly they stopped.
A bright light shone from the torch on to a patch of turf. How curious. This van’s opened doors revealed a vast land which stretched its tendril like fingers, shadows extending everywhere.
Ryder recognised the land. He sighed.
“Home,” he said.
“Yes,” said the man.
“Why have you brought me here?”
“It’s nearly Halloween, lad. A time to visit the place of your birth.”
Ryder heard the sound of the fairground, the laughter, candy floss and excitement, but behind it all he knew there was the ride.
There was no point in pleading with the man, asking him to take him back. He had to accept his fate, whatever that might be.
“Come,” said the man.
Ryder lifted his heavy feet, a ghostly chill settling in his bones.
The man opened the door of the roller coaster and let him in. The rollercoaster groaned. Ryder’s soul cried.
A jingle began to play, a cheerful ditty, but Ryder that knew this would be short lived, soon he would hear a tune that would throw him into oblivion, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.
The clamp locked around him. He gripped the sides of his seat, clenched his teeth, and prepared to ride. It started off slowly, a gentle teasing introduction, but soon the ride picked up pace, the jingle attempting to keep up with the speed of the ride.
The ride sped faster and faster, his heart pounded in his chest, sweat dripping from his brow, as his skin pulled and pushed as if dragged from his face by an ever increasing force.
The ride came to a sudden jarring, screeching, halt. No gentle ending. No time to breathe. No time to think.
Ryder’s head spun. He could only see shadows. No light, no moon, no sun, no happiness only the bleakest most appalling darkness. A blanket of despair.
He shook his head, as if to dispel this vision.
Out of the shadows a person appeared. At first he was uncertain whether it was male or female, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light he recognised this bearer of bad fortune.
“Hello mother,” he said.
His mother walked towards him, she unbuckled the clamp, but said nothing. It was not their way, emotion was not tolerated in this land of childlike dreams, and nightmares.
He touched his eye, but knew the answer already, the beautiful crystal had been wrenched, a rip caused by the ride. His eye wept. What price would he pay for its release? Only time would tell.
Hope you liked my story, you may have read it before…..
Welcome to Writing Through the Soul to Heal the Soul. Where you will learn everything you need to know to heal your soul through writing! Thanks for stopping by.
M J Mallon YA Author and Poet 