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HOLIDAY reading magazine EXECUTIVE EDITOR - LAURENCE O’BRYAN EDITOR-IN-CHIEF - TANJA SLIJEPČEVIĆ GRAPHIC DESIGNER - MIRNA GILMAN RANOGAJEC
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Table of contents 04 EDITOR’S LETTER 16 ARTICLES 17 WRITING AS THERAPY BY STEPHEN BURCKHARDT 20 IO SATURNALIA! ONE BIG PARTY OR THE ANCESTOR OFCHRISTMAS? BY ALISON MORTON 23 THE LURE OF CHRISTMAS CRIME BY HOLLY BELL 27 NAMES ARE IMPORTANT BY JAMES R. CALLAN 30 CHRISTMAS WITH SPECIAL NEEDS BY DR. SHARON A. MITCHELL 33 THE TRANSPARENT STYLE: OR, IS IT TIME TO TRANSLATE SHAKESPEARE BY ROBERT I. KATZ 36 WRITING A CHRISTMAS-THEMED BOOK BY MIKE MARTIN 40 EXCERPTS 41 CHAPTER THREEEXCERPT FROM STANDING OVATION BY L. C. BENNETT STERN 46 A POEM FOR CHRISTMASBY B.W. VAN ALSTYNE 47 THE CITY AT CHRISTMASA REMEMBRANCE BY HENRY HUDSON 52 THE CARNIVORE VEGANJOHN BROUGHTON 57 CHRISTMAS CAROLBY CLABE POLK 62 SHORT STORIES 63 AN ENCOUNTER IN ROME BY ANN RICHARDSON 68 THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREEBY MARGARET TANNER
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Editors Lettter
You are very welcome to our Holiday magazine ‘19! You are very welcome to our Holiday magazine ‘19! From festive stories, writing Christmas stories in different genres, excerpts, and advice on how to write a perfect character, we have a delicious mix of Holiday goodies for you! We start with the basics - Mike Martin shares his tips on how to write a Christmas themed book.
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Author Holly Bell discusses what is so appealing with Christmas crime and shares a few tips from the master in the genre - Agatha Christie. Author James Callan discusses the importance of a good name and why you should give yourself time to decide on a proper name for your characters. Is it time to translate Shakespeare? Wonders author Robert I. Katz. Author B.W. Van Alstyne shares a wonderful Christmas poem. Don’t miss our excepts section, for anyone who wants a taste of writing before committing to a full book. This and much more in our new magazine! And if you have any ideas for articles or things you would like to see covered in our magazines, let me know. Tanja Slijepcevic Editor in Chief Holiday Magazine 2019
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Prince’s Pack : Book 3 by L. Ann Marie Sempiternum Familia, Forever Family: the sentiment behind our Enforcer Pack. Vampires, shifters, witches, wizards and of course, ghosts fill the pack of legendary misfits that find themselves ruling and fighting in the desert, of all places. Book 3 the final battle. Witches, vampires and shifters fighting for good as the pack grows and the heat rises.
Shadowhunter (Nephilim Quest Book 1) by Leena Maria The truth about her ancestry is hard to accept – Dana was deliberately created to find something that should stay hidden in the past, or it might threaten the world. Dana’s existence is tied to the myth of the Nephilim, the descendants of angels, and her creator commands the forces of chaos and darkness, the source of all horror myths of humankind.
The Curse of the Dragon Stone: The Dragon’s Heir Trilogy Book 1 by JB Richards Faced with the annihilation of his father’s legacy, Prince Kirin is left with nothing but a dilapidated castle and an inner dragon that refuses to be tamed. Will he be brave enough to accept help from an unlikely source in order to defeat his father’s nemesis and restore his family name?
Stormy Sophie: A hot tempered woman changes the life of a billionaire for ever by Stella and Phillip Lemarque A cross between “ The Devil Wear Prada”, “ The Nanny Diaries”. and “The Crazy Rich Asians”. Stormy Sophie shows the other side of working as “Chef ” in private estate, while still remaining light, fun and a pleasure to read. The book also shows how working as a “couple” can be a life-expanding experience. 6
Amidst Alien Stars: Milijun Book 2 by Clayton Graham They have awoken surrounded by alien stars‌ Following their abduction from Earth, Laura Sinclair and son, Jason, lead a group of desperate humans in a bid to forge their own future on a bizarre and dangerous planet. To succeed, they must solve the puzzle of extraterrestrial races in the throes of a perplexing and historic conflict. Who can they really trust as they struggle to understand the challenging and hostile environment that holds them in a grip of iron? Enter a world like no other as the truth will out in a realm as far away from home as it ever gets.
Lone Star Odyssey: First Steps by David Wilson After over 20 years in the USMC and coming off a five year tour as a contractor in Afghanistan all Talon Clark wanted to do was spend time with his kids and wife on his ranch in Texas. Talon is marooned in Washington, D.C. when the nation is attacked by a series of false flag operations and is then devastated by a series of EMP attacks. Talon must find supplies as quick as he can and get out of the D.C. Metro area before the chaos overwhelms him. From his first steps he finds out nothing is going to be easy or fast.
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Critical Incidents: The ROK - Land of the HAN-Korea by Thomas H. Ward Stopping the next Korean war, a Jack Gunn novel, critical incidents has it all: terrorism, mystery, suspense, a political thriller taking you inside the intelligence units and the U.S. embassy. Meet the characters behind the scenes who do the dirty work. In a world where being in a perfect shape is no longer enough,
The Ice Storm Murders (Dangerous Journeys Book 6) by Virginia Winters Anne McPhail and Thomas Beauchamp return to a back-country lodge for a wedding. An ice storm imprisons the guests and murder robs host David McKnight of his bride.The storm drags on for days, fuel and power run out and tempers flare. Anne and Thomas investigate, another body turns up and the killer turns his attention to Anne.
Crime Exposed: A Buck Taylor Novel (Book 4) by Chuck Morgan Fresh off investigating the ambush murders of two police officers, Colorado Bureau of Investigation Agent, Buck Taylor and his team are called upon to find a missing journalist, in a case that leads to child porn, and murder, in the much anticipated fourth “Crime” novel.
A Timeless Celebration (Century Cottage Cozy Mysteries Book 1) by Dianne Ascroft A small town, a big party, a stolen gift. When an artifact from the Titanic is stolen before her town’s 150th anniversary celebration, it’s up to Lois Stone to catch the thief. Her best friend’s job, the local museum’s future and the town’s 150th anniversary celebration depend on her success. And she has one week to do it.
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Beyond the Blue Girl by H.K. Belvedere Katie Brown is a troubled girl from Edinburgh. She suffers horrific abuse from her evil father. She decides one day to leave home for a better life in London but things don’t go smoothly for her and she spirals downwards into a life of stripping and drug abuse. After meeting a rich and handsome photographer, Katie feels her life is starting to look brighter but the charming man has other plans for her that involve his psychopathic friend, the Wallpaper Man. She is introduced to the dark world of high society and has her eyes opened to the sick and twisted activities of the elite!
Relatively Strange: A RollerCoaster Of A Psi-Fi Thriller by Marilyn Messik Strange Series. Bk 1. Download your Free Copy Now! Telepathy, combined with an overdeveloped sense of justice and an inability to keep her nose out of other people’s business was usually Stella’s biggest problem. But thrown into a life-threatening situation for which nothing could have prepared her; faced with the stark reality of medical experimentation and its horrifying consequences, one thing’s clear, this hero stuff really isn’t her.
“Like Stephen King but much funnier!” “Ohmydays what a book! I laughed, cried and everything between.” 9
Layered Lies (Kelsey’s Burden Series Book 1) by Kaylie Hunter Two years after her son’s abduction, Kelsey rebuilds a new life for herself. At least, that’s what she wishes everyone to believe. Behind closed doors, she hunts her enemies, living a life of lies. She hasn’t forgotten, hasn’t forgiven. But when a stalker threatens someone she cares about, Kelsey must find a way to keep everyone safe. Will she find the madman before it’s too late? Or will tragedy strike again? The Kelsey’s Burden series kicks off with Layered Lies, a crime thriller packed with twisting plots, sensual chemistry, laugh-out-loud moments, and characters who will stay with you long after the series ends. Enjoy the ride.
Save Him: Can he prevent the death of Jesus? by William M. Hayes Military scientist Rydel Scott is proud of the hitech gear he invents for battlefield heroes. When a secret mission goes wrong and accidentally reveals the technology behind time travel, the man of science embarks on a world-changing quest to rescue the Son of God. As he journeys back, he neglects to factor in the consequences of a devastating butterfly effect. And he’s terrified to discover his own elite soldiers are hunting him down to stop him from making choices that could upend all of human history. Can Rydel rewrite the New Testament before old friends scratch him out of existence?
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Ripped: ‘cause any addiction is a good addiction by Gian Andrea Where fitness has nothing to do with being healthy, and your life is based on calories counting and a good tan-spray, enter the realm of a new, modern, addiction that too many refuse to admit.
Jessica: The autobiography of an infant by Jeffrey Von Glahn In her ground-breaking therapy, Jessica discovered that her experience as a newborn, starting with her birth (See Ch. 1), had left her with the constant fear that one day she’d be found guilty of impersonating a human being. Listening to Jessica “re-live” those experiences as an adult was just like listening to an infant who could talk describe every psychologically dramatic moment of its life as it was happening.
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The Circle: Taken by Sage Sask Abandoned at eleven with limited memories, Alexia seeks her identity. Under the new government’s regime, sixteen year-olds are evaluated for their desire to harm others. Alexia struggles to conceal her psychic ability and is taken to an island where other highly skilled agents and readers like her train to survive. A spell-binding adventure of friendship, love and unforeseen twists. A captivating novel filled with forbidden romance and shocking betrayals that demands the question - Can One Decision Determine Your Destiny? An exhilarating new Readers’ Favorite 5 star YA series.
Dangerous in a Kilt (Hot Scots Book 1) by Anna Durand Good-girl Erica Teague is out on bail, charged with a crime her ex-lover committed. A lifetime of sticking to the rules has left her broke, burned, and facing a trial and certain conviction thanks to the evidence planted by her trust-funder ex. Desperate to experience one wild night of sizzling sex before her freedom is torn away from her, Erica heads to a notorious night club in search of a one-night stand where a case of mistaken identity lands her in the arms of a hot Scot with a secret past.
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Everything We Had: A novel of the southwest pacific air war, November-December 1941 by Tom Burkhalter Two brothers, Jack and Charlie Davis, are pilots in the US Army Air Forces. Captain Charles Davis, West Point ‘39, flies B-17s with the 19th Bomb Group. Lieutenant John T. “Jack” Davis flies P-40s with the 21st Pursuit Squadron. The two young men are part of the reinforcements sent to the Philippines in the late fall of 1941. Charlie must fly his B-17 across the Pacific with a poorly-trained, inexperienced crew just to reach Clark Field, his base in the Philippines. Jack arrives in Manila with his squadron mates to discover there are no airplanes ready for them to fly. To their north, on the island of Formosa, the Japanese Army and Navy wait for word from Tokyo to go to war, with forces that greatly outnumber the Philippines garrison. When the war begins the two brothers must call upon everything they have in terms of skill and training to survive.
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Here Comes Ingo by Odeta Xheka Here Comes Ingo is a stunning visual story about a female macaw’s elaborate dream with underlying themes of love, tolerance, kindness, and inclusion and will make an excellent addition to any storybook collection. This wordless picture book is a great example of the benefits of art in early childhood development. The book encourages children to switch seats with the illustrator via painting, coloring and drawing directly ON the page inviting them to tap into their creativity and include process art in their daily lives in order to search for and create new meaning, test their comfort zone and take risks.
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A Christmas Novella Series by Samantha Jacobey CHRISTMAS CANDY – http://myBook.to/ChristmasCandy CHRISTMAS EVE – http://myBook.to/ChristmasEve CHRISTMAS CAROL – http://myBook.to/ChristmasCarol CHRISTMAS JOY – http://mybook.to/ChristmasJoy CHRISTMAS HOLLY – Being released this Winter! Life isn’t always sweet, even for girls called Candy, and in this series, romance is a family affair… Candice Parker’s life has never been easy. Plagued by losses and setbacks, each day is a struggle for the petite brunette and her young son. When fireman Gary enters her world, he is one mistake she refuses to make; but after tragedy strikes, she may not have a choice. Gerald Ford has never been what anyone would call settled. Always keeping things simple, he lived a fast and furious lifestyle, with no intentions of slowing down. However, when he inherits his family’s ancestral mansion on his thirtieth birthday, he considers the possibility that it’s time for a change. Could this complicated young woman be his Christmas Candy?
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Articles
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Writing as Therapy by Stephen Burckhardt
When discussing the idea of journaling, many individuals will automatically envision a young girl lying on her stomach on her bed, kicking her feet up behind her, as she writes in a pink diary with a fuzzy tipped pen about some secret crush whose name she surrounds with little hearts. Or, if you are of Mean Girls generation, the image brought to mind might be less innocent and a bit more spiteful. (Mean Girls, Paramount Pictures 2004) While these Hollywood driven images might hold some truth, in a few cases, journaling has become a popular activity that spans across generations and genders. While basic journaling can have psychological, and to some extent, physiological benefits, it is very different from the type of directed writing used for therapy. Writing in a diary or basic journaling tends to be more free form. An individual will record their thoughts or feelings or just document recent events. They can journal as a form of self-inspiration to help visualize and manifest their hopes and dreams and set personal goals. If you walk into any bookstore or search online, you can find numerous journals available for purchase. The books range from completely blank pages to guided journals with writing prompts. 17
Basic journaling can help reduce stress, improve memory, and provides individuals a way to record and analyze events in their lives outside of the emotions of the moment. It can provide a way to express feelings an individual may not be comfortable sharing or expressing in any other form. I was personally introduced journaling while going through seven surgeries in six months in 2004. Six of those surgeries were brain surgeries. After months of repeated trauma, it was suggested that I journal to help deal with stress and improve my impaired memory function. It proved to be an invaluable tool for my recovery. While basic journaling does provide the writer with valuable benefits there is still more to be gained with therapeutic writing. Therapeutic writing is done with a specific purpose in mind, often driven by writing prompts which are guided by a licensed mental health professional. The course can be guided alone in a one-on-one session or in a group setting. It can be directed by a professional in person or through one of many online services that are now available. American social psychologist James W. Pennebaker is credited with being a pioneer in therapeutic writing. In the late 1980s, Pennebaker conducted a voluntary therapeutic writing study involving 46 college students. The participants were divided into two groups. Both were instructed to write for 15 minutes without stopping. The first group was told to write about mundane topics without expressing their emotions or opinions on the subjects. The second group was instructed to write about a deeply traumatic event from their past. The study produced a surprising result. In the months following the study, the group who wrote about past trauma had fewer visits to health services. Since his study was published in 1986, numerous professionals have explored this field and expanded on his study. (Pennebaker, Beall, Aug 1986). 18
In study after study, therapeutic writing has shown to not only have beneficial psychological effects but physiological as well. In general, it has been theorized that therapeutic writing can boost an individual’s immune system. However, it is believed that the benefits may be temporary, and the writing therapy would need to be ongoing to sustain the benefits. (Smyth, Stone, Hurewitz, & Kaell, 1999; Murray, 2002). Writing therapy is proving to be a useful tool to assess and treat numerous conditions dealing with trauma and other psychological issues. These can include but are not limited to: post-traumatic stress, depression, marital and/or family issues, gender identity, eating disorders, substance abuse, anxiety, stress, grief and loss, and so many more. Whether you choose to stop by your neighborhood bookstore and pick up a blank or a guided journal to begin this journey by yourself or if you decide to seek out professional services for a more therapeutic writing session, you will find the experience can be beneficial. In many cases, individuals who journal have reported feeling less stress, improved memory function, greater creativity, and being more self-aware among other benefits. With all the stress associated with the holidays, maybe now is the time to introduce your loved ones to the gift of journaling. Stephen Burckhardt was born and raised in Kansas. He started his career in advertising and design at the age of 17. He earned a degree in journalism and certification in forensic criminology from Wichita State University. Stephen has written for several publications as well as briefly working in broadcast news and as a ghostwriter. In 2004, Stephen required seven surgeries in six months, six of which were brain surgeries. He has three neurological conditions for which he has found writing to be effective therapy. In 2013, he met and married the love of his life, P.R. Burckhardt. The couple later rescued their dog, Shaggy. In 2015, Stephen self-published his first novella, Into the West: The Orphan Train which is a finalist in the 2019 TopShelf Indie Book Awards. He’s currently writing part four of his Into the West Saga Serial, Into the West: Most Wanted. Visit www.StephenBurckhardt.com for more information.
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Io Saturnalia! One big party or the ancestor of Christmas? By Alison Morton Saturnalia was THE most important Roman festival. Heavy on feasting, fun and gifts, it was originally celebrated in Ancient Rome for only a day around 17 December (today!), but it was so popular it expanded into a week or even longer, despite Augustus’ efforts to reduce it to three days, and Caligula’s, to five. Like today’s Christmas, this holy day (feriae publicae) had a serious origin: for the Romans, it was to honour the god of sowing, Saturn. Romans were a superstitious lot; like many ancient cultures, religious ceremonies and observances held an important place in their lives. But also like modern Christmas, it was a festival day (dies festus). After sacrifice at the temple, there was a public banquet, which Livy says was introduced in 217 BC. Afterwards, according to the poet Macrobius, the celebrants shouted ‘Io, Saturnalia‘ at a riotous feast in the temple. Modern mid-winter habits echo Roman ones – increased, often 20
extravagant shopping, conspicuous and over-indulgent eating and drinking, and visiting friends and giving gifts, particularly of wax candles (cerei), and earthenware figurines (sigillaria). Masters served meals to their slaves who were permitted the unaccustomed luxuries of leisure and gambling. A member of the familia (family plus slaves) was appointed Saturnalicius princeps, roughly equivalent to the Lord of Misrule. The poet Catullus describes Saturnalia as ‘the best of days’ while Seneca complains that the ‘whole mob has let itself go in pleasures’. Pliny the Younger writes that he retired to his room while the rest of the household celebrated. Sound familiar? Macrobius described a banquet of pagan literary celebrities in Rome which classicists date to between 383 and 430 AD. So we know Saturnalia was alive and well under Christian emperors, but no longer as an official religious holiday. But alongside Saturnalia ran the Dies Natalis Solis Invicti (the birthday of the ‘unconquerable sun’), a festival celebrating the renewal of light and the coming of the new year and which took place on 25 December. By the middle of the fourth century AD, the dominant Christian religion had integrated the Dies Natalis into their celebration of Christmas. So it seems that Saturnalia wasn’t the official ancestor of Christmas after all. Never mind. Io Saturnalia! Read the short version of ‘Saturnalia surprise‘ about how the Mitelae of Roma Nova were celebrating one year…
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Receive a free welcome pack – the Official Roma Nova Reading Guide and two short stories – when you subscribe to Alison’s newsletter: http:// eepurl.com/ckNeFL Connect with Alison on her Roma Nova site: http://alison-morton.com Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/AlisonMortonAuthor Twitter: https://twitter.com/alison_morton @alison_morton Alison Morton writes the award-winning Roma Nova series featuring modern Praetorian heroines – “intelligent adventure thrillers with heart.” She puts this down to her deep love of Roman history, six years’ military service, a masters’ in history and an over-vivid imagination. She blogs, reads, cultivates a Roman herb garden and drinks wine in France with her husband of 30 years. All six full-length Roma Nova novels have been awarded the BRAG Medallion. SUCCESSIO, AURELIA and INSURRECTIO were selected as Historical Novel Society’s Indie Editor’s Choices. AURELIA was a finalist in the 2016 HNS Indie Award. SUCCESSIO was selected as an Editor’s Choice in The Bookseller. Novellas CARINA and NEXUS and a collection of short stories – ROMA NOVA EXTRA – complete the series so far.
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The Lure of Christmas Crime by Holly Bell The Lure of Christmas Crime The poisoned sherry, the gunshot from the snow-covered terrace, the knife beneath the festive tree, the blackmail note inside the gift-wrap. How can we resist? With mystery, thrillers and crime topping the Kindle charts only just behind romance, what is the appeal of the genre at this time of year?
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People gather who customarily avoid one another like the plague, but under familial pressure, a sense of duty, or fear of isolation, duly attend the party. Let us set aside the convivial ideal gathering, and inspect instead the potential for delightfully deadly conflict. Hosts prepare exceptional food, guests dress up and bring presents: all potential pawns in the battle for status, approval and a place in the family head’s will! The cooking of an ambitious feast causes tension in the kitchen. Old feuds are rekindled. Light the blue touch paper ‌ and stand back.
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Contrast
The writer will set us up with apparent comfort and joy. The fairy lights, candles, tinsel and baubles on the tree, sparking wrapping and satin ribbon adorn the setting. Cards are exchanged, full of sentiment, heartfelt or spurious. Seasonal music fills the air, carols in the village church, singers with lanterns outside the door, old favourites around the piano and on the radio. The banquet is rolled out, to oohs and ahhhs as the turkey or goose in all its golden splendour is borne from the kitchen. The pops of the crackers sound, the laughter at the awful jokes, paper crowns. perched comically. The tastes of the savoury and sweet are relished. A feast for the senses. Smiling faces, goodwill ‌ and then ‌. The sudden, shocking interruption. The dive into a world of plots, suspicion, passion and dark deeds until the awful truth is revealed. Contrast follows again with the happy ending, the victim given justice, and the innocent exonerated. The lights come back on, the toast is drunk, and the Christmas spirit is all the greater for the drama that has unfolded.
Christie Christmas
For an example, I reach for a Christmas crime by the godmother of the cozy mystery: Dame Agatha Christie. Interestingly her prime cozy sleuth Miss Marple is unavailable for the winter celebration. However, her Belgian private detective, Hercule Poirot, comes to our rescue in a short story. The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding is the one Christie that could only have unfolded during that time of year. 24
Poirot rejects the whole idea of the traditional rural English Christmas. The countryside signifies the damp and chill of old stone mansions, and, he declares, the occasion is, in his native land, reserved for children. However, the plight of a hapless prince and royal scandal are in the balance. The young man has been robbed of a priceless family heirloom: a suitably red ruby. The trail leads to Kings Lacey. With the promise of efficient central heating and hot water, our beloved Belgian agrees to join a family party there. Dinner brings a dazzling surprise with an unexpected object in the plum pudding. How did it get there? Soon there is a more pressing question as the red and white of yuletide turns to blood on the snow. Who is responsible for the footprints leading out to the body lying in the garden? Christie throws in twists and turns to bring the path to a satisfactory conclusion. Not the best written, but it is her most Christmassy and tosses us from interest, to anticipation, to engagement, to shock, to resolution and back to seasonal joy.
Deeper
However, I would suggest that our attachment to Christmas crime goes back far earlier than Christie. At the dawn of our human consciousness, the first mystery surely would have been why nature died, the days darkened, the air chilled. And then, a further curiosity, why the earth revived, lightened and warmed. It is innate in us all to seek cause and effect. Could it be that at this time of year we have some genetic, tribal memory linking us to that first puzzle? Our forebears attempted to explain it, with what we still do: telling stories. An example is the tale of the battles at the solstices between Oak, king of summer and Holly, lord of winter.
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Isn’t that what a mystery is? Not cause and effect, but effect first: a dead body. Who or what caused it? Whodunnit. So as the death of nature resolves into the beginning of the lengthening of days, what better genre to celebrate with than a mystery? In harmony with the seasonal spirit, what better than a cozy mystery? As a global event, the solstice is celebrated or has a history of celebration in some form or another across the world. Whether with tinsel and glitter, candles and bonfires, smiles and laughter, add a mystery, and let there be light. Happy holidays, Holly Bell Holly Bell - Humorous and quintessentially English with suspense and magic. Cat adorer and chocolate lover, British author Holly started out with non-fiction. However her love of stories flowered from long experience of writing, photography and videography, into the Amanda Cadabra series. Having read and re-read Agatha Christie’s books and JRR Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings with delight from childhood, the creation of cosy paranormal mysteries was the natural choice. Holly’s ‘Christmas’ mystery Amanda Cadabra and The Flawless Plan was published earlier this year. She is now writing the fifth in the series. For updates, join the newsletter at https://amandacadabra.com/come-on-in and check out the latest posts at https://amandacadabra.com/blog Find Holly on Twitter @Holly_b_author and Facebook on https://www.facebook.com/ hbamandacadabra https://amandacadabra.com/contact Holly loves to hear from readers. 26
Names Are Important by James R. Callan
Is selecting a name for your characters important? Have you ever just picked up the telephone directory, opened it at random and grabbed a name? Please do not use the name as simply a way to distinguish one character from another. Suppose Margaret Mitchell had named her protagonist Jane. Would she have started the reader with a different impression than she did when she selected Scarlett? Before we even meet Scarlett we have a feeling about her. Scarlett reminds us of heat, emotion, energy, fire. We expect a fiery, energetic, volatile woman. Do we start out with a different impression if the man guy is named Winston or Joe? J.K. Rowling is one of the most successful writers of our time. Do you think she spent time on her characters’ names – and not just the major characters? And did they give the reader an initial impression? Draco Malfoy? Nymphadora Tonks? Ron Weasley? Severus Snape? Those 27
names did not just trip off her tongue; she worked to come up with them. Why, with all those great names, did she name the protagonist a rather plain name – Harry Potter? Perhaps she wanted to give us the impression that he was an ordinary person, a reluctant hero. The name is part of the character. Why do people change their name in real life? Because they want a different persona, a different outward expression that better reflects how they feel about themselves, how they want to be viewed. So you, the writer who is creating this character, need to decide how the character views herself. Make a conscious effort to select a name that helps build and define your character. In Deadly Additive, Donn Taylor named a secondary character who always operated on the edge, Brinkman. An accident? I don’t think so. Ian Fleming gave us some insight into the character of his antagonist in The Richest Man in the World when he named him Auric Goldfinger. Can the name mislead us? Certainly, if you want it to. Just don’t let it happen by mistake. Tiffany can be a person who spends her life helping the homeless, living and eating with them, and then returning to her one room under the Elevated. Maybe her parents are rich and she was to be a debutant. But the girl wanted to do something more important. You can use the name to help make the case for who this person is, or who the parents imagined she might be. Holly Golightly was a happy, carefree woman. Sam Spade was a straight forward, no frills, hard working person who dug for clues. Suppose your heroine is named Catherine. If she calls herself Cat, that tells us how she sees herself, and how the reader should view her. Names should be appropriate to the area, time, and genre of your novel. They should be age appropriate and should reflect the actual persona 28
of your character. Personally, I suggest avoiding names that are too difficult to pronounce. The reader pronounces the name in her head; don’t slow her down or tire her out. This attention to names should also apply to the names of fictitious places. Sometimes, the name can be a contrast to the character or place. David Balcacci in his book Divine Justice names a town “Divine” to contrast with the true nature of the place. You work hard to give your book a name that will entice the reader to pick it up and read it. Select your character name to make that character and your book memorable. And remember the advice from Proverbs: “A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches…” After a successful career in mathematics and computer science, receiving grants from the National Science Foundation and NASA, and being listed in Who’s Who in Computer Science and Two Thousand Notable Americans, James R. Callan turned to his first love—writing. He has had four non-fiction books published. He now concentrates on his favorite genre, mystery/suspense/thriller. His twelfth book released in May, 2018. In addition, he speaks at conferences and gives workshops on various writing topics such as character development, dialog, audiobooks, plotting, and the mystery/suspense/thriller genre. Website: www.jamesrcallan.com Blog: https://www.jamesrcallan.com/blog/ Author Page: http://amzn.to/1eeykvG
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Christmas with Special Needs by Dr. Sharon A. Mitchell
Christmas. This supposedly joyous time can be trying when your child has special needs. Autism, for example, affects one in every 59 kids. Difficulties arise before Christmas Day is actually here. Whether or not your child actually enjoys school, the structure and routines are often a welcoming atmosphere for many kids. This lovely predictability in the classroom often disappears during the month of December. Whether or not your child is enamored with school, he is used to it. But in December, holidays roll around and that child might have a week or even two weeks off of school, breaking his routine. These things are enough to throw a guy off his stride. You might keep a neat and orderly home. But, suddenly there is this Christmas tree stuck in the house, in a spot where it just should not be. As pretty as it might be, again it’s another disruption in the routine and change can be difficult for autistic and other special needs kids to handle. 30
While those sparkly decorations and twinkling lights might enhance the atmosphere you’re looking for, those flashes might not appeal to your child. They might catch his eye as light flashes, they might take his attention off what he was thinking about or trying to do. Grandparents delight in having their entire family around them during Christmas celebration. And, it can be a nice thing, for most people. But not all. While your child might be quite comfortable when it’s just his mom dad and siblings around, these other faces at his table can cause discomfort. He might do actions that will help him to calm himself. He might rocked back and forth if he’s sitting down, he might swing his legs (and perhaps inadvertently kick the table or someone else’s chair), he might flick his fingers or flap his hands or make noises. Relatives might expect you to make him stop. What can you do? In the middle of Christmas dinner is likely not the best time to explain to great uncle Henry why your Johnny is doing whatever it is he is doing. Some of this talk should happen ahead of time. But, try as hard as you might, there was still be some relatives who just don’t get it. They might not be able to understand all of the sensory impact that is streaming into your child’s mind and body, and how he might not be able to cope with this overload. Your child is different and not everyone will understand that. What is optional for you and for your child? Although relatives might expect to see your entire family at every function, perhaps you could pick and choose which ones all of you attend. Keep a calendar, a visual schedule posted for functions you (all of your family or just some of you) must attend. Let this schedule be readily accessible so your child will know what to expect. Is it more comfortable for your child to remain in the familiar surroundings of his own house? Offer to host Christmas. Rather than 31
having to leave his home where he feels safe and secure and venture into someone else’s house, remaining at your place has merit. His bedroom is close by where he could spend some quiet time alone, before coming back to join the group. If your child is calmer and happier that way it might make for an easier Christmas for all of you. Prep work always helps. Show him pictures of who is coming and when. Let him know that if he wants to he can go to his room or whatever other safe place he likes in your home when he needs to calm himself. You might calmly mention to the adults when they arrive that your son is tired and needs a bit of quiet time. That might be explanation enough for why he retreats to his bedroom for periods of time. Better that than a public meltdown. If things reach that state it can be embarrassing. You wish your child would not do that. But, what is front and centre here is that child. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks; what matters is your child’s distress. Do what you need to do to help him calm down. That might be removing him; it might be enveloping him in a tight hug giving him a feeling of pressure. Keep your child foremost. While you are tending to your child you might hear in the background comments about he’s a spoiled brat, he needs a little discipline, that wouldn’t have happened back in their day, etc. Doesn’t matter. Your child is your focus. Do what you must do to make Christmas a good day for him and for you. Dr. Sharon A. Mitchell has worked in schools as a teacher, counselor, psychologist and consultant for decades. Her Master’s and Doctorate degrees focused on autism. She has delivered workshops and seminars to thousands participants including at national conferences. She continues to write and teaches university classes about students who learn differently. She is an award-winning, Amazon bestselling author of five novels and about autism and two nonfiction autism books. https://www.amazon.com/DrSharon-A-Mitchell/e/B008MPJCYA
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The Transparent Style: Or, Is It Time to Translate Shakespeare by Robert I. Katz
Years ago, I read an excellent book by John Gardner, On Becoming a Novelist. Gardner was the author of Grendel, Nickel Mountain, Jason and Medea, and many other highly regarded works. He was also a literary critic and a university professor. Gardner advanced the thesis that the purpose of the words is to convey the sights, the sounds, the action and the plot directly into the reader’s awareness…but that the words themselves should be unobtrusive. They should in no way interfere with the immersive, sensory experience of the story. This is generally known as the “transparent” style. This is what Samuel Johnson meant when he said, “Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.”
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Nobody thinks it strange when a work written in German or French or Ancient Greek is translated into English, and there is a generally accepted awareness that no translation is perfect. There are always nuances and subtleties beyond even the greatest translator, but nobody objects to the attempt, and an excellent translation certainly (probably?) conveys most of what was there in the original language. But what about translating English into English? There is also a general awareness that Old English, a language closer to Old Norse and German than modern English, can no longer be understood unless you are an academic in the field. Many people have read Beowulf. It’s a great story, but only scholars read it in Old English. We often make the attempt to read Middle English, in college, at least. I read some Chaucer in High School. It was a translation into Modern English but in college, I read Chaucer in the original. I no longer remember how much of it I understood. I suspect that the professor spent a lot of time simply translating. What, after all, is the modern reader to make of this? Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the Yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, I can get glimmers of the meaning, but glimmers only. It is possible that I don’t understand it at all.
And what then, of Shakespeare, or Christopher Marlowe, or Thomas Kidd? It’s a contentious subject. When Shakespeare was writing his plays, most of his audience was not well educated. Many could not read but they all understood the language as it was spoken at the time. I recently read an article outlining the pros and cons of translating Shakespeare. There were a lot more cons than pros, most arguing that Shakespeare’s language was so glorious and distinct that it must be preserved verbatim. Well, I suppose you could say the same thing about the language of Sophocles or Aeschylus or Homer but if you want to 34
understand it, you need a translation. Shakespeare, simply put, can no longer be understood, not easily at least, and not without tremendous thought and concentration, which certainly detracts from the immersive experience that the transparent style is supposed to provide. Not only are the meaning of many words that Shakespeare used obscure, but even worse, many words whose meaning does seem clear, had a different meaning in Shakespeare’s day. Most of us could figure out that “multitudinous seas incarnadine” means “rough, red seas,” but how many would recognize, “hour by hour, we rot and rot” as a commentary/ joke on venereal disease? Consider, for instance, these lines from Hamlet: If it assume my noble father’s person, I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape, And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tonge:
I can figure it out, but I don’t think that I should have to. I think, instead, that the need to ‘figure it out’ detracts from the experience the words are intended to convey. No, sadly, I stand with those who say that it is time to translate Shakespeare. It’s too bad, but if we want the works of Shakespeare to once again become what they were meant to be— popular entertainment for the enjoyment of us all, to live beyond the classroom and the highly devoted elite, then I think it is necessary. Robert I. Katz, MD, was Professor and Vice-Chairman for Administration, Department of Anesthesiology, Stony Brook University, and Clinical Professor of Anesthesiology, University of Florida. He is the author of the Kurtz and Barent mystery series, including Surgical Risk, The Anatomy Lesson, Seizure, The Chairmen, Brighton Beach and If a Tree Falls. He is also the author of eight science fiction novels: Edward Maret: A Novel of the Future, The Cannibal’s Feast, and the five books in The Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind (The Game Players of Meridien, The City of Ashes, The Empire of Dust, The Empire of Ruin and The Well of Time). His most recent novel is The Towering Flame, the first book in a new science fiction series, the Survivors.
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Writing A Christmas-Themed Book by Mike Martin Christmas in Newfoundland: Memories and Mysteries took the longest of all my books to write. I wrote it over a period of about 15 years, one story at a time to give to my family and friends at Christmas. It started as memories from my early days but later morphed into mini-mysteries featuring the characters of my Sgt. Windflower Mystery series. I also included a story that was told to me about Christmas in a long-ago Grand Bank, Newfoundland where gifts were few and love was plenty. Those were days when the plentiful snow and a home-made sled were a child’s entertainment and nights were filled with songs and kerosene lamps and laughter. And the 12 days of Christmas were a time for family, friends and roving bands of mummers. Those are people who dressed up in outrageous clothing and for a drink of rum would sing and dance in your kitchen. My own early Christmas memories come from the streets of St. John’s, Newfoundland in the 1960’s when downtown was the best and only place to shop and the store windows held a young child in rapture with their Christmas toy display and Christmas music blaring everywhere. There was even a live turkey raffle to raise money for the local orphanage and one special night was spent on a hot, sticky bus to see the wondrous lights all over town. 36
It was easy to bring Sgt. Windflower and his friends and new family into the Christmas story tradition. He loved Christmas, of course, as well as the enduring traditions of caring and sharing that he found in Grand Bank. Windflower, Sheila and Eddie Tizzard all had new adventures across Christmas time each year as they found their way into trouble and back out again. Always in time to enjoy the most magical time of the year. Why did I decide to publish these stories now? That’s a good question. I have an active writing life with a new Sgt. Windflower book each year (Book # 8 Fire, Fog and Water is coming in November) and lots of other freelance and contract pieces to keep me busy. Why did I venture outside my comfort zone and want to share these personal stories and memories with a wider audience? I think there are two main reasons for doing it. One, is that I want to keep some of those stories and memories alive. That is the ultimate job of a writer, to be a storyteller, to take small pieces and scraps and memories and keep them from fading away. Secondly, and maybe more importantly is to bring a little joy, a little more Christmas magic, into the world. It’s hard for many people these days and we have lots of problems and worries and concerns and very real issues to deal with. But if we can think about a happy memory from a Christmas long ago or dream about a new memory we can create with our own children and grandchildren, all those worries may pass for a few moments. Then we can all be that little boy or girl with our nose pressed up against the window of the toy shop or trying to fall asleep so that Santa can finally come. I hope you can find some of that Christmas magic in your own Christmas memories and then maybe you too will share them with your family, friends and neighbours. We could all use a little more Christmas. 37
Mike Martin is the award-winning author of the Sgt. Windflower Mystery series. You can follow him and Sgt. Windflower on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/TheWalkerOnTheCapeReviewsAndMore?ref=hl You can buy Christmas in Newfoundland: Memories and Mysteries on Amazon
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ANGELS & ALIENS from Sam Jacobey Charlie & Clarisse take on a paranormal nightmare Can they stop Karma from destroying the world? Read in Order – Ebook, PB, AUDIO & FREE on KU http://myBook.to/TheAngelSet http://myBook.to/TheKarmaSet http://myBook.to/TheKeeperSet No one EVER had a summer romance like this. When Charlie visited another plane parallel to our own, he discovered that Summer Angels and Dark Angels battle over the fate of man. Faced with choices no one should ever have to make, his adventure has been fraught with twists and turns, with life and death hanging in the balance. His guardian, Clarisse, is the half that makes him whole, but sinister forces conspire to do more than simply keep them apart.
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excerpts
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CHAPTER THREE Excerpt from Standing Ovation by L. C. Bennett Stern
Tuesday, December 25, 1900 A buzzing mosquito flitting by her ear woke Mae on Christmas morning. She rolled onto her back and attempted kill it by clapping her hands in the air but missed. She glanced at the cuckoo clock through bleary eyes. “Fifteen past ten? It can’t be!” Wide awake now, she’d forget about sleep and get dressed for the day. Mae knew she’d have to hurry. She poured water from the hammered tin pitcher into the washbowl, splashed some onto her face and under her arms and patted herself dry. She ran her still-damp fingers through her hair and then quickly pinned up her auburn curls. In keeping with the holiday, she chose her red and green taffeta skirt. Her new purple shirtwaist would finish the festive outfit.
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When she was satisfied with her appearance, Mae placed the festooned gifts for her friends in a market basket, left her room and trotted down the stairs. Out in the neighborhood, passersby greeted each other with cheerful wishes for a Merry Christmas, and despite the heat, her bright mood continued throughout the trip to Lizzy’s. When she arrived, Franny was already there with Amanda perched on a stool at her feet, clutching the baby doll Mae ordered for her from a Sears Roebuck catalogue. She kissed the top of Amanda’s flaxen, curlcovered head and sat on the caned side chair nearby. Franny leaned over and whispered, “She loves her new dolly!” Mae winked at her coconspirator. Lizzy gave Mae a cup of punch, and she, in turn, gave Amanda a sip. Franny pushed her hand away and said, “That’s enough, Mae.” She looked down at her daughter and said, “This punch is for the grownups, Amanda. Aunt Lizzy made you your own…drink that, honey.” She gave Mae a scolding glance. When she heard her name mentioned, Lizzy tuned into the conversation. Mae ignored Franny’s scolding and said, “Amanda, did I ever tell you about the other Amanda I knew?” The little girl shook her head. “Well, I knew her a long time ago, before I came to California. She was a lady of the theater like all of us here today.” She clinked cups with her young audience and took a gulp of punch before continuing. “That Amanda was not nearly as delightful as you, but she wore the most beautiful long flowing scarves. And on all her fingers except her thumbs—Mae held up her left hand and splayed her fingers to make her point—she wore the most enormous rings I’d ever seen. Truly, I don’t know how she managed to lift her hands!” “Really, Auntie Mae?”
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“You never told us about her before,” Lizzy said. “She sounds fascinating!” “Yes, she is,” Mae said. “I did write to her once, asking her to join our little troupe, but she’s set in her ways and wants to stay put in Council Bluffs.” Looking down at her young admirer, she added, “That’s in Iowa, Amanda.” “What a shame. She could’ve stayed with me,” Lizzy said. “Since Teddy left me last year after typhoid took our little Patrick, I rattle around in this house with no one to talk to.” She got misty-eyed but after a few moments, perked up, took a sip of punch and added, “That’s why I’m so delighted to be a part of this group of talented ladies. Now, Amanda, dear, would you like to help me hand out those cookies you made?” Before Amanda could respond, another voice interrupted their conversation. A woman approached singing an out-of-tune rendition of “Joy to the World.” Claire arrived last, as usual. The others raised their cups to her as she came bustling through the door. She maneuvered a large basket of fresh fruit and wine onto the red cloth-covered table in the corner and laughed. She held up the bottle of Inglenook Bordeaux and said, “I thought we could throw some of this into the punch. But, I see I’m too late. You started without me!” She got herself a cupful of punch, raised it high and said, “Happy Christmas, girls!” Now that they were all there, Mae handed out her gifts. Kate (a raven-haired beauty with incredible aqua eyes) ripped the tissue paper from her present first. “Oh Mae! Jonteel Face Cream! How did you know I’ve been wanting this?” She didn’t hesitate to unscrew the lid 43
from the jar to smell the contents. “Ooh, it smells like a garden full of flowers! Thank you so much!” She jumped up and pecked Mae’s cheek. The others (except Claire) received the same cream, and Naomi read the label aloud. “Will not grow hair on the face. Well, I should hope not! I don’t want to end up being the bearded lady at the carnival show. Besides, I just might want to look for another husband some day!” Laughter echoed through the room. “What happened to your first husband?” Tilly asked. “My Clayton died a few years back at the bottom of a collapsed silver mine. His body wasn’t recovered, so I never got to say ‘good-bye.’ To this day, I get a headache if I dwell on it too long…imagining how much he must have suffered.” “I’m so sorry,” Tilly said. “But, I know the perfect cure for headaches— Carter’s Little Liver Pills.” Naomi laughed at Tilly’s innocence. “I don’t think pills are going to cure what ails me, honey, but this cream might help!” As the rest of the women snickered, it took Tilly a few moments to realize what Naomi meant. She covered her mouth with her hands and her fair complexion turned scarlet. Naomi patted her arm. “You’ll learn.” Next, it was Claire’s turn to open her gift. Mae had difficulty restraining a grin, as her friend tore off the tissue. “Oh my! It’s perfect!” Claire examined her gift carefully and giggled. “Let us see! What is it?” the others asked as they gathered around her. She displayed her new gold brooch for all to see—an enameled nude of a well-endowed woman with an exquisite figure, holding a bunch of 44
grapes above her head. “I think it’s you, Claire. Look at those long legs,” Samantha said. “Though, for the life of me, I don’t know when you found the time to pose!” Everyone laughed again and Lizzy asked, “Who needs a refill?” “That’s right,” Mae said. “Everyone fill your cups. I’d like to propose a toast.” When Lizzy finished pouring the last of the punch into Tilly’s cup, Mae lifted hers and said: “Here’s to the Merriest Christmas ever for the ladies of The Mari Mort Theater. Cheers! “And as Claire would say during rehearsals… bottoms up!” L. C. Bennett Stern, born in Philadelphia, was raised in southern New Jersey as the middle child in a family of nine. She enjoys doing research for her books, nature and architectural photography, backyard birding, and is recognized as the family worrywart. Her first book (Award-Winning Finalist in the “True Crime: Non-Fiction” category of the 2017 International Book Awards) is Bosses and Blackjacks: A Tale of the “Bloody Fifth” in Philadelphia. It tells the story of her paternal grandfather, a police lieutenant in 1917. Mae’s Revenge, is the first book of The Mari Mort Theater Trilogy, based on the travels of one of her great aunts. Standing Ovation is the second act of the historical fiction trilogy. Linda is the mother of two grown children, a daughter and a son. She lives with her husband, a fellow author, in a small New Jersey river town that overlooks the Philadelphia skyline.
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A Poem for Christmas By B.W. Van Alstyne
O’ sing a song of Christmas day as snowflakes fill the sky and the wintry touch of Jack Frost’s kiss as he goes flying by. Of mistletoe and garland, and stockings hung with care; and carolersacaroling along each thoroughfare. Someone’s cooking, what a treat! A feast that’s fit for kings; and pretty boxes, wrapped in gold, are filled with wondrous things. O’ sing a song of candlelight’s that hang from every tree and stories told at father’s side that fill us all with glee. A bright new star, a first noel, Saint Nicholas and flying reindeer: are heavenly heralds, to remind us all, of what’s to come each year. A show of kindness, goodwill to all, a silent prayer to light our way; O’ sing a song of peace and love this blessed Christmas Day! Mr. Van Alstyne is a fantasy and folklore author who writes for children and adults alike. He draws on his experiences as a chef making cakes, cookies, sugarplums and other confections. As a Navy veteran he has traveled the world learning about local folklore and mythology. A devotee of the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson and Roald Dahl, his books fit into the fairy tale and children’s book genres. His book series, The Sweet Adventures of Henry P. Twist is unique. The protagonist is an elderly baker. This makes the series great for grandparents to read to their grandchildren. He has also released a new baby board book “Under the Crescent Moon,” available online at pixiepanbooks.com. 46
THE CITY AT CHRISTMAS A remembrance by Henry Hudson I am seven years old. It is Christmas Eve. The year is nineteen-sixty. I am living with my father and mother on the top floor of a tenement house opposite Dominick Street church. It is evening. Da sits by the fire studying the racing pages of the Evening Herald while Mam and I sit together and grate bread crumbs into an enamel basin. In the morning they’ll be mixed with herbs and sausagemeat to make stuffing for the turkey. Glowing coals in the fireplace bathe the room in a rich, warm light and the smell of spiced ham drifts from a pot that bubbles quietly on the gas stove in the corner of the room. Then from the hallway, three floors below, comes a wheezy, bellowing call. “Are ye up there, Har?” Da goes out onto the landing and calls down into the darkness. “Good man, Flash! I’ll be down in a minute!” 47
Da takes a hand-torch and hurries down to where ‘Flash’ Cullen is waiting to make his annual delivery. ‘Flash’ is small, skinny and on the wrong side of sixty years of age. He is the cellar-man of the local pub. He cycles a messenger-bike that has a big, metal box set over its front wheel. He is delivering last-minute Christmas orders to customers of the aforementioned establishment. It was the same customers who gave him his nick-name because ‘Flash’ had only two speeds, dead slow and stopped. I hold the door of our room open to let light spill down into the stairwell and I listen as the men lug two timber crates of stout up the twisting flights of stairs. The ragged music of twenty-four bottles tinkling together applauds their efforts. Mam wipes bread crumbs from her hands as they step into the room. “There you are, Flash, and a happy Christmas to you!” Flash flashes a broad, gummy smile. “And to you, and all yours, Missus!” The crates of stout are safely stacked to one side of the fire. Then Da whips up two of the brown, corked bottles. “You’ll have a sample, Flash?” “I shouldn’t really, Har… but then again, it’s Christmas!” Mam produces two half-pint glasses while Da skilfully de-corks the bottles. The stout is lovingly poured until a rich, creamy collar, exactly half an inch deep, stands on a steadily darkening base. “Good luck!” the two men salute each other, sip their drinks, and begin to debate the merits of various runners and riders for the races on St. Stephen’s Day. As they talk Mam quietly lifts the ham from the pot and cuts two thick 48
slices off the rump of the joint. Then she butters cuts of loaf bread and makes two huge, door-stopper sandwiches, one for each of the men. She puts them on plates and signals to me to carry them over. Flash’s eyes light up when he sees the steaming treat. “Good on ye, Missus, it’s so long since I ate, me belly thinks me throat’s cut!” Da smiles appreciation in Mam’s direction and I sit there soaking in the warmth, the sounds and smells and wishing (as children often do) that life could stand still and never move on from that moment of sharing and companionship. All too soon the stout and sandwiches are dispatched and it is time for Flash to make his annual presentation to Mam. As ever it is a gaudy calendar and a pink Christmas candle. These gifts are delivered on behalf of the publican. They are a peace offering for the nights during the year when his bar turned into a glue-pot and Da, arguing over football or politics, forgot both the time and his way home. Mam will use the calendar to mark off the repayments on Da’s new suit while the candle will later be lit and placed in our window to light the Holy Family’s way to the stable in Bethlehem. As Flash is leaving he reminds Da to call to the pub on St. Stephen’s night to have a ‘Christmas drink’ with the rest of the regulars. Then the adults exchange good-humoured farewells and Christmas wishes while I go to the window and look down onto the street. A few moments later Flash emerges from the hall door and creaks his leg over the cross-bar of his bike. Slowly, steadily, he cycles away into the cold, foggy mist that hangs like a curtain over the waiting city. When I turn around Mam is back doing the bread crumbs and Da is back reading his paper. The moment is over.
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Sixty years on and the house, indeed the whole street where I lived, no longer exists. Mam, Da and Flash are all long gone to their eternal reward. Pubs don’t have cellar-men any more nor do they bribe wives with gaudy presents or reward ‘regular’ customers with free Christmas drinks. Dubliners no longer have bottles of stout delivered in wooden crates on Christmas Eve. Instead they buy their stout in cans from cold, soulless supermarkets. The cans are shrink-wrapped in plastic and jammed tightly together on cardboard trays so, unlike their glass-bottle ancestors, they are incapable of ever making the lovely, ragged music that once drifted up a darkened stairwell and filled a child’s heart with the joy and unforgettable magic of Christmas. Henry Hudson was born in Dublin in 1953. A graduate of the Samuel Beckett Centre in TCD he is a former winner of the PJ O’Connor Radio Drama Award, The Heinrich Boll Award for Literature, Listowel Writers Week Playwrights Award and Best Play Award at the Cork Arts Festival. An E version of his unique Dublin novel Beyond Pulditch Gates (2001) is on Amazon Kindle under the title Pulditch. His second novel, Poor Lamb, Poor Lamb is also on Kindle. He is soon to publish an adventure novel for children based on ancient Irish legends. Along with numerous stage and radio plays he has written a collection of short stories including Playing for Time which appeared in The Evergreen Review in New York. His story Bloomsday and his poem To a Sitting Statue in Fluntern Cemetery were published in the Stinging Fly magazine. Website: henryhudsonwriting.ie
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The Norn Novellas A. Nicky Hjort http://myBook.to/NornNovellas
The Norn Novellas are all chapters in the epic saga of the youngest and most fickle of the four Norn Sisters. The same feisty immortal creature who must escape her inherent inner darkness to learn the meaning of life. Each story takes a classic fairytale and spins it on its head, as we learn that maybe Norse Mythology was so much more than legend. And to think, you thought you knew those old tales so well.
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THE CARNIVORE VEGAN JOHN BROUGHTON
“I’ve decided to become a vegan, Johnny” murmured Carlo, the barman, out of the corner of his mouth. He looked around shifty-eyed to ensure that no-one had managed the impossible and heard him. The words came more than half-drowned by the rock music he insisted on playing despite his patrons’ declared preference for local tarantella melodies. Florence and the Machine blared their latest hit in competition with the raised voices in the bar. Why men standing less than half a metre apart had to shout at each other to communicate baffled Johnny, an English ex-pat living in the remote southern Italian region of Calabria. Not allowing the general cacophony to distract him from this astonishing declaration, he stared aghast at his friend. Carlo, he associated with barbeques on festive occasions of epic eating and drinking lasting all day, with steaks suited to famished Canadian lumberjacks. Not to mention the salamis, sausages, sheep’s and goats’ cheeses and omelettes.
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Johnny decided he’d misheard. “You’ve decided to become a pagan?” He knew Carlo believed aliens had created mankind. This credence competed with Radio Rock to alienate the pot-bellied locals. “Vegan not pagan!” Carlo raised his voice and regretted it in an instant. His eyes revolved around the bar like a fugitive fearing arrest. He needed not have worried because Armando, with a lifetime’s work on the State Railways flagging down and whistling off diesel trains behind him, hence a man with impaired hearing, was bellowing into the face of a fellow beer drinker from a range of several centimetres. Johnny, whose mobile contained an app that gauged decibels, had once measured Armando’s voice. The needle shot to ‘factory noise’ – an equivalent Johnny felt underestimated the station guard’s vocal powers. “You, a vegan?” Johnny creased up with laughter, “then I’m a Dutchman,” he said – in his best Italian coloured by a British accent he’d failed to lose in thirty years of living there – a comment that fell on deaf ears. Understandable given the circumstances, but Carlo thought, in confusion, better than trying to explain why their friend had suddenly become a citizen of the Netherlands! Between serving drinks, Carlo confided that his veganism was only temporary and not founded on any deep ‘meat is murder’ convictions. On the contrary, far from worrying about animal welfare, he was concerned about his own health. Johnny scratched his head. The evening was becoming surreal. This fervid consumer of saturated fats, this reckless chain-smoking grappa-guzzling badass barman was concerned about his health. Johnny sank down on a bar stool to reflect even as Carlo sidled to the door. An ardent group of smokers kept the entry open even in the depths of winter, so that they could pay ‘lip service’ to the recent law forbidding smoking in bars. Half-in, half-out, Carlo lit up his thirtyfifth Marlborough of the day with the insouciance of a hardened ignorer 53
of health warnings. At thirty-five, he had been a smoker for a quarter of a century. A standing joke among those closest to him, who maintained he lit up his first Marlborough in his cot. The arrival of Guido, a dapper figure in his mid-forties, midriff defiant of the threat of ale and good living menacing it. How could any stomach have such resistance? It remained a mystery to Johnny whose own waistline was challenged. But Guido was a legend in the bar community. As a youth, he was a free running, free scoring striker in the local football team. On hanging up his boots for the last time, Guido began to stoke his reputation whenever the occasion arose: nothing short of a Roberto Baggio to hear his self-assessment. The grace with which he walked into the bar convinced Johnny – who had been safely living in the Manchester area in those days and so had never seen him play – that the legend was true. The erstwhile phenomenon gazed at Carlo. “Madonna mia! You look pale this evening.” “I’m not feeling too good, in fact,” Carlo muttered, “my head’s spinning and I have no energy.” “So, what’re y’doing puffing away at those Marlboroughs?” Johnny asked. Guido sprung into action. “I’ll nip off home. One can’t be too careful. I’ve got an electronic blood pressure machine. We’ll soon see what’s what!” Guido, it appeared, was a fellow with a tensiometer. This might go some way to explaining the controlled midriff. Johnny wondered whether Guido led a secret life as a fitness fanatic. He was soon back bearing his device and ordering Carlo to take a seat 54
at one of the tables. The warmth of the day meant Carlo was wearing one of his many black T-shirts. This one displayed the Foo Fighters, a rock band, with the image of a cobra coiled to strike. It meant Guido could get straight to work slipping the cuff up his arm unimpeded before sealing the Velcro fastener. One of those rarest of occasions, total silence in the bar, occurring usually before opening and after closing, gripped the establishment: its patrons spellbound with anticipation. Silence, except for Guns and Roses blaring from the loudspeaker. All eyes were on Carlo and Guido, as with bated breath, everyone waited for the announcement: “One-hundred and sixty over one-hundred and ten!” Guido declared with sadistic triumph. “It’s too high!” Johnny said. “You should see your doctor tomorrow.” “Nah!” Carlo said, “it’s just that it’s late and I’ve smoked too many today.” “Today? What’s so special about today?” cried Gianmarco. “The ILVA foundry’s chimneys smoke less than you!” “Best measure it again, just to be sure,” Guido said, “stop fidgeting, you’re supposed to keep still.” “One hundred and sixty-five over one-hundred-and-four.” “Measure it another five times and he’ll be a goner!” shouted Gianmarco. “Joking apart, you should get some pills for that,” Johnny said. “Nah, I’ll try a vegan diet first.” “A what!” Gianmarco exclaimed, “You a vegan!” He lowered his voice and looked pointedly at the bar propping up a grey-haired fellow or visa versa. “It’s about as likely as Andrea staying sober for more than a day.” Carlo shrugged off the cuff from his upper arm and headed for the door to light up another Marlborough. Johnny sighed and shrugged. “Oi, Guido! Measure mine,” said Simone, a sweating, portly sixty55
something, his face red from swilling countless bottles of lager won playing the local drinking game, ‘padrone sotto’. “One-hundred-and-forty over ninety-six.” “Oh, that’s fine for my age and I’ve drunk a beer or two...” “A beer or twenty more like!” Gianmarco chirped. “Measure mine!” “No mine!” “Steady on, chaps,” Johnny said. “Form an orderly queue.” But he knew the concept was as alien to the Italian psyche as Carlo’s concept of the Creator. Half an hour later, and not one of the bar’s regulars had diastolic pressure under one hundred and thirty except Guido who came out at a perfect 120/80 – a real legend, Guido. The delicious smell of pizzas emerging from the wood-fired oven in the back kitchen of the bar reminded Johnny that his stomach needed some tender loving care. “Night Carlo,” Johnny also decided he’d had enough noise for one night, “as from tomorrow lentils and tofu...” “Night, Johnny,” the barman said, looking appalled at the prospect. I was born in Cleethorpes Lincolnshire UK in 1948: just one of the post-war babies. After attending grammar school and studying to the sound of Bob Dylan I went to Nottingham University and studied Medieval and Modern History (Archaeology subsidiary). I have done many different jobs while living in Radcliffe-on-Trent, Leamington, Glossop, the Scilly Isles, Puglia and Calabria. They include teaching English and History, managing a Day Care Centre, being a Director of a Trade Institute and teaching university students English. I even tried being a fisherman and a flower picker when I was on St. Agnes, Scilly. I have lived in Calabria since 1992 where I settled into a long-term job, for once, at the University of Calabria teaching English for 25 years. Now retired, I have written 13 historical novels to be found on Amazon.
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Christmas Carol by Clabe Polk
A cold wind blew the last of the oak leaves careening down the street bouncing on the uneven pavement and manhole covers. Streetlights lanced the gathering darkness as the last vestige of twilight fell behind a tall building causing lengthening shadows to shiver down the allies consigning service entrances to darkness. One of the shadows, amplified by a street lamp, was that of a woman ambling apparently aimlessly from shadow to shadow down the street. The shifting lighting concealed her features. Daylight would have revealed a short woman of indeterminate age, hunched over, hugging herself against the cold wind. An army field jacket zipped to the throat covered a dirty, tattered hoodie; her thin blond hair, mingled throughout with streaks of gray, was covered tightly by the tightly closed hood. Stumbling briefly, she half-hopped onto the curb and scurried through the patchwork of lights and shadows cast by the storefronts 57
lining the street. Delicious smells of cooking food from the restaurants wafted through the darkness causing her stomach to clinch with hunger bringing tears to her eyes as she tried to remember her last meal in a restaurant. The 51st Street mission was close. It wouldn’t be long now. “See you next time, Gus,” Miriam McAdams called to the man behind the counter as she opened the shop door to leave. “I’ll come back next week when your new sweaters come in.” “Yes, Ma’am, Mrs. McAdams…there should be some your husband would like for Christmas!” “I’m counting on it, Gus,” she said over her shoulder as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. She pulled her coat tight around her expanding belly. Her baby was big and at the end of seven months, she was feeling big and awkward. Besides, dark had fallen and with it, the temperature had plunged. Be careful of ice, she thought, it wouldn’t do to fall. Seven months along…a fall could be a disaster. But there was no ice in her path. Only a sidewalk with an endless mosaic of shifting light and darkness. Looking left, she saw only a short woman walking slowly and a bit unsteadily toward her. Umm…looks like someone from my husband’s mission, she thought moved with sympathy, She should be there, where it’s warm…not out here in the freezing cold! I’ll tell her where the mission is. But the woman disappeared. Odd, Miriam thought, Oh well, maybe she’ll catch up at the corner. At the corner, looking back down the sidewalk as she pressed the button for the pedestrian signal, she could see the woman walking behind her, still too far away for a conversation. Turning back, the traffic signals and the multitude of Christmas lights and signs claimed her attention; and then came the signal to cross the street. Curtis Grayson had grown up a mediocre student, joined the army, spent much of his enlistment in jail, and retired with a dishonorable 58
discharge to the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He’d gone through girlfriends like a rampaging tornado collecting a variety of assault and battery and domestic violence charges along the way, but tonight…he was free. It was just him, his bottle, his vintage Camero held together with wire and Bondo, and the open street. No one was his master…and that included traffic signals and other traffic. He owned the world, and it felt great! The shabby woman in the army jacket watched from the shadows of an alley entrance as Miriam pushed the crosswalk button. She observed Miriam’s fashionable coat and shoes and felt a bit envious of Miriam’s obvious pregnancy. She, too, had dressed fashionably. She, too, remembered child-birth; the birth of a son who’d died in a pointless war. She, too, had served in that war in the same service as her son. Sighing, she held back in the shadows, for her own reasons uncomfortable sharing a street-corner with the young mother-to-be. As she watched, the pedestrian light changed and she hurried forward to follow as Miriam stepped from the curb into the crosswalk. As his alcohol-infused fingers, addled brain and blurry eyes searched for a new radio station, Grayson’s Camero barrelled toward the intersection. The car ahead stopped for the light. Grayson didn’t. He did, however, swerve left, the Camero hitting the stopped car a glancing blow in the left rear spinning both cars into the adjacent traffic lane forcing two other cars into the oncoming lanes. A loud crash hit Miriam’s ears as she reached mid-street a half-second before being catapulted into stalled cross-traffic. Ten steps behind, the homeless woman, seeing Miriam thrown into traffic, leaped forward and kneeling beside her as though driven by an outside force, began assessing her injuries. Oblivious to the gathering crowd, and ignoring the kibitzing onlookers, some calling help, others clicking their cell phone cameras, she immersed herself in CPR. 59
At the 51st Street Mission, Reverend Jimmy McAdams heard sirens. It’s almost Christmas and someone will be needing a Christmas miracle, he thought placing another food pan in the steam table. More meatloafmana from Heaven, he thought, may God continue to bless us to be able to feed these people! But the sirens sounded close; too close. Motioning frantically to others to take charge and grabbing his coat, he ran out the door to see if he could help. Mayhem greeted him. First responders were just beginning to arrive. A woman lay prostrate in the street, another woman frantically performing CPR on her. Oh my God! The woman doing CPR looks like Carol! He was stunned. Carol was one of his regulars at the mission, though he didn’t know her well; she rarely talked…certainly not about herself. But there she was doing CPR on…Oh my God! It’s Miriam!... Oh my God! He sank to his knees on the pavement sobs racking his body as the paramedics arrived and relieved Carol. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “It will be all right,” Carol told him, “God is watching over you and your family. It’ll be a boy.” Jimmy wiped his eyes…but she was gone. Lost in the crowd. Jimmy brought Christmas dinner from the mission to Miriam in the hospital. There was much to be thankful for. Miriam was recovering. The baby, delivered prematurely, was thriving. He thought often of Carol. She had not been back to the mission. A knock on the hospital room door. A short, trim woman of indeterminant age stood there dressed neatly in a casual blue suit. “C… Carol? Jimmy stammered. “Is that you?” “Merry Christmas, you two”, Carol said. “For unto us a child is born; unto us, a Son is given. An unto you, both life and a son are given.” She
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smiled. “Thank you,” Miriam said. “Thank you so much!” “Who are you?” Jimmy asked. “You do CPR like a pro.” “It doesn’t matter who I am. You know me as “Carol”, others know me by other names. I help wherever I can.” “You’ll always be “Christmas Carol” to us…the wonder woman that saved our Christmas. End CLABE POLK is the author of The Detective Mike Eiser Series and The Adventures of Harry Morgan Series of crime/action novels, as well as The Road to Armageddon. He has also written numerous short stories and flash fiction pieces that occasionally appear in e-magazines and anthologies. He enjoys woodworking when not busy working on his new science fiction series or adding new books to the Detective Mike Eiser Series. He brings a deep love of natural sciences and more than thirty-seven years of professional environmental protection and public safety experience to his writing. He lives near Atlanta, Georgia with his wife, two daughters, and the family’s Cockapoo named Annie.
A Poem for Christmas By B.W. Van Alstyne
O’ sing a song of Christmas day as snowflakes fill the sky and the wintry touch of Jack Frost’s kiss as he goes flying by. Of mistletoe and garland, and stockings hung with care; and carolersa-caroling along each thoroughfare. Someone’s cooking, what a treat! A feast that’s fit for kings; and pretty boxes, wrapped in gold, are filled with wondrous things. 61
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An Encounter in Rome by Ann Richardson This is a true story. Improbable, but true. It was a few years ago. My husband Ray and I were staying in central Rome for ten days. It wasn’t our first visit by any means, but we did many of the usual things – going to churches and galleries, spending a memorable evening in the Vatican and just walking around. One day, we had gone out for lunch to a rather old fashioned local restaurant. It had been in the same location for many decades, perhaps with the same classic menu and the numerous waiters in black uniforms. I can’t remember now what it was called or what we ordered, but the food was reasonably good.
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The tables were close together by English standards. Our two-person table was next to another, perhaps only an inch or so apart, presumably so that they could be easily joined for a group of four. As a result, we became increasingly aware of an old man, perhaps in his eighties, sitting alone at the table just to the side of ours. He was well dressed, with a confident air and an intelligent face. He seemed to be known to the restaurant staff. We had been married for close to fifty years and had a very easy way of chatting about all kinds of things, from what we had been seeing in Rome to our grandchildren, the current news and much else besides. I wondered how much this man could hear of what we said, but nothing was so confidential that it mattered much. Sometime after we had finished our second course and were ordering coffee, the man made eye contact with us. He offered a comment about the food or the restaurant or something similar of no great importance. He spoke in good English, although it was clearly not his native language. But this had broken the ice. He asked where we were from. When we said London, he told us that he loved London, especially the gentlemen’s clubs around St James. This was not part of our world, but we smiled to be agreeable. He mentioned that one of his sons worked in London and he liked to visit from time to time. He then told us he was from a South American country (which shall remain unnamed to preserve his anonymity) and was a former Supreme Court judge there. I wondered briefly if I should believe this, but decided it was an unlikely detail to invent. He had been forced out when the then President came to power and he had moved hurriedly to Europe. Most of his time was spent in Rome, but he travelled around to England and other countries.
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There was some mention of a wife and four or five grown up children, but it did not sound like he had much contact with them, even his wife. Indeed, he seemed a slightly forlorn figure, eating alone – perhaps frequently – in a foreign city. He asked about us. How long had we been married? Did we have children? What were we doing in Rome? All reasonably innocuous. Most of this was directed to Ray, possibly because he was more comfortable talking man-to-man or perhaps simply because the configuration of our seating meant that he was more within direct eye-contact. And then suddenly the conversation took a very different turn. He said it looked like we loved each other very much and stopped briefly to check for confirmation. Ray, although normally reticent like most Englishmen, said yes, we did. I think I nodded or murmured some agreement. Would you mind my asking, said this stranger, but what do you mean by love? The atmosphere shifted. This was not a light-hearted question, but a serious question from a serious man. We knew it, he knew it and he knew we knew it. Perhaps he was trying to work something out in his own mind. I could see Ray beginning to reflect, to search for an answer. That’s a difficult question, he said, buying a little time. Yes, was the quiet reply. Ray is a reflective man and not afraid of difficult questions. As an academic, he is used to them. But this was definitely not part of his lunch plans.
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Well, he began, looking back I’m not at all sure that I was in love when we first married. Of course, I was strongly attracted for many reasons, but I didn’t understand then what love was. I was much too young and un-formed. And my mind was on other things – mostly myself and where I was going. Had I been asked what love meant, my answer would probably have focused on my wife’s special qualities. But, he continued, I feel now that love is something that develops slowly over time. It requires a period of growing into maturity. If I had to define it, it’s something to do with wanting what is good for my wife – to be willing, if necessary, to sacrifice my own interests in order to help her. Of course, I may also benefit from doing that, but I would do it even if I didn’t. I want – very deeply – for her to be happy and fulfilled. It’s in this same way that I also love my children and grandchildren. All of this was said quietly over some time in a slow and thoughtful way. I’m not a weepy person nor a sentimental one. I don’t weep in the opera or when watching a touching movie. But here was my husband trying to explain his love for me, right in the middle of a public restaurant in Rome. My eyes definitely misted up. There was nowhere, anywhere, except these two small tables. Ray said later that the judge’s eyes were also moist. He had looked lost in thought, perhaps seeing what might have been absent from his own marriage. The table became rather quiet. The judge said something to the effect that he wasn’t sure he had ever experienced this. We slowly went back to more normal conversation.
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At some point, the waiter came for the bills and they were paid. This has been a very interesting discussion, the judge said. We could have taken contact details and continued the conversation elsewhere – after all, he said he came to London from time to time. But I made a calculation that we were not likely to have that much in common and a future relationship was unlikely to thrive. Perhaps he thought so, too. We shook hands and left the restaurant separately. We did not even know his name. Ann Richardson writes creative non-fiction, comprising real stories from people she interviewed on topics which capture her interest. One book is about nurses and others providing end-of life care (Life in a Hospice) and another is about young people with HIV/AIDS back in the dark days when they were dying (Wise Before their Time). Her most recent book is about how it feels to be a grandmother (Celebrating Grandmothers). Ann’s books are very well received, with reviewers using words such as ‘powerful’, ‘honest’ and ‘moving’ about them. She is currently preparing a book of her reflections on growing older, together with a few memoirs (like this story). www.annrichardson.co.uk Book links: getbook.at/Hospice getbook.at/Wise https://smarturl.it/celebratingrandm
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THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREE By Margaret Tanner
Tiny was the smallest pine tree in the forest. The other trees stood straight-trunked and tall, like soldiers on parade, while he grew stunted and slightly crooked. “They won’t even bother cutting you down, Tiny,” the majestic pine on his left sneered. “They’ll make fine furniture from me,” another said with lofty supremacy. “You’ll probably be chopped up for firewood.” “Don’t listen to them,” whispered the white dove who rested on Tiny’s highest branch. “Everything on this earth has been placed here for a reason. You just have to await your destiny.” The timber workers moved in the next day with their heavy earth moving equipment. The ground vibrated under the wheels of the yellow monsters as they gouged an access path through the forest. Whining chainsaws woke the slumbering mountainside, sending frenzied birds into flight. 68
Giant trees plummeted earthward all around him. Day after day without respite, Tiny’s companions were felled, until he was the only tree left in a sea of utter devastation. I’m too short and puny even for wood chipping. Eventually seedlings would be planted to replace the majestic giants that had fallen. The cycle of planting, growing, and cutting down the trees once they matured would continue. It was lonesome being the only tree left. The birds had not returned because their sanctuary had been violated. Even the little white dove had deserted him. The hot Australian sun beat down cruelly, a fierce inferno that wilted Tiny’s needles and robbed him of strength now there were no giant branches to shade him. The once moist earth gradually turned hard, and cracks opened in the ground exposing his roots. Tree stumps and splintered branches were left strewn around, white and grotesque, like bones bleaching in the sun. No moment of triumph for me. I’m going to slowly wither and die, without having served any purpose at all. A man with a sack trudged along picking up pinecones and pieces of wood. Tiny barely reached the shoulders of this tall young man, whose hair was long and unruly. His beard was scraggly and unkempt. His blue eyes were traumatized; his face lined and weary. “Ah, you’ll make a good fire for me little tree.” The man’s hands trembled. “Lieutenant Steven Godfrey at your service. Well, that’s who I used to be.” He gave an exaggerated bow. “The nights are mighty cold up here in the mountains when a man is on his own and cannot sleep.” The axe was wielded with something akin to desperation, and soon Tiny felt himself toppling to the earth just as his friends had done. He was picked up and slung across the man’s shoulders, then was bumped and jigged along as the man called Steven climbed higher up the mountain. 69
Ragged ledges, like scarred battlements, towered above them. Brooding, lonely and isolated. “No-one bothers me out here, little tree. I don’t have to conform to standards set by people who haven’t been to hell and back as I have.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Only veterans like me understand that a car backfiring gives me the shakes and chills me to the bone. Getting drunk helps me forget what an IED can do to a soldier. Takes the rancid odor of burnt flesh and blood out of my nostrils. Stops me from seeing my men dying every time I close my eyes. Hearing their screams.” They finally came to Steven’s mean little shack built from packing cases and old sheets of tin. A piece of canvas covered the doorway and Steven dumped Tiny on the ground and shouldered his way inside. The area near the shack was littered with beer bottles and cans. Cigarette butts peppered the dust. This was a hideout from the world, where a man could farewell civilization for as long as he wanted. Around the shack, tall and aloof, gum trees grew, while the only relief from the green/grey vista were the yellow daisies nodding to each other in the breeze. The once pristine beauty of their surroundings was spoilt only by the mess left by this human. Steven came outside after a time, staggering slightly and swigging from a bottle. He kicked Tiny and cursed virulently when his foot connected with the hard trunk instead of the soft branches. “Do you know what day it is?” Steven slurred. “Christmas Eve. My mother used to always decorate a tree for us when we were kids.” He struggled to push the pine tree into a standing position. “She probably thinks I’m dead.” Great shuddering sobs were suddenly wrenched from his body, and he collapsed to the ground, writhing as if in agony. “I couldn’t go back to her like this little pine tree. Not with the nightmares and fits of rage that can only be eased by drinking myself into oblivion. Her brave soldier son who returned from battle is no more.” 70
He wiped the tears from his eyes. “No victory marches for me. Like a thief in the dark they smuggled me back in the dead of night, gave me a de-briefing and a medical examination before discharging me from the army with PTSD. Setting me loose in a hostile environment that didn’t care or understand what I’d been through.” Will the soldiers now fighting in Afghanistan fare any better than us when they return home? I doubt it. Bitterness overwhelmed him. “The Government deserted us veterans, the public reviled us, until all there was left for those of us returning from Iraq, was to leave the human-race behind us. It’s kinder for my mother to think I’m dead, than for her to know how low I’ve sunk.” Steven stumbled to his feet and savagely wrenched a handful of daisies out of the ground. He twisted them around the branches of the pine tree in angry, jerky movements. After a time, the rage drained out of him. He became calmer, his decorations more carefully arranged. He lit a candle and attached it to the top branch, and the flame burned brightly. A beacon to light the way for someone who had strayed and wanted to go back home. Perhaps he wasn’t a lost cause after all. “Not as fancy as the ones we used to decorate,” Steven mused. “No fairy lights, either, but you’ll do. In the morning I’ll clean myself up, come down from the mountain, and contact my mother to wish her a Merry Christmas.” Tiny saw a sudden, determined thrust to Steven’s jaw. “One day soon, little tree, maybe I might even be able to rejoin the human-race again.” Tiny suddenly felt tall because just as the white dove had foretold, there had been a reason for him to be different from the rest of the pine trees. 71
The melting wax dribbled on to his foliage, solidified then hung diamond like in the starlight, and Tiny tree realized that adorned only with the jewels from nature, he was more beautiful than the most magnificent of trees. When the first crimson rays of the sun chased away the night shadows, and it was Christmas day, the man would prepare for his long journey back to civilization. Tiny was satisfied. His job was done. “Merry Christmas Lieutenant Steven Godfrey.” The End
Margaret Tanner is an award winning, Australian author, who writes Contemporary Romance, Historical Romance and Western Historical Romance. She loves delving into the pages of history as she carries out research for her historical romance novels. No internet site is too hard to traverse, or book too old or tattered for her to trawl through, and no museum is too dusty. Many of her novels have been inspired by true events, with one being written around the hardships and triumphs of her pioneering ancestors in frontier Australia. She has found from writing Western Historical novellas, that frontier Australia and frontier America, had many similarities, isolated communities, a large single male population and a lack of marriageable women. Margaret is married and has three grown up sons, and two gorgeous little granddaughters. Outside of her family and friends, writing is her passion. The Billionaire’s Revenge: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WFLW24Z Margaret’s Web Page: http://www.margarettanner.com/ Margaret’s Amazon Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/margarettanner
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Katarina Daniels questions her sanity when she starts having visions of an apocalyptic world inhabited by hideous creatures. AVAILABLE ON AMAZON
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