"... the Spanish horse is the noblest horse in the world ... and the most beautiful, for he is not so thin and ladylike as the barb, not so gross as the Neapolitan. He is of great spirit and great courage and docile, hath the proudest trot and the best action in his trot; the loftiest gallop, and is the lovingest and gentlest horse and fittingest of all for a king in a day of triumph ... much more intelligent than even the best Italian horses and for that reason the easiest dressed."

So wrote the Duke of Newcastle in his 1667 manuscript, "New Method and Extraordinary Invention to Dress (train) Horses."

Imagine a fairy-tale horse prancing across the mountains and plains of ancient times, his unshod hooves lifted high in a dramatic trot.

A white stallion, his thick mane unfurled like a flag, canters boldly toward an angry bull and the cheers of the crowd rise into a blue-hot Spanish sky.

The Andalusian is an ancient pure breed that has been carefully preserved over the centuries. In Northern Spain, cave paintings depict men leading Mesolitic horses with convex heads, solid muscular bodies, elegant necks and luxurious manes. Circa 1,100 B.C., Homer refers to the Iberian horse in his Iliad. Xenophon, the 'father' of modern equitation, praises the gifted Iberian horses and horseman who fought in the Peloponneisian Wars in 431 B.C. Julius Caesar wrote of the noble steeds of Hispania in "Del Bollo Gallico." The Iberian horse carried Hannibal across the Alps in his invasion of Italy (though the elephants got all the credit!). History records Richard I, and many of his knights, mounted on "airy Spanish Destriers".

In an era when the mounted soldier trusted his life to his horse, the Andalusian's strength and natural gift for collection made him the premier warhorse of Europe. It is easy to see why a horse, so bold and quick, that he can dart near enough for a mounted bullfighter to place a rose between the horns of a maddened bull then whisk away before being gored, is a definite advantage in battle. When mortal conflict waged hand-to-hand, the Andalusian was the soldier's best friend or worst nightmare, depending on which side of the battle you faced him.
Dressage, today's fastest growing sport, was developed as a means to school the superior warhorse. The Andalusian is particularly gifted for training in the Airs Above the Ground:

Capriole - The stallion leaps into the air, drawing his forelegs under his chest at the height of elevation, and kicks out violently with his hind legs. The capriole may take years of training.

Levade - The horse must maintain a haunched position at a 45-degree angle to the ground, requiring muscle control and perfect balance.

Mezair - A series of successive Levades in which the horse lowers its forefeet to the ground before rising again on hindquarters, moving forward.

Courbette - The horse balances on the hind legs and then jumps, keeping the hind legs together and the forelegs off the ground.

You can see videos of these movements by visiting this link: http://www.lipizzaner.com/lipizzaner_frameset.asp

These spectacular movements are now practiced in only a few of the world's classical riding halls. The Spanish Court Riding School in Vienna is the most famous of the establishments which teach the art of horsemanship, but there is also the Escuela de Arte Equestre in Jerez de la Frontera, and its counterpart in Portugal, as well as the Ecole Militaire at Saumur, France. The Spanish Riding School is named for the Spanish horses used to create the Lipizzaner breed. In 1562, Maximilian of Austria imported Spanish horses to Kladrub (in what is now known as Czechoslovakia). The six main stallion lines and the nine main mare lines of today's Lipizzaner breed trace heavy Spanish ancestry.

Throughout history, the Spanish horse has remained remarkably pure. The Andalusian is very sturdy, with a long sloping shoulder that gives him a lofty and pleasant trot. His wide chest, deep heart, strong, short back and well-rounded hind quarters give him the ability to sit down on his haunches and balance on his hind legs. The well-crested neck with its curtain of silky mane and the thick, long tail add elegance and a storybook beauty. Though most people imagine the Andalusian as the dancing white horse, the Spanish Registry recognizes blacks and bays as well. The Andalusian ranges in size from 15 hands to 17 hands, with the average being 15.3-16.0.

Long ago, when King Ferdinand of Spain decreed that all gentlemen must ride stallions, and the breeders of Spanish horses began to select bloodstock, which would produce a stallion with good enough temperament to be a pleasurable saddle horse (in an effort, no doubt, to preserve the Spanish nobility). The King's severe edict must have resulted in a few Spanish Grandees being dumped on their noble heads! So, the Andalusian was selectively bred to retain its fiery presence and proud bearing, yet be gentle and tractable, a trait which persists today.

In the heyday of European monarchies, the Iberian horse's flair, style and formidable carriage made him the mount of choice for the aristocracy. Not only did the Andalusian excel in battle, he was a fancy parade horse and an elegant fine-harness animal. This popularity earned him a grandiose title, "Horse of Kings" or "Royal Horse of Europe." Indeed, there was a time when no crowned head would consider having a portrait painted on any horse other than an Andalusian.
It is not surprising that the 17th-century Flemish painter, Peter Paul Rubens, chose the Spanish horse, with its robust body and flowing mane and tail, for his paintings. The artist is noted for his voluptuous, full-bodied nudes, and the Andalusian horse epitomizes the term "Rubenesque." The Spanish horse and Rubens' passionate style were the quintessence of the opulent Baroque era. As a popular painter and a pro-Spanish diplomat, Rubens' work and his pro-Spanish politics accompanied him on his diplomatic missions. Thus, via canvas, the Spanish horse was introduced to the high courts of Europe.

Rubens painted portraits of such famous personages as the governors of the Spanish Netherlands, King Charles I of England, King Philip IV of Spain, the Spanish Duke of Lerma, Kings Henri IV and Henri XIII of France, the Polish Princes Ladislas Sigismund and the Duke of Lerma. In "Capture at Juliers", Rubens allegorically depicts Marie de Medici mounted on a Spanish horse. Many of his works, including "St. George and the Dragon" (c. 1606-1610), feature the Spanish horse in powerful and fierce battle poses, which seemed to satisfy his taste for depicting violent action and lovely women.

Van Dyke, Rubens' most celebrated pupil, depicted Charles I on an Andalusian, and the Spanish painter Velazquez painted Philip III and Queen Isabel of Bourbon riding Andalusians.
But in the late 18th and 19th centuries, the trend to greater size and scope in horses began to adversely affect the breed's popularity. Then a tragic plague followed by a devastating famine nearly swept the breed into oblivion, but, fortunately, in a few mountainous areas of the country, the Carthusian monks carefully preserved the depleted bloodstock and began the long journey to re-establishing the breed. In order to conserve these rare horses for breeding, the Spanish government placed an embargo on their export and, for over 100 years, the Andalusian was virtually unseen by the rest of the world. Only a scattered one or two Andalusians came to this country prior to the 1960's, and it was virtually impossible to see one outside art or film.

Like the economy following a stock market surge, the breed's popularity is on the rise. Sales prices have remained stable through the recession encouraging many investors to consider the Andalusian the blue chip stock of the equine world. The glamour and presence of the breed attract many celebrities. At their Santa Ynez Valley Ranch, John and Bo Derek are Andalusian breeders. Designer Bijan's fragrance is being promoted with photographs of his wife and daughter and their Andalusian horses. Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson owned Spanish horses as did Dean Martin, film producers Greg Garrison and Bud Boetticher. Novelist Ainslee Sheridan spotlighted the breed in "Trophies" about international show jumping.
The unicorn in Stardust was an Andalusian. The breed's film appearances are too numerous to list here.

I speak as a former breeder of these wondrous animals. My stallion Bonito was twice National Champion Stallion and the best friend I ever had. Sometimes I wonder if he was my soul mate! The Andalusian is a masterpiece of living art, carefully preserved by the Cria Caballar, who inspect and grade the quality of the Spanish horse. Horses who do not meet the rigorous standards are not licensed to breed. To own an Andalusian horse is both an honor and a commitment to preserve history. The return on investment is uncommonly high -- Pride, Companionship and lots of unadulterated Fun.

Today's health and beauty topic is: mascara. Or, as I like to call it, smudge on a wand.

Actually, I don't really call it that. Having a special name for mascara implies a familiarity I don't have. I don’t wear the stuff more than a few times a year. And lest anyone mistakenly credit me with high-minded reasons for eschewing makeup -- animal testing, gender equality, etc. -- my reasons are purely technical. (That not wearing mascara indulges my laziness and cheapness is just a bonus.)

The problem isn't that I can’t get it on straight. I have plenty enough eye-hand coordination for that. If I do find myself with three lashes and a black blob over one eye? Well, that's what the makeup toothbrush is for. (That's not a term of art. I really mean a toothbrush. I keep one in the makeup drawer. I've had one for years, yes, the same one. It's not as if it wears out from use.)

I might get a good solid lash blob three, maybe four times a year. For those math-obsessed readers out there, that makes my blob/application ratio about 66%. Easily handled. So what, you may ask, is the real problem?

Smudges. And not the sexy, smoky eye kind you can pretend you did on purpose. I'm talking thick black rings under my eyes. And these aren't any simple wash-off rings. I wear contacts, so I use contact-wearer-approved waterproof mascara. Those rings are on for the duration.
Why? Why me? No one else seems to have this problem. It's not as if I live in Florida. And anyway, waterproof. As far as I can see, there's no explanation. It's just mean.

Wait. Maybe this is about animal testing, after all. I mean, on me. (Humans are animals, for those who slept through the classification lectures in seventh grade science. Killing Poor Charles Our Fingers Got Sticky, anyone? Kings Play Chess on Fine-Grained Sand?) Raccoons have taken over Maybelline and are secretly testing their product on me. I'm probably on the cover of Glamour Raccoon. In raccoon homes everywhere, on little raccoon girl’s walls, there are photos of me coming home after a night out with huge black rings under my eyes.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. I—

(Liz Jasper’s blog had to end early today due to technical difficulties. The author has poked herself in the eye with her mascara wand.)


www.lizjasper.com

Today I am submitting the first few pages of my historical romance, Fatal Fortune. This award-winning story is about Valentina, a Roma (Gypsy) woman in 1508 England, and the nobleman she meets.

Hope you enjoy it! Stay tuned for more.

Joanne




“Si khohaimo may patshivalo sar o tshatshim.”
“There are lies more believable than the truth.”
-Old Romany saying





Chapter One

England 1508

“Bury me standing, for I have been on my knees all my life.”
Valentina Rupa bowed her head lower to hear her beloved mother’s last words. She searched the depths of her mother’s tired eyes and saw only the grief from her own heart.
Her mother’s breath faded, already settling into the night air, already gone.
“Daj, Mother . . . do not stop speaking,” Valentina cried. What good did it do to be a drabardi, a powerful fortuneteller and healer, if she could not save her own mother? Valentina focused on her mother’s lips, willing her to speak once more, and massaged her thin hands, growing cold, growing limp, refusing to let them go.

Her younger sister, Yolanda, stood beside her and gazed into their mother’s peaceful face. “Please, daj, ’tis not your time.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Her lips, she is breathing . . .”
“Nay, ’tis the wind.” Valentina peered up and stared straight ahead at the supple pine branches bending against a biting gust of air, threatening to collapse on top of their makeshift canopy. Wagon wheels creaked, groaning into the dirt, familiar sounds, yet so distant. Her mother had lived her entire life in the caravan, traveling from village to village. There was no other way for her. Only the way of the Roma.

The air reeked thick and heavy, warning of a hailstorm, stinging Valentina’s damp cheeks. She did not care, did not even bother to wipe them. Dear spirits, she hated the weakness of crying.
With shaking fingers, she tucked the threadbare blankets around her mother’s limp body, smoothed the wrinkled fabric and folded the ends back. Neatly, the way her mother liked it done.

Tucked, smoothed, folded. Tucked, smoothed, folded. Her hands moved deliberately. The continuous rhythm soothed her innate restlessness.
“Daj, you did not have to refuse to eat because of Yolanda and I,” she whispered. “We are young and strong. We would have found the food we needed somehow.”

Yolanda grabbed her arm. “Cease. We could not convince mother of doing otherwise.”
“She has suffered all these weeks—because of the English. Why do they treat us as if we are animals?” Valentina choked on her words and jostled the gleaming silver bracelets on her wrists, then brushed Yolanda’s hand away. “I am tired of this life, I am tired of their cruelty. Te lel len o beng. May the devil take them.”

“We shall be able to eat, at least for a while longer,” Yolanda said. “This is the land of the English. They own everything. Even the devil is afraid of them.”

“Then the sweating sickness shall curse all of England. All their precious food shall be of little use unless a Roma finds a cure . . . and we just shall not bother.” In a single, deliberate breath, Valentina blew out the long shivers that rippled through her body.
The friends who had been discreetly staying out of the way melted in now, coming from their wagons to gather close around the deathbed. The sad cries of the caravan penetrated the twilight and the last light of day faded. Purple lipped, the elderly, ragged tribe huddled together, stamping their feet to keep away the chill.

With the hem of her scarlet gown, Valentina wiped her eyes. Salt stung the corners, tiny crystals from the sea lashing the Ipswich coast. She had used the water to bathe her mother earlier, an ironic Roma custom that relied on her mother’s willingness to go to her death. It mixed with the tears she licked off her lips.

Yolanda helped her gather their mother’s personal belongings and carried them to the campfire.

Without moving, Valentina watched the flames rise against the night sky and consume the bits and pieces of her mother’s life. It was hard to follow these endless traditions, but her people burned most of the possessions of the dead, believing they were unclean and defiled the living.
She skimmed her index finger across the razor-sharp tip of her mother’s small dagger and accidentally drew blood. She did not have the heart to destroy the weapon, so she thrust the dagger into her gown’s deep folds.
Then Valentina glided her fingers across the last treasure, her mother’s yellow scarf, her diklo. Bringing it up to her face, she closed her eyes and inhaled. A whiff of oak and jasmine, green and mysterious, flooded her thoughts. She remembered her mother jauntily tying the diklo around her hair each morning. She was only supposed to take one small token, but she would take two.
Glancing at her faded gown, she folded the scarf into a perfect triangle and tied it loosely
around her throat. It did not match, and it did not matter.

Yolanda’s pretty, round face contorted in grief as she placed small, multi-colored stones around their mother’s body.

As the eldest daughter, almost twenty, Valentina assumed the responsibility of inserting pearls in her mother’s nose to keep out all wickedness. Her hands trembled, and she avoided touching her mother’s body for fear of contamination, another Roma superstition. Inhaling a drop of frankincense, she smoothed the spicy, golden oil along her arms to protect herself against the evil spirits.

Mayhap spirits did not exist at all. They certainly demanded endless rituals, and in return granted . . . nothing. A shadow of doubt, and her hands stopped. Glancing around at the silhouettes dancing in the firelight, she dabbed an extra ounce of oil on her wrists, just in case.
The men of their tribe sat in the grassy clearing on the forest’s edge, the scent of sweet brandy filling the brisk autumn air. Several grizzled dogs lay listless at their feet. Luca Boldor, the caravan’s tall, sinewy leader, mourned in a deep and plaintive voice and guided the old men in solemn chants. When all the other young men had gone off in search of food, Luca had not deserted the tribe.

“We need more hot water for tea, Yolanda, before we prepare for mother’s burial. This shan’t be enough.” Valentina’s voice quavered with fatigue. She picked up the pot to make her way past the wailing lamenters to the small tent the women shared, stepping carefully. A recent rain had washed soggy leaves over the ground.
One of the dogs sniffed, its furred neck bristled. A sharp crackle—somewhere a tree branch snapped.

Tonight, her senses sharpened. The last few nights she had dozed while nursing her mother and had dreamt about a man. A rich man. A powerful man.
Scanning the dense woods, she sensed that someone was watching. She had the gift of second sight, her mother always said. But Valentina shook it away. Her tribe was far too secluded to be found.

“Shall I retrieve your cloak?” She turned and called out to Yolanda, who had gone to tend the fire. With her free hand, Valentina brushed a strand of oily hair behind her ear, longing for a warm bath. But strict custom prevented her from washing until after her mother’s burial.
As Yolanda opened her mouth to reply, a man sprang through the trees and wrapped his large hand around her slender throat. Terror filled Valentina and for a moment she stood still. Stifling Yolanda’s shriek, the bulky man dragged her clear of the startled group. The aged mourners scurried in different directions, their faces etched in terror, while several hid in the undergrowth of the ancient forest surrounding the camp.

“Stop! Leave her!” Valentina clutched the teapot using the edge of her long gown and chased the invader into the dense brush. Panic welled in her stomach. For a brief beat her steps faltered, her feet numbed with terror.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF YORK, South Carolina-
BEST OF THE SMALL SOUTHERN TOWNS

Have you ever bought a hammer while enjoying a slice of cheese or a bagged lunch to go? Where can you get the best take-out rotisserie chicken in the southeast- while you are filling your car with gas at the local filling station?

If you have never been to York, SC, you are denying yourself a blast from the past. Just a short 45-minute drive from Charlotte, NC, this small southern town has been called "The Charleston of the Up-Country” for good reason.

With family and friends, begin your journey on historic N. Congress Street, York’s main business thoroughfare. The morning may be the perfect opportunity to undertake the free walking tour. This tour lists the historic homes and sites on York’s tree-lined streets. York has one of the largest historic districts in the Southeast, and is the county seat of York county. The tour begins at the Railroad Department/Chamber of Commerce office on E. Liberty Street.

York is called the “White Rose” city. Many of the elegant homes represented on this tour resemble southern plantation homes. They feature large windows and doors opening onto piazzas to enjoy the cool night air. Some of the homes originated in the 1700’s, and all are currently lived in.

When you stop for lunch, check out O’Shea’s Pub serving 50 different kinds of beer and wine, or the Cotton Gin Tavern, featuring steaks, ribs, and burgers.

After a hearty lunch, it’s time to shop. A walk directly across the street is a step back in time at Miss Coleman’s Trading Post. The store sells frying pans, overalls, blue jeans, and corn bread pans for over 50 years. In the market for an old-fashioned washtub? This would be the place to find one. Need a washboard or a
new pair of overalls? You guessed it- they’re waiting for you here.

Our stroll along tree-lined N. Congress Street continues at the quaint Ivy Hill Antique Shop. An assortment of lovely and unusual gifts, cards, and scented candles for the discerning buyer are represented here.

Worth a peek a few doors down is the Sylvia Theater. If you’re in town for the afternoon or evening, this theater, billed as a “singer/songwriter showcase and performance venue,” features live local and nationally known entertainment, while serving beer and wine in
the lobby. Check sylviatheater.com for show times.

Also, have the gentlemen in your party check out the Men’s Shop, featuring fine clothing for men since 1948. And no trip to York is complete without a visit to Ferguson & Youngblood. This landmark hardware store supplies all your hardware needs, as well as bagged lunches to go.

The savory aromas from the gourmet restaurant, The Garden Café, beckon us for dinner. This outstanding French country restaurant is a top choice. Meals are served on local pottery, and feature low-country cuisine at their finest. Leave room for dessert- Buttermilk Pie is a favorite.

Visiting in the summertime? Take the short drive to the Peach Tree Orchards. Patrons are encouraged to slice and savor the large assortment of peaches sold here before they buy. After you make your selections, stop next door for a peach ice cream cone.

Just down the road from the Peach Tree is Stacy’s, the largest grower of perennials in the Southeast. All colors and varieties of pansies are available, and these colorful blooms can also be shipped. Inside is a full service restaurant and garden center.

A visit to John Leake’s remarkable furniture showroom always draws gasps of surprise from first-time visitors. John describes himself as a one-man band. He is a
furniture craftsman specializing in 18th century, Queen Anne style reproductions. He crafts all of his furniture special order, and works with solid woods of walnut, cherry, and maple. As he lives directly across the street, he casually mentions that he also uses his showroom as his living room. “I simply have a street that runs across my living room,” he explains.

Before you leave this charming town, there is one more coveted secret from the locals. Stop back to N. Congress Street at Woodland’s grocery for a take-out rotisserie chicken to go. You can also fill your car with gas for the trip home at their filling station. But be warned, the smell of the chicken will have you devouring it before you ever leave the city limits.

Staying the weekend? Enjoy Historic Brattonsville, an easy ride from York. Besides Living History days, the historical programs include the Christmas candlelight tours, Battle of Huck’s defeat, African-American history, and the Heritage Breed farm program.

SIDEBAR:

SUMMERFEST is held annually in downtown York on the fourth Saturday in August.

This event has been designated by the Southeast Tourism Society as one of the top 20 events in the entire southeast. Events include an exceptional craft fair, children’s activities, fireworks, a car show, golf tournament, and a large assortment of food vendors. A parade starts off the festival.
The Duke and Duchess of York are announced, and get the added privilege of riding around in a golf cart while enjoying the festivities of the day.

For further information visit:
www.yorksc.com
www.yorkcitysc.com


*Author’s note: Please check these businesses mentioned to be sure they are open and operating when you plan to visit.

This is the first page of UNDERDEAD, my cozy mystery about science teacher Jo Gartner who thinks her students are monsters… until an inept vampire leaves her UNDERDEAD and bodies start piling up—the traditional way!

UNDERDEAD

Chapter One

I would have shot him then and there if I thought it would do any good, but Roger was such a troll the bullet would have bounced off his thick, ugly hide. Maybe poison…

Becky interrupted my pleasant daydream with a whack on my arm. “Okay, don’t turn around and look,” she said, “but a guy is staring at you. And he is hot!”

“How nice for him.”

All I needed to cap off this fabulous evening was Becky’s matchmaking. I knew her taste. He probably wore chains and had a Mohawk. Becky herself was dressed in what was best described as slightly toned-down punk, not exactly your typical high school chemistry teacher garb. It went with her spiky hair, which she wore bleached and dyed silver, though a red fringe had been added in honor of the holidays. I should mention that she is Korean, so the dye job isn’t exactly subtle. The headmaster turns a blind eye to this display of “personal expression” because she’s a first-rate teacher and, at twenty-seven, cheap.

Around us, hip twenty-somethings in denim and black sipped cappuccinos and talked knowledgeably about the band that was setting up in the bar area. But we weren’t sitting with them. We were at a long rectangular table in the back of the restaurant, where a small balding man in a hideous sweater was lecturing passionately about the insidious evil that was grade inflation. If I’d ever imagined a fate worse than death, this was it—the science department Christmas party.

****

Short page, but the first always is. All that space taken up by...printing conventions (Who wants opening words to start way at the top of a page?). I'll be posting page two on Tuesday, Sept. 25th. For more information about UNDERDEAD or to purchase the ebook from Cerridwen Press, visit my website at http://www.lizjasper.com/.

Happy Sunday,

Liz, who is at work on the sequel.

Galliano Wine Cake

A festive cake for any time of the year! Yields: One bundt or angel food cake


Ingredients:

1 box Yellow Cake Mix- any brand

1 package instant vanilla pudding (You may use sugar free)

¼ cup Galliano wine

4 eggs

¼ cup Vodka

¾ cup orange juice

½ cup vegetable oil


Mix all ingredients for several minutes with electric mixer. Grease cake pan. (I use Pam

or other spray.) Bake in a bundt pan or angel food tube pan at 325 degrees for 40-50

minutes. After cooling, remove to serving plate. Dust with powdered sugar. Enjoy!

Novel excerpt.

Rosenwyn Tremain stared through her BMW’s windshield at the towering gray struts of the road bridge spanning the River Tamar. The gateway to Cornwall. She swallowed anxiously as the line of traffic edged closer to the bridge. In a few minutes, she’d be over, on Cornish soil—or more precisely Cornish asphalt.

A slash of lightning cut across the leaden sky, briefly relieving the dull afternoon. She shuddered then nervously fluffed her short hair.

Never set foot in Cornwall. Her mother’s plea whispered in her memory as her car crawled forward.

Rose passed beneath the Cornish coat of arms marking the center point of the Tamar Bridge. Tension clenched her belly. She snatched a breath, held it, half expecting to be smote down by a thunderbolt.

“Oh, for goodness sake.” She slapped her palms against the steering wheel. “Pull yourself together, woman, and get over it.” What was the worst that could happen? She’d get a hostile reception from the business she was due to investigate. That wouldn’t be a first. No one liked being told they were insolvent.

Just over an hour later, Rose maneuvered her car along a narrow Cornish lane. She glanced at her satellite navigation system and gnawed her lip. Either the satellite was faulty, or the Elephant’s Nest Public House was in the middle of nowhere. She had a nasty suspicion it was the latter.

She crawled until the road opened out at the head of an estuary. Stopping on a small humpback bridge, she stared at the pretty scatter of lighted cottage windows glowing in the curve of the valley. Living in London, it was easy to forget places like this existed.

The satellite system directed her along a narrow track beside the estuary for another half a mile. Finally, an ancient building with white-washed walls intersected by black beams shone in her headlights. She swung her car around and parked near the front door. Her watch read five thirty, nearly opening time.

The plan had been to make a start on the financial assessment this afternoon, but the drive had taken longer than expected. As she was late, the best she could do was get the preliminaries out of the way so she could make a quick start in the morning. A small review job like this should only take two days. Then she could spend the rest of the week tracing her father.

Climbing out, she slung her purse strap over her shoulder and grabbed her briefcase. A cool breeze flowed up the estuary with the incoming tide. Salty air tingled in her lungs. So, this was Cornwall—the county of her birth.

Checking out the parking lot, she noticed a red Porsche Boxster, spotless and gleaming beneath a street light. The license plate read MICK. She grimaced. Maybe the problem with the business’s finances was an owner who spent the working capital. She’d met a few of those in her years as an accountant. Mr. Michael O’Connor’s private spending would be her first target—and he wouldn’t like that. Those she investigated never did.

As she walked toward the front door, she paused and stared at the incongruous sight of a fat pink elephant with a wicked grin perched on a nest of plastic twigs. Lucky the guy who owned this place clearly had a sense of humor. He would probably need it when he received her report.

When she reached the entrance porch, the low drone of a powerful motorcycle engine rolled through the darkness behind her. Its headlight flickered between the trees on the riverbank as it approached. Rose suppressed a strange compulsion to go inside before it arrived. The air vibrated with the thud of the engine as the machine slowed and, with a crunch of gravel, swung into the parking lot.

The man halted beside the Porsche, dropped a brown booted foot to the ground and turned his head toward her. The lamplight gleamed off the visor of his helmet like an insect’s eye. When he looked at her, the three linked stones on her necklace tingled warmly against her skin. She clasped them through her shirt to stop the weird sensation.

He twisted his hand on the throttle, and the roar of the engine snapped her out of her trance. Rose shivered as she took in his green combat pants and battered leather flight jacket. Hopefully he wasn’t the owner of the pub.

Dragging her attention back to the pub, she cleared her throat, then strode through the door into the lounge bar. The gentle lilt of traditional Irish music and the smell of wood smoke welcomed her in. After the plastic elephant out front, she was pleasantly surprised by the old fashioned interior with a beamed ceiling, brass ornaments and a polished oak bar.

A middle-aged woman, with a mass of fair hair secured atop her head with an orange flower, looked up from where she restocked the shelves behind the bar.

“We’re not open till six, m’ lover.” She poked her thumb behind her. “Boss is still out back working his magic.”

Rose suspected the magic had something to do with the delicious smell of food emanating from the back. So Michael O’Connor cooked. He probably couldn’t afford to pay a chef.

Rose slipped a business card from the leather case in her pocket and held it out. “Sorry to call so late. Mr. O’Connor is expecting me. I just want to introduce myself tonight and get the lay of the land. I’ll be back to start work in the morning.”

The woman took the card and read out loud. “Rose Tremain. Francis Marchant Partnership. You got yourself an impressive list of letters after your name, but it don’t tell me what you’re here for.”

Rose kept her face blank. Keeping the reason for her presence secret from the staff while investigating a business facing bankruptcy was always difficult.

She gave the woman a reassuring smile. “Mr. O’Connor is expecting me. If you’d just give him my card, I’m sure he can spare me a few minutes tonight.”

The woman flicked the card between her fingers thoughtfully. “Now which Mr. O’Connor would you be wanting?”

There were two?

Find out more about Helen Scott Taylor's paranormal romance at http://www.helenscotttaylor.com/

"No better friend, no worse enemy." --Ancient Roman Epitath

One hundred and ninety three days ago yesterday, Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner to the tune of an English drinking song. Do you know all the verses?

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever when free-men shall stand
Between their lov'd home and the war's desolation;
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Smolder

by Sammie Jo Moresca (Sherry Morris)

“Have a tall drink of water handy to put out the fire when you read Smolder, Sammie Jo Moresca’s poignant story of the after effects of September 11th.

Johnny Newman is one of New York City’s finest; the Fire Department’s most eligible bachelor. He’s been in love with his best friend’s widow for years. In fact, Johnny was the one to introduce them. When September 11th made her a widow, who was it she turned to for strength? Johnny was always there, fixing things in her home, helping her through her grief, finishing all the projects in the house that Susan and Brandon had planned to finish. Now, after two years, it’s time to let her know how much she means to him. Johnny feels he has given her enough time to get over Brandon, but will his playboy reputation ruin his chances?

Susan Cervini is caught up in trying to locate a missing cousin through a website for an aging pop star. When Susan begins to have irrational feelings for her best friend, Johnny, she is afraid she will ruin their friendship, but she can’t seem to stop feeling an overpowering need for his touch. Can they have a smoldering affair and go back to being friends, or will the feelings they have for each other change Susan’s mind about love and marriage again?

Johnny Newman is a real American hero; strong in his beliefs, dedicated to helping others, and loyal to the woman he loves above all others. He is sexy but unaware of his appeal, chivalrous without being conscious of it, and a wonderful friend; the way he unselfishly dedicates himself to Susan’s needs, even the times she took him for granted, brought tears to this reader’s eyes a time or two. Susan was a little tougher for this reader to warm up to, but once her secret misgivings came to light it was a pleasant turn-around. She is a very caring woman who is afraid of losing again. Her restoration of faith was a long and hard journey but was well worth the wait. Her love for Johnny is a beautiful thing to behold, culminating in a climactic coming together. For fans of a sultry and emotional love story, Smolder is a good choice. Bravo, Sammie Jo Moresca, a brilliant way to tell a poignant story of the day that changed many of our lives. Smolder is another keeper to add to my ever growing library.”

–Fallen Angel Reviews

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Excerpt from Smolder

By Sammie Jo Moresca:

Brooklyn New York, The Day After Thanksgiving, 2003

"I brought you a turkey with Swiss on white. From Vinnie's." Johnny Newman placed the sandwich and a half pint of skim milk on the rough granite tombstone. Squatting, he ran his soot-stained hand over the lettering.

BRANDON ARTHUR CERVINI
MARCH 21, 1970--SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
IN THE LINE OF DUTY

His eyes halted on the Maltese cross. He bowed his head and crossed himself.

"Two years ago today, Brandon. We found you ... your hand." He cleared his throat as he fought the saline escaping from both eyes. "Susan's okay now. Man, it was bad on her. She wanted to join you. We had to do an intervention. She spent a couple weeks in the hospital. Your mom and I, we took turns staying with her when she got back home.

"Anyhow, I just wanted to bring you the sandwich. I haven't eaten at Vinnie's anymore since..." He exhaled.

"And I wanted to let you know not to worry about Susan. She's gonna make it all right. And, um, I'm gonna keep lookin' out for her. What I'm tryin' to say is, I love Susan. Well, of course you already knew that. But I mean ... I'm in love with her. It's not the September Eleventh widow syndrome thing either. I didn't move in on her a couple weeks after..."

An ambulance wailed by. Johnny sat back on his heels. He picked a thick blade of grass and entwined it in his fingers, pulling it so tight the tips turned red. "Did ya know eight guys left their wives and kids for the widows? Jesus. Shunned one family in favor of another. The psychologists they sent around tried to explain the phenomenon. They warned us there would be affairs. I swear I haven't touched her. And I've kept the wolves away. Johnson and Caruthers. Friggin' bastards. Can you believe it?" Johnny yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "She's a beautiful woman and all, but they should've had more respect for you ... and Susan, than that." He stood up and unwrapped the sandwich, straightening it on top of the headstone. The white paper flapped under it.

"Anyhow, I just wanted to have a talk with you first. I wanted to let you know my intentions. I've got no idea how Susan feels toward me. But I'll tell you one thing, buddy. I plan on standing in Times Square, watching the ball drop and kissing my fiancée to ring in the New Year." Johnny opened the milk container and placed it next to the sandwich. He crossed himself and walked down the path.

A nun called out, "You can't leave trash here. Remove it."

Johnny smiled and closed the gate behind him.

©2007 Sammie Jo Moresca

For Adults Only!

Complete novel contains graphic love scenes.

Download Complete Novel Now

It's never too late to be who you might have been-George Eliot

I'm pleased to announce Boji Stones, a story about a modern day woman with a centuries-old secret, is released today. Here is an excerpt, hope you enjoy:His trembling fingers rested on the keyboard as he leaned toward the monitor, an uncontrollable twitch running through his misshapen body as he devoured the article with the greedy need of a child offered chocolate.'Legend has it that out of all the mortals on earth five women found favor with the gods—Sophia whose face was pitted and ravaged by pox,Zoe a young queen whose village was razed and plundered and she herself taken as slave,Pelagia who had the body of a woman and the mind of a child,Olympia a poor widow with children to feed,andHelen, who’d lost four children to the plague and begged the gods to spare her remaining child.Moved, the gods created five special amulets.To Sophia they gave an amulet forged with beauty and creativity.To Zoe an amulet forged with power.To Pelagia an amulet forged with knowledge.To Olympia an amulet forged with wealth.And for Helen they forged a copper amulet with a beautiful amethyst at its center. Two plain stones the size of small coins flanked the amethyst. The female stone smooth, the male stone’s texture rough. Then they fused the amulet with healing.Or so legend has it…'

Today's topic on health and beauty is... snorkeling. What? It fits. Paddling around in turquoise, bathtub-warm water is healthy (at least until you get out, hungry, and down a couple handfuls of deliciously melty chocolate covered macadamia nuts). And if you haven't seen yellow tangs and Moorish idols (think Willem Dafoe’s scarred, ocean lusting Gill in Finding Nemo) swimming amid the coral under a Hawaiian sun, you don't know what beauty is. Even the unique to Hawaii humuhumu-nukunuku-apua’as (pronounced, at least by my family, hoomoo hoomoo nookoo nookoo apoo ahpah) are beautiful too, in a What was that? Picasso cubism sort of way.

But to understand what beauty is, it's also important to understand what it's not. And so I, valiant reporter, took it upon myself to travel to Hawaii and push the boundaries of beauty, attractiveness and good taste, all for the good of the Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers. By which I mean I joined the beautiful people laying out on the postcard perfect beaches in designer swimsuits and a deep, golden tan you just can't get out of a bottle. Only I was wearing SPF 45 (hey, I burn), rubber-ducky-yellow flippers, and a snorkel and mask.

One can identify the latest beauty ideals by watching the trends. And given the number of people bobbing face down in the water with me vs. those napping beachside on loungers, I can only conclude that snorkel-wear is HOT.

A backside several shades darker than your front and quite possibly sun burnt? Gorgeous. And oddly-lispy voice from holding a snorkel between your teeth for an hour? Sexy. Deeply imprinted mask marks in a wide circle encompassing your forehead, eyes and nose? Stunning. Coming out of the water with liquid snot pouring out your nose from the saltwater? Beauty.

You might want to back up and read The Picnic, Part one of the Grandmama stories
Grandmama had told us a story about a time when she did something foolish that hurt a young man who cared a lot for her.


@@@@

We were as quiet as though we, too, had lost our best friend.

"And what about Mack, did he forgive you?" my sister asked.

"Well, that's another story." she said, while her gnarled hands stopped wrapping florist wire around bunches of leaves, attaching them to short, green, spiked sticks. Watching her delicate touch I wondered how they could move with such precision. They created such beauty that the brown age spots on her gnarled hands were barely noticeable.

"That was a month later. By that time I had learned that the handsome man with the automobile was not as special as the two men I had wronged. I saw Alex for what he was. Or at least I thought I did when I got the mumps. It was embarrassing to get a childhood illness when I was pretty much grown!

"Alex had given me a lovely friendship ring. I had proudly shown it off and enjoyed seeing the envy of the unmarried girls I knew. I was lonely, but I just knew Alex would visit me and make me feel better. Well, he didn’t and I was disappointed. Edward made it a point to visit me, though. He felt so sorry for me he forgot to be angry. He even brought a bouquet of wildflowers and a box of chocolates for me to save until I could enjoy them."

"What about Mack?" a cousin asked.

"She’s getting to it," I answered. "Now, hush."

"Well, I was so annoyed with Mack that I offered to let Edward wear the ring Alex had given me. Edward knew I just wanted to make Alex jealous, but he wore it on his little finger for a week, anyway. I think he enjoyed making the handsome, ladies-man jealous. I finally sent the ring back to him, before I learned that he had never had the mumps and was doing the right thing to stay away. He could have sent more than a short note, though.

"Mack was always in and out of the house with my brothers, but he just glared at me or treated me like the immature child he must have thought I was to do such a thoughtless thing. Anyway, one afternoon after the mumps had gone, I was helping with the laundry. I was bringing in a basket of dry clothes I had taken from the clothesline in our back yard when I heard hammering down the street.

Mack’s parents owned a store and he worked for them. This afternoon he was hammering on something. I looked in the direction of his yard and he was practically naked. He was not wearing a shirt and I couldn’t help but watch him. He some nice-looking muscles. I had never even seen my father without his shirt or my brother, even.

"I waited for him to look my way but he didn’t. I finally gave up and went inside, though I wanted him to notice me. When I went back outside with the same basket of dry clothes, I started hanging them out on the line again. He still wouldn’t turn around, so I began to sing, loudly. I remembered hearing a song about a girl who wanted her fellow to snuggle up to her because ‘her feet was as cold as ice cream.’ I knew Papa would not approve of my knowing such a song, it was kind of bawdy or naughty by his standards. But I sashayed around and sang it as loudly as I could. I thought the woman in the song was ‘bundling’ with the young man who was staying the night at her house but I started to wonder. Mack must have known all the words."

"And did he like the song?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Well, I was so embarrassed when I thought about what the words meant that I stopped singing and slipped inside our screened porch. I heard Mack sing the last line and was glad I hadn’t known the last few lines."

As though one of us had asked, she explained, "‘Bundling’ is a respectable way of sharing a bed, with a board between two people. The girl in the song wasn’t talking about a board between her and her fellow. The next time Mack came to our house he threatened to throttle me if he heard me singing such trash again."

I got his attention, though.

Once again Mama entered the room quietly. She smiled at us and gave the look that meant there would be no more stories that night.

We put away the "ball gowns" and placed slippers in their places for the next time.

And then there was the story about Grandmama's first baseball players.

In a different life, or more precisely ten years ago, I was Director of an environmental laboratory. I spent a boring predictable life supervising a staff of chemists who performed analytical tests. And suddenly everything changed when my boss asked me to write a proposal for the refurbishment of a laboratory in Belarus. For the sake of meeting a new challenge, I wrote my proposal, a winning one at that. But I thought I would collapse when the boss said, “Now that you won your contract, you need to go to Belarus and work on this refurbishment.”

Apparently a boss never joked. I opened the Internet to find out as much as I could about Belarus, capital Minsk, located South of Russia, East of Poland and North of Ukraine.

After learning a little bit about the food, I decided to play it safe and took with me green apples previously washed and individually wrapped in plastic bags, a box of crackers and a bag of mini BabyBel (the gouda cheese wrapped in red wax) and of course a dozen bottles of water.

We left for our first trip to Belarus at the end of October. We included: a government person and his interpreter, me, my lab manager and computer specialist. The first chapter of my book relates my first impressions: cold weather, gray skies and cigarette smell everywhere. The curious looks of the local people made me feel as if I was wearing the wrong clothes. Of course I didn’t have chapka (that fur round hat). I remedied the problem on my first visit to the bazaar where I bought myself the cutesy real mink chapka. I still have it. Between May and October there is no heat in Belarus and I literally froze my drafty hotel room and continuously requested and begged for a hot cup of tea. Of course I was often offered vodka instead.

Many of my special stories are related in my book, TO LOVE A HERO, that will be released on January 17, 2008.

I even included my fall on the broken escalator of the airport. I was rescued by my lab manager while my heroine (the smart woman) fell in the arm of a hero to die for, the handsome Major General Sergei who made her pulse race and stole her heart.

My story, TO LOVE A HERO, highlights the hospitality and warmth of the gorgeous and gallant Belarussians officers who sing and toast and make a woman feel like a goddess. I had a lot of fun writing this book and I hope you will discover a new country and interesting civilization while reading TO LOVE A HERO.

"From the moment of his birth, the customs into which (an individual) is born shape his experiences and behavior. By the time he can talk, he is the little creature of his culture."

Renowned anthropologist Ruth Fulton Benedict

By Beth Trissel
For gift giving, fund raising, or just plain fun, consider making fragrant potpourri. Begin by drying rose petals, an essential ingredient. Other flowers such as bachelor buttons, asters, straw flowers, and statice add color. Any blossom that dries well can be used. Mints, lavender, and lemongrass are all excellent herbs for fragrance. Save the peelings from citrus fruit. Cinnamon sticks are a nice touch.

Additional scent comes from manufacturers who sell potpourri supplies. Order ground orris root, lavender blossoms, and essential oils. Sachet bags can be made from circular scraps of fabric, such as gingham, all tied up with colorful ribbons. Decorative jars also make attractive holders. Baskets filled with aromatic sachets are an appealing presentation if fund-raising is your goal.

Here are some potpourri making directions from my experience and the book, Potpourri, by Ann Tucker Fettner. After you’ve collected and dried an ample quantity of blossoms and herbal leaves, mix in your other ingredients. Use a large bowl, not plastic, but ceramic or pottery. To hold the scent, you will need a fixative, often orris root. Generally, you use a tablespoon of a fixative for every quart of dried material. Add the spices you’ve chosen––cinnamon bark broken fine, rubbed mace, ground cardamom seeds––by sprinkling them over the petals and fixatives. If you like, add the crushed citrus peel, maybe some crumbled vanilla bean, and mix.

The ingredients must be absolutely dry or the blend will molder. To all of this, add your favorite essential oils, rose, lavender, geranium, or tincture of musk or amber. Experiment with different blends. Don’t combine all the oils in the same batch. Phew! That would be rather overwhelming. The possibilities are as endless as your imagination.

When you’re satisfied that the mixture is well blended, let it age in a crock for several weeks. Don’t have a crock? Brown paper grocery bags will do. Store the mixture out of sunlight in an airy corner or attic. Stir occasionally, then package prettily, and enjoy.


©2007 Beth Trissel

On a warm sunny day I can sit on the swing seat on our patio and watch the birds squabbling over the bird feeder hanging from the plum tree, a book open in my lap, and be entertained for hours.

Ask my teenage son to sit with me and he’s fidgeting within minutes.

Is this the generation gap, or a sign of the times?

When I was a child, we entertained ourselves with books, games, and toys—methods of entertainment that involved active participation of mind and often body. We had to, there were only two hours of children’s television programs aired at teatime each day: no computers, no DVDs, CDs, MP3 players or any other nifty electronic acronyms.

I spent much of my youth grooming and mucking out my pony. (Yep, strange as it may seem to the non-equine inclined among you, that’s entertainment for a pony- obsessed eleven-year-old.)

Today kids need continual stimulation from an external source be it television, computer game or music blaring from some outlet. My son sits with his chair tilted back, ankles crossed on the TV stand, quietly content, with music, computer and TV all playing at once. I can take about two minutes of this assault on the senses before I have to leave the room. Maybe modern kids are wired differently, or maybe they’re so used to being bombarded with external stimulation they’ve learned to cope.

In an age where there is a TV channel dedicated to every subject I can imagine—many of which I’d rather not—do kids get the chance to think for themselves anymore? Are they the best educated most knowledgeable and worldly generation, or brainwashed by the continual bombardment of outside stimuli?

On the other hand…

My son has dyslexia. For many years we struggled to help him read and write. After a lot of hard work, his reading age caught up with his numerical age. Much of the credit for this must go to computer games. Although he loves stories, the effort to read books by himself used to outweigh the pleasure. The only occasions he was motivated to read, because nobody else would help him, was when he played computer games.

Not only did computer games improve his reading, handling the controllers also improved the fine motor control in his hands, helping him wield a pen and write properly.

Having groused about blaring music, I also have to admit I wouldn’t be without my iPod on a long journey, and I certainly wouldn’t swap CDs for the cassette tapes of my youth.

I’ll secretly admit to you, occasionally when I sit on my swing seat and watch the birds, the book slips from my lap forgotten if I have my iPod with me. I might even close my eyes and let the hours slip past as Vittorio Grigolo’s smooth as silk tenor voice lulls me into a pleasant fantasy.

Grandparents can be wonderful storytellers. We loved listening to our grandmother talk about her youth in the early 1900’s in Augusta, Georgia. She told stories to us during the 1950’s –1960’s. Here are two of them.


Tell us a Story

"Tell us a story, Grandmama, please, pretty please," the girls begged.

Their faded, oversized, pastel, chenille dressing gowns were worn with the dignity of ball gowns, though their long sleeves hung like long wings which would not stay rolled above the wrists of the undersized young ladies. Over-powdered faces sported equally over-rouged cheeks as bright eyes paid homage to the grandmother who was like a queen to her young subjects. Long chains and multiple strands of pearls were draped over the young necks with pride befitting the crown jewels.

Behind gold, wire-rimmed glasses pale, faded, gray eyes twinkle, smiling at the children seated at her feet. Sturdy, black "old lady shoes" cover the feet the I don't remember ever seeing bare. She always had a supply of bedroom shoes, some of which we were wearing, because they were favorites as gifts - those and jewelry she didn't need.

Just as familiar as the lace up shoes with their wide heels are the heavy support hose gartered with bands of elastic rolled just beneath the knees of her pale, age-bowed legs. These details I remember well as the eldest of the granddaughters.

Though we have heard the stories many times before, we become mesmerized as she begins in her pleasant "geetche" drawl. Her soft voice and Charlestonian pronunciations transport us to a time before the wrinkles had been penciled by life around the smiling eyes we loved so much.

Her fingers move deftly as she twirls florist wire around bunches of leaves which will probably grace a floral wreath tomorrow. Her hands always seem to be busy. The small, fine-lipped mouth smiles gently as she begins a story.

"You see, it was almost time for the big Fourth of July picnic at the city park. I had never been out with a beau before, but I was seventeen and Mama finally had convinced Papa that I should be allowed to go without the family, if I had the chance.

"I was working at a millinery shop just a few blocks from our house. That was where we made fine hats for ladies. Edward Smith, a young man who worked there, was a friend who had often sat with me so we could share our lunches. He even walked me home on occasion.

" I thought the world of Edward, though he was not really handsome, so you can imagine my surprise when he offered to escort me to the picnic. I had not considered him as anything other than a friend, but I was looking forward to going to the picnic without my family, and there wasn't much time left for anyone else to ask me. I accepted his invitation. I knew we’d have fun together.

"As luck would have it, the next day I received another invitation, this time from Mack, a friend of my brother James. Well, Mack was older than I was and I was flattered, don't you know. I didn't mean to be fickle, but I had once been infatuated with Mack, long before he was out of knee pants, and he had grown even more handsome with age.

"I don't want you to think that I considered appearance more important than character. Mack was far more manly than Edward and Edward was more a friend than a beau. I knew James must have given his approval or Mack would never have asked, so before I knew what had happened, I said I’d love to accompany him to the picnic. I had accepted two invitations for the same picnic. Well, I felt terrible but there was no help for it. I had to figure out how to get out of one invitation without hurting anyone's feelings.

"Now, I was already in a pickle, but things got even worse. The day after I accepted Mack's invitation you can't guess what happened."

Though we all knew what had happened, we wouldn't have interrupted for the world. We just shook our heads and looked up with rapt expressions on our over-powdered faces and waited for her to continue. Gone were the wrinkles as I watched her mouth move into that coquettish smile I had seen in the treasured photographs on the mantel over the fireplace in the parlor. Her thin, beauty shop permanent -waved, blue-rinsed hair had been replaced in my imagination by a mass of loose, auburn curls piled over a perky face. The bloom of youth had returned as she continued her tale.

"Before the two unexpected invitations, I had secretly hoped that a certain handsome young man named Alex would ask me to accompany him to this picnic, or anywhere, for that matter. Well, he finally did. But, of all things, he asked me to the same picnic for which I already accepted too many invitations. Now I really had a problem. Alex was not only the handsomest man I knew. He was one of the few people of my close acquaintance who had a motor car. I just couldn't help myself. I said that I would love to go with him.

"By the time the day of the picnic arrived I had finally decided what I would do. I would just tell Mack and Edward that I had a terrible headache. Papa and Mama left in a buggy, taking my brother and sister to the park for the picnic. They had no idea what I planned to do, since I hadn’t told them about my three invitations.

"My planned excuse easily worked on Mack. I had used a rice powder to make me look pale, so he believed I was truly sick. He was disappointed, but he understood that I felt too under the weather to ride the horse drawn trolley car in the heat of a July evening in Georgia. Mack, a gentleman, was gone within five minutes.

"Edward was not so easy to persuade. He offered to go to the store down the road and get me some headache powder. I told him I had already taken some and I would probably just have to lie down and rest before it did any good. He offered to make me some hot tea and sit with me.

"Since we were in the house alone I tried to convince him that it would be unseemly for me to have a gentleman caller. He said he didn’t want to leave me feeling so ill. He went into our kitchen. I just needed for him to leave. I heard him pumping water. In seconds he returned, carrying a cloth and looking serious. He awkwardly folded the cloth and placed in on my forehead.

"I wasn't really sick, but when he said I did feel a little hot,I wondered if I had made myself sick by fibbing. Then he made me a cup of tea and finally left after I convinced him that even if I felt better, I would just get sicker if we had to ride down the bricked streets in his wagon. I was really beginning to feel sick as I fibbed to the man who was being so kind, but the minute I peeked out a front window and saw him walk down the street I felt completely recovered.

"I hurried to check the hall mirror to see if any petticoats were showing at the bottom of my blue, summer dress I had slipped into in such a hurry. By the time I pinched my cheeks and bit my lips for color, there was a knock at my front door. My fingers could barely tie the bow in my hair.

"I tried to make myself walk slowly, like a lady, but I was so excited I was sure he could hear my heart beat through the closed door. Smoothing my skirts, then my hair, I let out a long breath and opened the door. I was finally going out with Alex. And I was going to ride in a motor car and be seen by everyone at the picnic. Maybe he would even ask Papa to allow him to call on me."

We were as excited as she was. It was like hearing a fairytale for the hundredth time but pretending we didn't know the ending. Grandmama looked more like a young Mary Allyn than a woman in her seventies. To us she would be forever young.

"He looked handsome in the brown suit and snow white shirt, but his hair was mused. When he apologized for being late, I assured him that I didn't mind at all. When I took his offered arm I felt like a princess.
A motor car, I would ride in a motorcar, like the society folks in town. He helped me into the car, then hurried to the front to crank it. He had to use a long handle and start the car."

My younger brother made handle turning motions, making us laugh. I gave him a threatening look, afraid he would spoil the mood.

"The ride in his automobile was exciting, I had to hold my hat. The long scarf he had offered helped, but I was still unaccustomed to the wind coming at us with such speed and was afraid it would steal the flowers I had so carefully sewn to the brim of my best straw hat. His driving cap mused his hair even more, but he was so dashing, I didn't mind."

She laughed. "We strolled to the gates of the park with my hand proudly in the crook of his arm, and I waited to see the envy of the other ladies when they saw who my escort was. I felt bad about fooling two men who meant the world to me, but I was with the man who could steal my heart.

"The pleasant feelings didn't last long. The first two people we met when we walked through the gates were none other than the two men I had tricked. I was mortified! My shame grew as I waited for them to tell me what a terrible person I was and embarrass me in front of Alex. They just greeted Alex and shook hands with him, barely nodding to me. Mack looked annoyed, but Edward looked so hurt that I almost wanted to take his hand and send Alex away. Almost, but not enough to do it. I was just relieved Alex didn't know what I had done.

"By the time we were at the bandstand for the box lunch bidding, (Mama had brought my basket with her) I was sure James had spoken with Mack and wanted to spank me. He always thought he was grown. Alex outbid several other men, among them Mack and Edward. I didn't know what I would have done if either had won it and me. Mack just kept glaring at me. I had made a good meal of fried chicken and potato salad with apple pie for dessert. When we sat down on a blanket I had packed with the basket, the food tasted like sawdust.

"What Papa would say when he found out what I had done? I couldn't really enjoy the fireworks, thinking about how I would make things up to the men I had deceived. As if my worrying was not enough the automobile broke down on the way home and I had to accept a ride with Mack in his wagon. I was tempted to walk home, but he looked as though he would have forced me into the wagon. Besides it might make Alex suspicious if I refused the ride.

"What happened when you saw Edward?" some one asked. Maybe we somehow believed that it would change if we thought hard enough. It never did.

Grandmama looked as sad though it had been only yesterday instead of more than fifty years ago. "The next day at work I tried to apologize to Edward. He ignored me. He didn't speak one word until lunchtime. By the time he had finished telling me how hurt and disappointed he was in me, I wanted to dig a hole and hide in it. I apologized, as I had meant to do when I first walked into the shop.

"Apologizing isn’t enough. It will be a long time before I can be friends again, if ever," he said quietly, then turned and walked away. I didn't enjoy the lunch I had brought and I missed sharing it with my friend."

We were as quiet as though we, too, had lost our best friend.

More to come later.

by Pamela Roller

My son Garrett’s first days of third grade were spent with tears, frustration and feelings of failure. And that was just me. My husband didn’t know what to do, and Garrett already hated school.

I had been warned that since the Virginia Standards of Learning (SOL) tests would be given at the end of the school year, the learning pace for third grade was faster and the workload heavier than that of first and second grades.

We were ready to provide the necessary support for Garrett’s success, but we weren’t prepared for the onslaught of disorganized papers, notes home regarding inattention and off-task behavior, and half-completed classwork. Garrett came home those first days with a look of confused resignation, his disheveled binder exploding with unfinished worksheets and nightly homework.

I am a teacher and fully understand the need for schools to keep up with the government’s “No Child Left Behind” act, but the parent in me railed against the third grade curriculum. What did they expect from an eight-year-old boy who’d never had to deal with a binder before now? What was up with all this work? Wasn’t someone helping him at school? He’d had a little trouble paying attention in kindergarten and first and second grades, but his teachers had claimed he was “fine.”

Not his third grade teacher. Nothing was good enough. The notes home became a daily occurrence.

Time for a conference.

I learned that Garrett had been given help, but his lack of focus made it difficult for him to pay attention. Give it time, I told her. He needs to get used to the routine. But he was the only one in the class still not used to the routine, the teacher replied. He seemed confused, lost, disorganized. Couldn’t keep his attention on the task at hand. Oh well, I laughed, I was the same way as a child. He was just like me.

The teacher didn’t laugh back. She presented me his reading and math placement tests. The scores showed Garrett reading at a beginning first grade level. Math results? Second grade level. The laughter died in my throat.

Now the teacher in me rose to the surface. I knew that if Garrett didn’t catch up to his grade level this year, he’d be even further behind in the fourth grade. Like a stack of dominoes, he’d be bowled over by the increasing responsibilities of higher grades and never able to catch up. Worst of all, he’d have that “failure label” attached to him. I’ve seen it for myself. I have tenth grade students reading on a third grade level. The odds against success go down with each grade, and some students lose all interest in school because they can’t dig themselves out of the failure hole.

One week later, my husband and I had Garrett tested for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder to see if that might have anything to do with his lack of focus. It sure did. He was practically a poster child for the disorder. Garrett, who all this time had thought himself a failure because he couldn’t keep up with the “smart” kids, was told by the doctor that he’d always had a smart brain; only now, he’d have some special medicine to help his brain show how smart it was.

In the fall of 2006, Garrett began taking fifteen milligrams of Focalin per day (Focalin is an ADHD medication that doesn’t build up in the body; it lasts twelve to fourteen hours on a time release system, and then it leaves the body.). The calm and focus he portrayed was phenomenal. Over the school year, he not only finished his classwork each day, he also got much of his homework done during the wait for the school bus in the afternoons. His grades went up. He made more friends and knew exactly what was going on around him. He was one happy kid.

The spring third grade reading and math benchmark tests revealed Garrett’s school success. Now he read on a fourth grade level, and performed math on a fifth grade level. Wow.

SOL test time came around in May, 2007. When I opened the scores envelope a month later, I cried.
Social Studies: Passed.
Reading: Passed Advanced.
Math: Passed Advanced.
Science: Passed Advanced.

I firmly believe medication for ADHD helped Garrett have a calm, focused, successful school year. I’ve heard the talk about too many kids getting diagnosed with the disorder who don’t actually have ADHD, but for my child, it was a direct hit.

Now, I want to hear comments from you. Do you have a child with ADHD? How do you cope? What do you believe about ADHD medication? Any other comments?

All the best to you,
Pam
© Pamela Roller

Lady Katherine Seymour followed a servant across the withdrawing room while smoothing down her travel-worn dress. After making her wait an intolerable period of time—it was already one of the clock, more than an hour after her arrival—Lord Drayton had finally summoned her. In one damp hand, she clutched her slate.

The servant gave a tentative knock on the door.

“Come,” a deep voice spoke from within.

Katherine stepped into a dim, unadorned room, her startled gaze at once drawn to the striking profile of the man writing at a massive desk. She wondered that the slender white quill he held didn’t snap in two within his large hand.

“Sit.” Without glancing up, he flicked his free hand toward a wooden chair near his desk.
Despite his rude greeting, Katherine approached and sat, back straight and head high. She laid the slate in her lap and pulled the chalk from its holder, ready to answer his questions about her circumstances. How much information had the king given him?

She wanted no sympathy or pitying looks from this man. Only shelter and security. And to keep her pride. It was all she had left.

Pausing in his writing, he glanced at her from beneath furrowed brows. Briefly his features went slack. “You are the Lady Katherine?”

Katherine swallowed at the sudden dryness in her throat.

Blue eyes, lonely and steady and deep, engulfed her senses, emptied her lungs, made the chalk slick in her damp hand. An odd heaviness stirred within her. Stranger still was the sudden yearning that filled her, a desire to reach out to him.
At her hesitant nod, surprise—and something else she couldn’t identify—flickered in his eyes. For too long he stared at her while ink bloomed black on his paper from the tip of his quill.
Then, scowling, he returned his attention to his work.

Taken aback, Katherine glanced around the austere room, warmed by a crackling fire in the hearth. Candles atop the desk added more illumination, but heavy drapes over the windows shut out whatever light could be gleaned from the gray, rainy day outside.

While the scratch of his quill filled the room, she waited, holding herself erect, the chalk clutched in her fingers.

Where was the widower? This man’s intense concentration on the bookwork signified that he might be the steward, here to help with the ledgers. From the appearance of the papers piled in disarray on the desk and a nearby table, Lord Drayton needed help.

She fell to studying him, the way his dark blond hair fell in damp waves to his shoulders, the ends curling as they dried. An aquiline nose led to sensually curved lips over a strong cleft chin, on which a scar nestled within a light shadow of beard.

After a few moments, Katherine began to nibble at her lip in mounting perplexity. Did his confirmation of her identity sum up her introduction? Had she been dismissed?

She waited. He continued to write. Perhaps he wanted to complete a letter for her to read. It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought she was deaf as well as mute. She leaned forward slightly to see, but his arm, which looked strong enough to toss a horse into the air, blocked her view.

At length, Katherine released a thinly disguised, impatient breath. Indignant heat rose to her cheeks and a little knot of anger balled in her stomach. He was ignoring her!

No more.

Her chalk’s shrill screech could bring boisterous chatter in Whitehall’s banqueting room to an abrupt halt. Now, watching him with narrowed eyes, she set it to her slate and dragged it hard across the surface.

The man’s head jerked up and his shoulders hunched. Ah, now she had his attention, grimace and all. And she would keep it. With raised brows she wrote, And you are? She turned the slate for him to read.

A heartbeat passed. Two. Then, he locked crystal eyes with her. “I am Lord Drayton. Your guardian.”

Oh, mercy. The chalk slipped through Katherine’s numb fingers and dropped to the wood floor. With her defiant action, she had just compromised her chance to be sheltered, and the king would not likely attempt to help her again.

Even so, she held Lord Drayton’s gaze and fought to breathe. In turn, he scrutinized her as if searching her mind for some secret she might hold.

“You are trembling,” he said. “Have you a chill?”

No. Not a chill. The shiver was due to something else entirely, a restlessness that heightened all her senses. She shook her head—more in confusion over the new sensation than in answer to his question—and leaned forward to pick up her chalk.

“Wait.” He reached down, fetched the chalk, and held it out.

Careful not to touch his long fingers, Katherine took it, then wiped her slate clean with an attached cloth. When she began to scribble an apology for her discourtesy, he put up a hand. The hostile distrust in his eyes made her draw back in alarm and almost drop the chalk again.

“No games. I want the truth. Do you know why you’re here?”

Through her bewilderment at his harsh tone, she tried to keep the chalk steady in her trembling fingers. The king wished to provide for me, she wrote.

The slight narrowing of his eyes indicated his disbelief. “I will make myself clear only once, Lady Katherine. Had I refused the king’s suggestion to send you here, he would not look favorably upon me. That is the sole reason you are in my home.” He leaned toward her and his voice slowed, but rose in volume. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

She drew back from him, frowning. Of course, she wrote. I am not an idiot. Nor deaf. She tapped an index finger on the last word for emphasis, wondering if Lord Drayton was aware of how stridently his voice had echoed in the bare-walled room.

Indeed, she would go deaf if he kept that up.

Contemplation passed over his features as he read. Then, his face became impassive, his voice low and cold. He stood. “Your opinion of yourself is of no concern to me.”

Katherine couldn’t voice her sharp retort regarding his disgraceful conduct, and writing it would diffuse her point into a petty, time-consuming reaction. Her head felt suddenly heavy and she lowered it, trying to will away the familiar weary despair. His statement summed up her existence since the fire that had raged through London and consumed everything dear to her, including her voice. No one cared to ask what she wanted. None of her opinions mattered.

She became aware that Lord Drayton’s snug rust-colored breeches, buttoned up his thighs, were directly in her line of vision. No fashionable loose petticoat breeches hid the powerful lines of his legs. In the midst of her stunned hurt at his discourtesy, Katherine felt heat blaze her cheeks.
Rising to her feet, she found her eyes level with his broad chest. She tilted back her head and ran her gaze to his face.

The man was a castle unto himself: tall, formidable, all hard lines and impenetrable fortitude. No one, to her memory, seemed packed with more strength. What was such a man doing out here in the countryside? He should be in London, where the women of the Court would drink him up like fine Madeira wine.

The rapid cadence of his pulse revealed itself on his neck above the unlaced collar of his white linen shirt. Warmth emanated from his body. Breathing him in, Katherine found his clean, masculine scent pleasing. Stirring.

She couldn’t pardon his insulting reception, however, and returned his scowl with a glare.

“I sympathize with your loss,” he said. “You’ve suffered a great deal.” He turned, and with a grace that belied his size, walked to the door. “Whatever the past, you are safe in my home, and may make yourself comfortable while you’re here. I will find you a suitable husband who will treat you well. But try to understand, my lady, that as soon as I make the arrangements, you will leave.” He opened the door.

It seemed he would waste no time in passing her off to someone else. Struggling for composure, Katherine remained rigid by her chair and waited for him to speak further.

Instead, he left the door open, returned to his desk, sat and picked up his quill.

His dismissal came without words.

On Silent Wings is available at Amazon.com
--©2007 Pamela Roller

"Small applause is better than no applause, even when it is a little lacking in Smack."

Eeyore, from Eeyore's Gloomy Little Instruction book

Chapter One

“Welcome to Minsk International Airport,” the loud speaker announced as the aircraft bounced on the runway before coming to a halt.
Cecile Lornier rubbed her ringless finger, her spirit buoyant with triumph. “Belarus, here I come. Finally,” she whispered, her nose pressed against the plane window for a first look at the remote little country, located south of Russia. Not much to see. But the gloomy sight of gray sky, barren trees and drizzling rain couldn’t dim the joy that exploded in her heart. After a twelve-hour flight, she’d made it to Minsk. In spite of her ex-fiancé’s dirty dealing. For the millionth time, she cursed Rob Spenser, the worthless creep who’d snatched her promotion and almost foiled her first international assignment.
With a sigh of relief, she hung her purse on her arm and collected her hand luggage to exit the plane. Dragging her carry-on suitcases, she proceeded up the bumpy ramp of the jetway boarding bridge.
A group of people clustered in front of a sign affixed on the sidewall. Russian or Belarussian? Might as well be Chinese as far as I’m concerned. Unable to decipher the foreign script, Cecile shrugged and followed the line of passengers through the arrival gate, toward an escalator.
As if this rickety machine could be called a mechanical escalator. The uneven steps jolted with a grinding noise, bouncing and shuddering downward. Cecile scanned the area for an elevator or stairway. There were none in sight. Was she expected to negotiate this crooked roller coaster with her luggage in hand?
Apparently, yes. The passengers were carefully holding the railing, men helping their female companions and children as they went down. She eyed the rattletrap contraption. Her first taste of Belarussian obsolete technology. This was exactly why her company had been chosen to help modernize the local environmental laboratory.
A military officer dressed in khaki passed her. Cecile’s gaze fixed on his large back and decorated epaulets. He was tall, solid. A brick wall of a man. The wobbly escalator didn’t seem to bother him but then he didn’t have two suitcases hindering his movements.
Cecile bit her lip, imagining the sneer on Rob’s face if he could see her now, hesitating so long in front of the first step of her mission. Literally the very first step. She shifted her two carry-ons to her left hand and followed the officer onto the jerking stairway, hoping for the best. Wishful thinking. Her short heel caught between the steps of the damned escalator. Gripping the railing for dear life, she let her luggage slip out of her hand as she pitched forward.
“Welcome to Minsk…” the airport speaker roared in broken English.
A sturdy back blocked her fall. The officer turned and circled her waist with brawny arms, welding her to his rock-hard frame. She stopped moving, stopped thinking, stopped breathing, until the officer lowered her to stable ground as they reached the end of the escalator.
Her head still pillowed against the muscular chest, she took a breath, inhaling the scent of soap and spicy cologne. She was alive all right and oddly secure in this stranger’s arms.
He said something in his native language. She tilted her head back. Her gaze collided with deep- blue eyes shadowed by long, black lashes. Still floating in a peculiar haze, Cecile squirmed to free herself. She gasped for air to clear her head and squeaked, “I’m sorry.”
He stared at her, a glint of interest under the scowling eyebrows. “Americanka?” His baritone voice echoed against the metallic escalator’s crunch. “Here, let me help you.”

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891:

The aim of life is self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly - that is what each of us here for.

By Beth Trissel

I like to feel connected to those who have gone before me. Herbs have changed very little, if at all, over the centuries. When I hold an aromatic sprig of rosemary in my hand, I am touching the same plant beloved by the ancients. Some heirloom roses go back to the glory days of Rome.

To further that sense of oneness, and for their many uses, I grow a variety of herbs. Thyme, basil, sage, and chives are a few in my kitchen garden. Lavender and scented geraniums are wonderful for their scent alone. Ladies used to waft the delicate perfume of toilet water. Below, I have given some recipes that were once popular. These come from a little book entitled Potpourri, by Ann Tucker Fettner.

Basic Toilet Water: To three pints of pure alcohol add one and one-quarter ounces of lavender oil, three-quarters ounce of oil of bergamont, three-quarters ounce of tincture of ambergris. Mix together and bottle.
Rose Water: Boil two quarts of distilled water and remove from the stove. Add one-eighth ounce of rose oil, four drops of clove oil, and one pint of alcohol. Let this stand for several days before bottling.
Geranium Water: To two pints of pure alcohol add four ounces of rose water, five drops tincture of musk, one ounce tincture of orris root and one ounce of geranium oil. Allow to age.


©2007 Beth Trissel

“Sherry Morris has written an easy reading short story that you’ll enjoy. Christina’s Fear is a book that will let all those who are afraid of swimming understandably nod their heads.” Euro-Reviews

Download Complete Story at Chippewa Publishing

Excerpt from Christina’s Fear

The first short story written by Sherry Morris

Summer, 1978

Christina lay on her back in the freshly mowed fescue surrounding the historic house. She happily inhaled the scent of cut grass. Her attention fixated across the river at the sunset. Slowly moving her eyes up through the clouds, she saw the color of a ripe peach, evolving into hot pink, then light aquamarine, and finally dark crayon blue.

Delaine immediately headed to the pool. “Come on, Chrissy! The water is so warm! Jump in!”

The teenager rolled over and put her hands under her chin. She laughed at Delaine goofing around in the water, watching her handstands and bubble blowing.

“I don’t know how to swim. You have fun and I’ll watch you.”

Christina opened her Tiger Beat magazine and flipped past the Leif Garrett dream date contest, Noxzema ad, and Bay City Rollers news. She creased the magazine open at the Andy Gibb photo spread and dramatically sighed. His peach vest and pants looked softer than the sunset.

“Come on, Chrissy! You’re missing out on all the fun!”

Christina removed her shoes and socks. She gingerly stuck her toes in and delightedly kicked her legs in the heavily chlorinated water. She knew they really shouldn’t be swimming with out any adults present. Not that Christina was going to swim, but still, she felt like they were taking a stupid chance.

Delaine swam over. “Jump in!”

“No, I’ll watch you. I can’t swim.”

Delaine grabbed her hand. “Yeah, right, Chrissy.” She yanked her into the water.

Disoriented, Christina found herself standing on the bottom of the pool. Desperately climbing, she somehow managed to propel herself up to the surface and grabbed onto Delaine’s head. Delaine immediately pushed her off. Down, down, down Christina sank.

Her thoughts muddled. She knew better than to go near water with no lifeguard. Maybe Mr. Charles would come home early. Maybe Andy Gibb would jump in and save her. He was a champion swimmer in Australia. She had read that about him last month.

Flailing to the surface the second time, she grabbed wildly for Delaine. When she found her, Christina shoved Delaine underwater again, as she tried to climb onto her back. Delaine threw her off. Down, down, down Christina sank.

©2006-2007 Sherry Morris

Download Complete Story at Chippewa Publishing

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Enroll in one of my online short story workshops

Ah, Johnny.
He draws you into his arms and holds you close, lips grazing your neck and lingering there with soft kisses. Tiny, tight shivers dance through your body. His hands ease up your waist, excruciating in their slowness, and caress your….
Ouch!
Dang those vampire teeth.
But wouldn’t you want Johnny nibbling your neck? If not, you might get to see it happen to someone else.
Johnny Depp’s production company, Infinitum-Nihil and GK Films, have obtained the rights to Dark Shadows, a deliciously gothic-style series popular from 1966 to 1971. Depp, a longtime Dark Shadows fan, has mentioned his lifelong interest in the lead character Barnabas Collins, played by Shakesperean actor Jonathan Frid. A 175-year-old vampire, Barnabas is freed by a thieving drifter in the Collins family mausoleum, and the adventure begins. I expect Depp will perform in typical Johnny style: crystal clear characterization of a dark, tormented hero searching for redemption. Hey, can I be his first bite at Collinwood Mansion?

--©2007 Pamela Roller
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On Silent Wings receiving four-star reviews at Amazon