tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39283187164683103512024-02-02T02:05:43.028-08:00Black Faery Ebooks And Designswhere magic happenswendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-8651619324757599712015-02-27T21:48:00.002-08:002015-02-27T21:58:11.610-08:00Well, still no release of <i>Winter Roses Never Die</i>. It's now about fifteen years since I finished the first, very rough, draft. I keep changing minor elements of the story which then changes other things that have to be correlated as well. And, of course, the continuing quest for perfection also delays the release. I'm not really an artist by any means, but I feel compelled to illustrate this story even though it's time-consuming. As you might have noticed, I tend to work very slowly as my first attempts aren't satisfactory. In fact, the cover only came to completion last year after nearly a decade of attempts. I believe the reason for these unsatisfactory attempts and delays is lack of confidence. When we don't feel great about ourselves, this is reflected in everything we do. But I believe that the potential of every human being is immense, if we can overcome the negative self-chatter. This can be a lot of work depending on the severity of our insecurities. But although progress has been snail-paced on this project, I'll never give up on it. I'm hoping it can shine into the darkness of negativity and provide some answers as well as provide a cracking story without disgusting elements only the feel-good ones. You might have noticed in my profile to the left, I mentioned that the story has similarities to <i>Fifty Shades Of Grey</i>. When I made this claim, I hadn't read the book and didn't know much about it. I still haven't read it, but I've seen the trailers since they've come out. I see there is very little similarity to <i>Fifty Shades Of Grey.</i> I had heard the book described as fan fiction for Twilight and assumed there was a vampire element. There is a strong erotic element, however, which seems from the trailers to be well-handled, especially as the character of the male lead is shown in great depth and sympathy. However, it's interesting that the character of the 'sweet and ordinary' girl seems more well received or popular. Or is this just my assumption? I like both of them.
Anyway, here's the final cover which I'm happy with.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQIWumvcjCOzHmiKMWPjvfIORlCxG2J7KnMKffrR0B4KQ88H1KNQXz_PQsS3d7AZUG5ETVVDDw33bKdM1byoBbh3QtX89WB4O53vyq4w7nqNZ5VbXkjILt1HoDGAIc7yZGfn5xCH-UNPy/s1600/COVER+PIC-smaller.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQIWumvcjCOzHmiKMWPjvfIORlCxG2J7KnMKffrR0B4KQ88H1KNQXz_PQsS3d7AZUG5ETVVDDw33bKdM1byoBbh3QtX89WB4O53vyq4w7nqNZ5VbXkjILt1HoDGAIc7yZGfn5xCH-UNPy/s640/COVER+PIC-smaller.jpg" /></a>
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If you click the picture, it will show at a larger size.wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-49589501716742429412010-09-21T06:00:00.000-07:002015-02-28T00:39:09.028-08:00Book Trailer made with the help of Wondershare's PPT2 Video ProThe original book trailer - mentioned above - no longer exists as I've done newer versions.
This version was not done with Wondershare video editor but with ProShow Gold.
I also composed the music and designed the illustrations.
Hope you enjoy:
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-idhV5KYQY">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-idhV5KYQY</a>
wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-8114224544176457612010-09-21T05:50:00.000-07:002010-09-21T05:59:45.452-07:00GiveAway Of The DayThere's a great site on the internet, <a href="http://www.giveawayoftheday.com">Give Away Of The Day</a>, which features free program give aways every day. The software is posted by their publishers as a promotion with certain limitations, including no technical support or free upgrades when they become available. It's a lot of fun to visit the site and try out new software ranging from technical stuff that improves the running of your PC to multimedia programs enabling you to create movies, music and illustrations.<br /><br />In a moment I'll post a video I just created with the help of Wondershare's PPT2Video Pro which I downloaded from GOTD today. This is a book trailer for Winter Roses Never Die, of course. :) If you're interested, you've got about 12 hours - as of the time I posted this blog entry - to download it at the above site.wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-47219097958481628292010-09-17T06:38:00.001-07:002010-09-17T06:46:53.399-07:00The Roses Are Finally Coming! Do You Know Where The Roses Grow?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC55pwXjGSO4NaSD6hi0VIJE8746FwnZFk5KiQy32QEKJnXdtBSWVGElpL4G0yLbQtWOj1W7yJyLKMpda7YkFj7dpJoP_7g3fVxVITBIsAfkVk1iVfattaVqNr-T-eDZVCwduXit9NoIKz/s1600/MoviePoster2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC55pwXjGSO4NaSD6hi0VIJE8746FwnZFk5KiQy32QEKJnXdtBSWVGElpL4G0yLbQtWOj1W7yJyLKMpda7YkFj7dpJoP_7g3fVxVITBIsAfkVk1iVfattaVqNr-T-eDZVCwduXit9NoIKz/s400/MoviePoster2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517877871730233938" /></a><br />With hard work, much effort and a lot of enjoyment, the dawning of the roses is approaching. Over a long time, the story has grown to how I want it, and the illustrations are almost there, too. Just done a poster for the ebook which captures the surreal and romantic nature of the story. Will attach it here now. :)wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-68513633842149247802010-03-05T16:35:00.000-08:002010-03-21T04:47:57.873-07:00Overcoming the Idea Originality BluesFor a while I've been rather down about stories I've written that were original at the time they were a wip, but after taking decades to bring them to completion, I suddenly find that those ideas I thought original are everywhere. Just today I discovered an animated movie called <span style="font-style:italic;">Magi Nation: Fighting the Shadows</span>. About thirty years ago I started writing a novel called <span style="font-style:italic;">Magination</span> about an adolescent boy fighting shadow creatures who are really his own personal demons. Along the way to enlightenment, he finds a true friend, Runiah, and another dimensional world, The Autumnland. I borrowed elements from Peter Pan and Celtic mythology for this story, but the rest was original. <br /><br />However, I've began to realise that perhaps original ideas aren't as important as I once thought. Perhaps what you do with those ideas or elements matter more. In my efforts to find publication for Winter Roses, and when having it assessed, no one has ever commented unfavourably about the similiarity to Twilight. The similiarities (I counted around 16 major story elements that were similiar) were devastating for me when the movie came out last year, as in reviews from 1994 the biggest praise my story garnered was in the 'great original concept' category. But what the critics have focused on lately have been plot holes and stylistic errors. So perhaps ideas that have become classic and even over-used can still be strong and make a statement as long as all the other elements that support them in the story are used with thought for the big picture: the versimilitude and charm of the world you're creating.<br /><br />The Harry Potter saga borrows heavily from so many other stories that have gone before it. In my own personal library I have a series of children's books called <span style="font-style:italic;">The Worst Witch</span> which is about a young witch girl attending a school for witches. (This was written long before the Happy Potter saga.) However, why Harry Potter succeeds so well, I think, despite the recycling of mythological elements (wizards, witches, broomsticks, magic wands, magic academies, potions and spells, and well-known mythological creatures) is the well-structured nature of the story world and the vast array of ideas that support this huge world. The reader can easily become submerged in the well-structured and believable environment of the story world - especially the more lonely child who can find a home-away-from home where they feel a kind of belonging and an ability to identify with another child (Harry) who is a misfit and yet overcomes his problems and is a good and likeable person. This is positive reinforcement for the reader while experiencing a life-style which is exciting and fun and about developing one's innate gifts and powers - something we all suspect we have but are tantalising just out of reach.<br /><br /><br />So, in summary, perhaps the writer can't go wrong if they put their effort and focus not into ideas that haven't been done before but on developing the story ideas so that each supports the other in a strong structure that will stand the test of scrutiny and time, and - most importantly - create a story world the reader can confidently enter and explore with wonder and delight. The writer's focus could also be on creating ideas that bring something special to the reading experience, something fun and/or charming and fantastic that is currently beyond the non-reading world, and, also create something the reader can take away with them that will enhance their non-reading world: positive reinforcement (which we all need)and/or concepts that help us to cope with our world and the people we encounter in a way that is a win-win for all.wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-77243578020684845212010-02-23T22:07:00.000-08:002010-02-23T22:27:18.736-08:00Chapter Two - Winter Roses Never DieBy request, here is the second chapter. Hope you enjoy...<br /><br />CHAPTER TWO: Tuesday<br /><br />When Jennie awoke next morning, she thought of last night's dream. She didn't like what she remembered as it made her feel guilty. But at least it hadn't been a defeatist dream which focused on people treating her with disdain. These eroded her confidence and made it harder to talk to people. This dream seemed more symbolic than actual, perhaps a premonition or a warning. She often remembered her night adventures. They appeared vividly real and she could fly, not that any of the dream people seemed impressed.<br /><br />In the dream just before waking it was dark as she wandered into a parking lot. The area was empty and unremarkable, except for the far end where a bush of luscious red roses grew up from the concrete and darkness. While picking the roses, she spotted someone watching from the street – a man with black hair. She felt guilty allowing him to watch as if she was undressing in public. She left in the opposite direction to where the man watched and waited. By the time daylight arrived, she was passing a country church with cream painted walls. Children streamed out the open door. Seeing their fresh, exuberant faces, she felt even guiltier.<br /><br />An hour after Jennie had left her warm bed to confront the chilly day, she walked through the small grove of lilly pilly trees at the front of the property, unlatched the iron farm gate, and stepped onto the long grass of the nature strip. The frosted, overgrown grass was crackly and slippery beneath her sensible shoes; however, she had no intention of catching the bus that day. With the beret pulled down over her ears and hands plunged into the pockets of her heavy, green cardigan, she ventured down the country road that was bathed in the Snow Queen's icy breath. <br /><br />She hurried along a further one-and-a-half streets then turned into an intersection where a light mist made the world seem even more like the realm of the Snow Queen. On the other side of the T-junction was the high wall of the cemetery where the exit gate was open and waiting. Jennie remembered leaving it open the previous night. The mist appeared more opaque on the other side of the gate as if it had swirled up from the swampy wetlands at the lower end. <br /><br />Last evening the grounds had a velvety, black-on-black appearance, but this morning everything was white-on-white sharpness. The leaves and grassy weeds near the exit gate were white and stiff with frost. Most of the graves and monuments were on higher ground near the library end, but the few graves further up the slope on her right were hidden behind milky swirls. Eyeing the great gum trees thrusting branches at her through the fog, she wished she had brought a camera. <br /><br />A familiar face appeared out of the mist. She smiled as she neared the statue of the Christ. The warmth of his deep red cloak seemed to vanquish the frosty cold. In the revealing light of day, she admired the statue's eyes. Their expression was knowing and kind making them seem real. Those wonderful eyes seemed to watch as she approached. Jennie realised that the eyes of all portraits and statues evoked this effect, but it still gave her a warm feeling. <br /><br />As she stared up at the loving face, Jennie received an inspirational. These were ideas that helped make life seem more bearable and easier to understand. It was inspirationals that helped her to take control of the defeatist dreams. They weren't eliminated entirely, but they had lost their power to influence and upset once she realised these were false dramas that in no way showed her real worth. Before falling asleep at night, she reminded herself of this; and when she was able to carry this realisation into the world of dreams, she became more in control and powerful.<br /><br />Her inspirational was now saying that contrary to popular belief, human love was not the most powerful force. While love was the most ennobling emotion and had the power to bring the most happiness, faith (unwavering belief) was needed to receive love from others – in the form of confidence in yourself and trust and understanding for others. But to have faith you didn't need love, although it was harder to experience faith and confidence if you were feeling angry or negative. And love wasn't more powerful than death. Only faith was. People who loved each other and wanted to be together forever were still separated through death. While love didn't stop anyone from dying, faith could conquer anything, even death. <br /><br />Jennie tried to remember Jesus' take on the love and faith thing. He put emphasis on the power of faith and said we could achieve everything He did – if we had faith. And He conquered death. He always believed He would and had predicted his death and resurrection to His apostles. That was real faith. But what if love gave faith a purpose and a direction? What would happen if you combined faith and love, that is, evoked the two emotions at the same time to achieve something? Would the result be even more powerful? Isn't that what Jesus did? He had died to become the perfect sacrifice – to help others. That was real love, wasn't it? <br /><br />Perhaps the third part of the perfect triangle, the other part of the Trine Unity, was wisdom. With knowledge, faith and love could human beings become as powerful, and more importantly, as perfect as the Divine Trinity? Could ordinary people attain the perfection of the Godhood?<br /><br />As usual when she received an inspiration, she felt uplifted and happy. She smiled up at the statue and whispered, "I love you, Jesus."<br /><br />She could have stayed meditating some more, but time was moving on. Focusing on the mist enshrouded world around her, she crunched along the path towards the main gates. The grave with the roses was now just a few steaming breaths away. She looked forward to having a closer look; but as she drew nearer, something even more fascinating came into view.<br /><br />Although he never even glanced her way. <br /><br />The young man in the wheelchair sat to the left of the rose-covered grave. He sprawled out of the chair like a force of nature that couldn't be contained. One long leg stretched past the footrest while the other thigh jutted out at a forty-five degree angle. The opposite arm disappeared over the side of the chair; the arm nearest her partly rested on the armrest and partly in his lap. His face inclined slightly towards his chest as if he was sleeping. <br /><br />With mouth still agape, she tilted her head sidewise for a better view of his face. Unfortunately, his eyes were covered by dark glasses. The glass was reflective, effectively blocking any glimpse of his eyes; however, his dark eyebrows showed above the silver frames. He was unusual, too pretty for a man, his skin soft with a rosy golden glow. Despite the frostiness, he was lightly dressed in a white, loose-fitting, collarless shirt. It was an amazing shirt with voluminous amounts of material that made it seem several sizes too big. It shimmered and clung softly to his chest as if made from the most expensive silk. There was carelessness in the untied strings at the neck and the opening which sagged unevenly towards one hunky shoulder. The whiteness of his pristine shirt contrasted with the blue-black sheen of his hair. Jennie had never seen a man's hair that not only reached his shoulders but was as dark and shiny as moonlit water. It was also unusually styled with a curved, high fringe.<br /><br />She gazed across at the roses which covered the wide gravesite he was facing. Like a cloak of red velvet the flowers flowed down the headstone, across the gravestone, over the sides of the marble surround until overlapping the graves either side. The marble showing beneath the roses had a flawless, snowy white surface. In the pale morning light the roses appeared less radiant – although still rich and gorgeous. How surreal was this scene of the unusual man and the flowers, both of which contrasted so vibrantly with the misty morning. <br /><br />She tried to walk away but paused and looked back. He still hasn't moved. Perhaps he's a new kind of sculpture called living art. Her smile faded as she began to feel concern. I hope he's alright. He must be freezing.<br /><br />His right hand made a slight jerking movement as it lay in his lap. Like the rest of him, the hand didn't look discoloured or cold. Normally she would rather die than speak to strange men, especially in isolated places, but he appeared vulnerable and boyish which set off her maternal instincts. <br /><br />"Um, are you ok?"<br /><br />His head continued to droop, and her question remained unanswered.<br /><br />She hopped up and down on one foot wondering what to do next. Her fingers moved to her woollen scarf. She unwound the thick material then stepped towards him. A piece of silver jewellery caught her attention. The pendant was secured just below his strong neck by a silver chain. From the side she could just make out the colourful design within the silver circle. She wound the scarf around him capturing his soft hair beneath the woollen folds.<br /><br />"Thank you," he murmured as if in a faraway dream.<br /><br />Startled, she stepped backwards. "I thought you might be cold." <br /><br />He didn't stir again, and Jennie had no more time to remain by his side. I hope he's alright, she thought as she strode towards the entrance gate. But she sensed he was better than alright.<br /><br />Jennie was the first to arrive at work. She rubbed a frosted branch of the apple tree. <br />"Keep warm, little tree," she told it sympathetically. The tree appeared a fraction more cheerful from this small attention. <br /><br />She unlocked the heavy sliding doors and disappeared inside. Moments later, she returned placing the 'Library Open' sandwich board on the footpath. After retrieving the books that had been dropped through the Late Returns chute, she waited impatiently for Sylvia and Helen. When she heard their chattering voices, she looked up from the pile of overdue notices with a smile of anticipation.<br /><br />"Sycamore should be renamed Icicle Land!" Sylvia announced as she bustled into the room. Helen was still not to be seen. Jennie assumed she would be making her usual pit stop at the ladies room, just off the entrance foyer, to torture her unnaturally black hair and touch up her dramatic make up.<br /><br />Jennie smiled warmly at Sylvia over the ancient wooden monolith that was the checkout desk. The prematurely white-haired woman in her mid-fifties smiled back just as warmly. Jennie couldn't have asked for a better boss than this understanding, kind lady. Sylvie's respect and affection meant a lot, gave Jennie confidence and a real reason to come to work. Today, her small bird-like face seemed to radiate good cheer. Always a model of understated elegance, her tiny frame was encased in a mohair twinset and woollen pants. <br /><br />"You started work early today, you workaholic you," Sylvia said brightly, joining her behind the checkout desk that ran parallel to the wall behind them. Along the wall were two doorways, about eight feet apart. One opened into the tiny staff room on the left; the internet room was on the right.<br /><br />As was sometimes the case, Jennie could think of nothing to say but gave her the biggest smile she could.<br /><br />"And you probably worked late last night as well," Sylvia added.<br /><br />"Not really. Well, only a little." <br /><br />"And what are your plans for tonight?" Sylvia inspected her glasses and then adjusted them on the chain around her neck. <br /><br />"Well, none." Jennie replied and grinned self-consciously.<br /><br />Sylvia smiled, obviously use to the young woman’s lack of communication.<br /><br />Helen's voice came from the other end of the long, narrow room. "What? A wild party animal like you?" <br /><br />"Mmm," Jennie hummed, wishing she had a better comeback than this.<br /><br />"If only there were some interesting people in this town to party with," Helen said, teetering towards them on spiky high-heeled boots. <br /><br />Jennie noticed that the other Library Technician was decked out in black ankle boots, purple and black striped tights, a black mini skirt, and a purple jumper that matched her lipstick. For someone who was on the plump side, this wasn't a good look. While giving the appearance of being more at home in a shop for the macabre than a conservative library, Helen was actually very practical and down-to-earth. Disappointingly so, Jennie sometimes thought. It was actually Helen's current boyfriend who had inspired this look. Nick was originally from Melbourne and into Gothic music and the whole Goth scene, and as Helen was rather flamboyant, she had adopted the Goth style as well.<br /><br />"I saw the most amazing man on my way to work this morning," Jennie abruptly announced.<br /><br />Sylvie stared at her, looking over the top of her glasses. <br /><br />"What? Where?" Helen demanded to know.<br /><br />"In the old cemetery. He was like a statue," Jennie blurted, hoping they wouldn't think her strange for going through the abandoned cemetery.<br /><br />As if recovering from a mild case of shock, Sylvia blinked several times then said, "Are you sure it wasn't one of the statues? They’re very life-like, I believe."<br /><br />Jennie chuckled and shook her head. "He was as gorgeous as a statue but very real."<br /><br />"I thought I knew all the eligibles around here." Helen sounded distracted as she examined her purple nail polish. <br /><br />Sylvia switched on the computer sitting on the check-in part of the desk and waited for it to finish loading Windows. "What was he doing in the old cemetery?" <br /><br />"He was sitting beside one of the graves. He didn't even look up." She was going to add something about her worry for his light state of dress and catatonic manner, but while she was trying to find the words, Helen jumped in.<br /><br />"One doesn't normally notice other people in a cemetery, does one?" Helen said, adopting a posh accent. In the same accent she asked, "Do you, Sylvia?" In her normal voice she added, "Shows how desperate the single women are in this place. The newly bereaved are snapped up before anyone else can descend."<br /><br />"They don't use that cemetery any more, do they," Sylvia observed.<br /><br />Before Jennie could answer, Helen replied. "They've got the newer one out of town. This one has historical value, though, and crumbly old graves and statues. Pity the Council's let it run down."<br /><br />"Oh, no," Jennie started to protest but was interrupted by Sylvia.<br /><br /> "The land isn't owned by the Council. It's a privately owned cemetery. The Catholic Church owns it, I think. It's a wonder they don't do more with it. The land would be worth a bit." <br /><br />"The statues aren't crumbly at all. They're–they're amazingly intact," Jennie pointed out. "It's beautiful in there, like a huge garden."<br /><br />Helen rolled her eyes. "Who's the gardener? Edgar Allan Poe?"<br /><br />Sylvia gave an exaggerated shudder. "Rather creepy hidden behind that wall. I don't know how you can walk through there, Jennie. You must have nerves of steel."<br /><br />"Or no imagination," Helen added.<br /><br />"I have plenty of imagination, but I try to use it constructively." With these words Jennie surprised herself as for once she'd parried one of Helen's thrusts. <br /><br />Although Helen could be sarcastic, Jennie still liked her; but she tried not to see anything bad in anyone, although those same people were sometimes quick to judge her.<br /><br />"Tell us more about this hunk from the cemetery," Helen said. "Was he drop-dead gorgeous?"<br /><br />"Ha, ha," Jennie said.<br /><br />"Oh, she's a clever little thing," Sylvia joked of Helen.<br /><br />"How old was he?" Helen persisted.<br /><br />"Umm..."Jennie had to stop and think. He was young, obviously, but there was something ageless about him. His shoulders and arms were well-developed, although people who spent years in a wheel chair often had broad upper bodies while their lower body withered. His face – or what she could see of it – was unlined and boyish. And now she thought of it, there was also something sweet and gentle about him.<br /><br />"Near your age, I think, about twenty-five." <br /><br />Helen snorted. "Perhaps you could adopt him."<br /><br />"Thanks." Once more she pictured his bare neck and hands and sleepy demeanour. "Perhaps he needs adopting," she said, half to herself. <br /><br />As usual, Sylvia came to her rescue. "Jennie only looks in her mid twenties herself."<br /><br />"Oh, she does not!" <br /><br />"She certainly looks much younger than thirty-four." <br /><br />Jennie gave a grateful smile. "Thank you, Sylvia." <br /><br />It was true she looked younger. Partly this was because she was spectacularly slim. On the rare occasion she wore tight-fitting clothing, her lean torso, tiny waist and long, thin limbs made her appear as coltish as a teenager. The other reason for her youthful appearance was due to her shy manner and expressive face. <br /><br />Helen sighed. "Who'd have thought the cemetery'd become the in-place to meet singles? Still, everything's pretty dead around Sycamore. The old cemetery's probably jumping by comparison."<br /><br />Helen was always entertaining, and Jennie was touched by her interest. She felt an overwhelming urge to share the other details with Sylvia and Helen, too.<br /><br />"Actually," she hesitantly began.<br /><br />Two sets of eyes turned upon her.<br /><br />"I'm almost afraid to tell you this..."<br /> <br />Sylvia and Helen exchanged furtive glances.<br /><br />"Well," she begun again, then cleared her throat, "I don’t want you to think I’m crazy, but lately the cemetery is really jumping."<br /><br />Speaking over the top of one another, Helen and Sylvia rushed to inquire what she was talking about. A patron entered the room from the foyer, but the women were too engrossed to notice.<br /><br />"I also took a short cut through the cemetery last evening." <br /><br />Helen's heavily made up eyes looked even huger while Sylvia slipped down her glasses to peer at Jennie more closely. <br /><br />"An-y-way," Jennie continued, though regretting she hadn't kept to her plan of saying nothing, "while I was taking the short cut..."<br /><br />"Yeah? Yeah?" Helen prompted, looking amused.<br /><br />"I...heard music," she said, then smiled sheepishly.<br /><br /> "What kind of music?" Sylvia asked.<br /><br />Helen hummed the theme for The Twilight Zone and Jennie laughed, relieved that some levity had been introduced. "It felt like I had stepped into The Twilight Zone at the time," she told them. <br /><br />"And this music?" Sylvia prompted.<br /><br />"It was wonderful and kind of sad. And there was a voice..."<br /><br />"Good God," Sylvia said.<br /><br />"...a man's voice. He was singing about being a shell full of sand." Jennie sighed. She'd really let the cat out of the bag now.<br /><br />"So-o-o," Helen drawled, "not only is the cemetery the new place for singles, they've started up a nightclub." <br /><br /> Both Jennie and Sylvia laughed. <br /><br />"I wonder where this music could have come from?" Sylvia asked, as she flipped through the files in a cabinet drawer. "Is there a house or a shop bordering the cemetery?"<br /><br />"The cemetery takes up four entire blocks – well, more if you count the swampland at the end – and the music could be heard wherever I went," Jennie explained. "It wasn't coming from just one place."<br /><br />Sylvia blinked a few times, started to say something, but then just perched her glasses back on her nose. She looked down to the computer keyboard and began typing.<br /><br />Obviously now on a roll, Helen joked, "Perhaps we should frock up and hit the scene. "How about you, Sylvia? Feel like doing the Monster Mash at the next Graveyard Bash?"<br /><br />"No, thank you," Sylvia said quietly and firmly. She looked over her glasses towards their first customer of the day and added in a warning whisper, "Girls, I think Malcolm is heading this way. Try to look like you're doing something."<br /><br />"Oh, shhhh-eesh," Helen murmured. "He's all yours, Genesis."<br /><br />Jennie's name was actually Genevieve, but Helen sometimes called her 'Genesis' because of the time she had quoted the Bible.<br /><br />A huge bear of a man walked towards the desk carrying CDs, DVDs and books. Jennie watched, making a note of the way he walked and his appearance. He was new to the area, probably from Melbourne. His bushy white hair and old, nondescript clothing indicated he might lack confidence and energy. He probably wasn't working or, if he was, he would be doing poorly paid, repetitive work. She knew from past conversations with him that he didn't lack intelligence; to the contrary, he was articulate and well-read. But there was an air about him that suggested life hadn't been kind.<br /><br />He dropped the objects onto the desk and grinned. <br /><br />"How are you?" Jennie asked, and began running the scanner over the barcodes. Although Malcolm didn't answer and she didn’t look up, she could sense his eyes were upon her. <br /><br />She briefly held up a book entitled From the Banshee to the Incubus. "This looks like an interesting title. I've heard of the Banshee. They're a female fairy from Irish mythology. And isn't an incubus supposed to be a malevolent spirit that leaches your, um-" <br /><br />"Blood," he finished for her.<br /><br />Being a big man with a big voice, his answer seemed to reverberate across the quiet library. <br /><br />"I was going to say spiritual energy," she said, smiling.<br /><br />"None of these creatures are just stories, you know. Some of the things I've seen and heard would scare the bi-goodies out of you."<br /><br />"Oh." She wondered if he was a mild eccentric and also what he must have been through to bring him to this point in his life. <br /><br />He leaned closer to the desk but only lowered his voice a notch. "Most people don’t realise that these so-called mythical creatures are part of another realm that surrounds this one, for the most part unseen, but more powerful than the one we can see."<br /><br />"Oh, really?" Jennie said, blinking. Most people around Sycamore wouldn't have dared voice such an opinion even if they suspected such a thing – which was unlikely. These country folk believed only in what they could see, or if they had a religious up-bringing, in what they'd been taught. In the past she had wondered if what he claimed might be true. She just wished it was someone else doing the confirming. <br /><br />Malcolm tapped his finger on the case of a DVD. "I have a feeling you’d really get off on something like this." He had finally lowered his voice to below the level of a sonic boom. "The truth is out there," he added.<br /><br />Jennie smiled as she angled her head in an attempt to read the title of this provocative DVD. "Is it The X Files?" she joked. <br /><br />"There’s a meeting of The Believers, tonight, at my place. You'd be most welcome if you’d like to come," he added, staring into her eyes.<br /><br />"Thank you for the invite, but I'll have something on tonight." Jennie gave him an apologetic smile. <br /><br />He seemed unperturbed and smiled cheerfully as he replied, "Well, perhaps some other time."<br /><br />"I hope you enjoy your books and DVD," she said pleasantly. <br /><br />He smiled again then, mercifully, gathered up his borrowings and departed.<br /><br />As soon as the door closed behind him, Helen quipped, "You've finally found your soul mate." <br /><br />Jennie wrinkled her nose and chuckled. <br /><br />"So what have you got on tonight?" <br /><br />"My jammies." <br /><br />Helen rolled her eyes.<br /><br />***<br /><br />On the dot of five o'clock, Jennie whisked down the library steps and across the road. The sky was still clear and blue. After the frost had melted and the fog dispersed, the day had blossomed.<br /><br />The cemetery looked very different to the shadowy eeriness of the previous night and the austere whiteness of the morning. As the sun hovered near the horizon, sky and foliage were stained with amber light and everything appeared golden and glittery. Gossamer rays of sunlight that had pierced the overhead foliage glittered with dust motes and perhaps something more magical. As she hurried down the path, Jennie again admired the bright winter flowers that bloomed in the aisles and between the graves. However, towering above the trees from a distant hill was the one thing that remained dark and shadowy: Mordred's Castle. <br /><br />It must be a huge place, Jennie thought, eyeing the black towers and their equally black peaked roofs. Even from this distance it looked legendary. Although it was a tourist attraction open to the public in summer, she had never actually visited, but she'd read about the castle from reference material in the library. The architectural design appeared to be stunning and one-of-a-kind. Flying from the direction of the castle, a black winged bird swooped and then disappeared into the trees fringing the cemetery grounds. <br /><br />She slowed her pace as she came nearer to the aisle with the rose-covered grave. From several rows before the rosy grave, a tall monument shaped like an obelisk obscured her view of the grave, itself. When she past the row with the monument, she saw him still sitting beside the roses. <br /><br />Has he been there all day? She walked a few paces down the aisle, but he continued staring moodily at the grave. She walked closer. He didn't move an impressive muscle. <br /><br />"Umm," she began.<br /><br />Still looking away, he held up her scarf in his right hand. <br /><br />"Oh, thank you." She stepped closer and took the scarf. He dropped his arm.<br /><br />"Um," she began again, "how are you feeling?"<br /><br />He looked around. For the first time she saw his face almost straight on; although, frustratingly, he still wore the reflective glasses. There was no doubt he was gorgeous in the extreme. She almost chuckled but fought to compose herself. His appearance seemed strange as he didn't fit any stereotype or person she'd ever seen. Most often you really could tell a book by its cover as everything about a person combined to tell the story of their lives. But this man's appearance had no story that she could understand. <br /><br />He looked back at the rosy grave as if his interest was already lost.<br /><br />There was something about the softness of his face which made him appear gentle and appealing; yet his full, pale lips were set in a churlish scowl. His strong, dimpled chin gave his feminine face more masculinity while his prominent cheekbones and straight nose added to the classy look she had noted earlier in the immaculate clothes and square set of his shoulders. The long, fine hair gave the air of someone more bohemian – in a sensitive, arty kind of way while his colouring suggested someone with Latin or Arabian or Indian or even Native American heritage; and yet his feminine features weren't really from these races. <br /><br />Then it occurred why he might be so different: he was avant-garde, modern and sensitive. This was the new age kind of guy she'd heard about but never encountered in Sycamore. He must be from Melbourne. No, Sydney. <br /><br />As if sensing Jennie was still nearby, he sighed, looked up and shook back his hair. Jennie smiled awkwardly but could think of nothing to say. Usually people were inhibited or outgoing when encountered by a stranger of the opposite sex, but this man gave the impression he didn't want or need to make any effort. Despite his looks, his indifferent, arrogant attitude was puzzling as, after all, he was confined to a wheel chair. <br /><br />"Um," she began for the third time. As if to encourage her, he raised his eyebrows quizzically.<br /><br />Although he now appeared to be blooming with health, she risked saying, "I was worried about you."'<br /><br />He gave another small sigh and looked back toward the rose-covered grave.<br /><br />Her gaze followed his. "The roses, they're mesmerizing. Such a deep red." <br /><br />"All red roses are deeply red, aren't they?" he asked in a soft, masculine voice. She wasn't surprised his voice had the trace of an accent.<br /><br />Jennie wanted to laugh both with nervousness and delight. She wasn't offended; in fact, she thought this an interesting response. Even though he wasn't looking at her, she smiled her sweetest smile. "But there are so many, so perfect...and blooming in winter."<br /><br />A faint smile appeared on his lips. "Winter roses never die." <br /><br />She peered at his profile. From this poetic comeback, she decided he was definitely an arty type – maybe a poet or an artist who suffered for his art. She pictured him working over a paint-spattered pine table in a studio apartment agonising whether to add a blue or purple background to a still life of the luscious roses. Jennie became aware that minutes had ticked past, and she was still wordlessly staring. <br /><br />He snapped a rose from the briar. "Have a love stalk," he said tossing it in her direction. <br /><br />She jabbed herself on a thorn as she caught it. <br /><br />“Ouch!” A drop of blood oozed from her finger and fell onto a petal, merged and disappeared. As the petals were the same colour as her blood, she wondered if the drop had rolled invisibly over the side. She held up the rose to examine the underneath. Realising he was watching, she flashed another awkward smile. <br /><br />Furrows appeared between his brows as if he was equally puzzled by her.<br /><br />"It's beautiful," she said as if in admiration of the rose, but never taking her eyes from him. "Love stalk is a very poetic name for a rose. Are you a poet?"<br /><br />"You're an innocent," he said, emphasizing the final letter.<br /><br />She was startled but attempted to gather herself. "I-I saw these last night. They...had a faint glow about them."<br /><br />His handsome face was still marred by a scowl. "Do you come here at night?" <br /><br />"NO! I mean...no. Well, last night was the only time...at night."<br /><br />In a low voice he said, "Be careful, I've heard a strange man haunts these grounds at night."<br /><br />Wide-eye, Jennie exclaimed, "I know! I heard him...last night...singing!"<br /><br />He stared at her for a few moments. She wondered what he was thinking and wished she could see eyes. <br /><br />Then he firmly grasped the outer rim of the large back wheels. "Anyway, there is somewhere I must be. People are waiting for me." With practised ease he turned the chair, manoeuvred past and then wheeled towards the pathway.<br /><br />Despite her fear that he probably thought her a lunatic on the fringe, she called, "Ehm, I don't know your name!"<br /><br />"Neither do a lot of people," he answered, without raising his voice or turning his head.<br /><br />"Ouch," Jennie said then screwed up her nose and chuckled. He was as prickly, luscious and mysterious as the roses growing over the grave. And she would probably never see him again.<br /><br />"Oh well, que sera, sera", she said to herself, determined not to give him another thought. <br /> wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-72762881687887693122009-10-15T22:24:00.000-07:002009-10-15T23:26:25.548-07:00Some Writing FunI discovered this via <a href="http://blog.nathanbransford.com/">Nathan Branford's </a>blog. Nathan is a well-known agent for Curtis Brown and his blog is worth visiting for the wealth of writing related information, sheer entertainment and charm.<br /><br />You can create a word cloud of your latest work-in-progress by pasting a copy of your ms into http://www.wordle.net<br /><br />This was the result of having a word cloud done on <em>Winter Roses Never Die</em>. The bigger the word, the more often it has been used. You can click on the picture for a larger image.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.wordle.net/show/wrdl/1233422/winter_roses" title="Wordle:winter roses"><br /><img src="http://www.wordle.net/thumb/wrdl/1233422/winter_roses" alt="Wordle:winter roses" style="padding:4px;border:1px solid #ddd"></a></center>wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-67187535303606177032009-10-15T21:52:00.000-07:002009-10-15T22:16:59.701-07:00Breaking The RulesSome Thoughts and a Little Bit of a Writing Rant :)<br />One way to write well, I think, is to ignore (some) writing advice. Of course the writer must be confident enough to do that. I recall when doing a writing course twenty years ago that a respected Australian author instructed his class to start a story with action or dialogue. I ignored this as I thought dialogue a cheesy way to begin. Lately I've been noticing many writers advising against opening with dialogue, so it has become a 'no-no' rule.<br /><br />The trouble with writing to rules or formualas - except in the case of grammar or punctuation - is then everyone writes in a similar, predictable fashion. Consider the dating of styles from one generation to a next. Often you can pick the era where something was written from the writing rules that story is following. As these rules are always changing, it shows that nothing is set in stone. <br /><br />One rule I dislike is having conflict as the main thrust and highpoint of a novel. Conflict does catch one's attention, and it is dramatic. However, as we all hate conflict in real life, why not think of replacing conflict in our entertainment with something more appealing and productive? Instead of characters with problems, why not characters with answers? Instead of fighting and despair why not show how people can live with peace and hope - and how much fun that would be? What we focus on we tend to manifest, so if the media could influence the masses with positive messages then our awareness and behaviour might be lifted to new levels.wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-18104461043540925922009-08-26T10:14:00.000-07:002009-08-29T10:38:27.146-07:00Book Trailer Hot off the LaptopThis is my first attempt at a book trailer, so hope it's an enjoyable watch. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Winter Roses Never Die</span> is a paranormal/inspirational novel which is prepared to take the reader places that other novels usually are not. It is a surreal and beautiful ride into a world that many might wish were true. Well guess what? We can and do make our own reality all the time. And true stories are stranger than fiction.<br /><br />Without further ado, I give you <span style="font-style:italic;">Winter Roses Never Die</span> - the book trailer! Coming soon to a screen near you...<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2B9PFo6elwE&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2B9PFo6elwE&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-30010689971947131852009-08-14T02:28:00.001-07:002009-08-28T04:36:28.305-07:00Recent PrizesHad some great writing news. <i>Winter Roses Never Die</i> has won third prize and a Highly Commended certificate in the Second Paperback in Your Hand Contest run by <a href="http://www.affordablemanuscriptassessments.com/">Affordable Manuscript Assessments</a>. The judges comments below:<br /><br />'<i>Winter Roses Never Die</i>, by Wendy Maree Peterson, is a paranormal love story. Jennie, the protagonist, is a delightful eccentric who lives with her cat and works in a library. As she walks home through an abandoned cemetery, Jennie catches a glimpse of a green-eyed girl in a tree. Later, she finds two winter-cold graves smothered in blooming roses, and meets a wheelchair-bound man named Charos. Gradually, Jennie is drawn into the twilit world of The Family and a love affair that will last a lifetime… or more. The beautiful descriptions and themes of redemption make this a joyous book, despite the dark themes, and the mix of Christianity and (fairly) benign paganism is beguiling. <i>Winter Roses Never Die</i> is for an adult audience, though some older teenagers would enjoy it.'<br /><br />And this week I also won first prize in a <a href="http://www.dimagemaker.com/2009/08/11/flower-photography-and-art-competition-winner-and-finalists/#more-2879">photography/digi art contest</a> for a piece of digital artwork. Brushes by <a href="http://www.obsidiandawn.com">Obsidian Dawn</a>, btw. Frustrating that I'm not able to upload this information to the site. Thank you, Obsidian Dawn, for the use of these wonderful, free PS brushes.<br /><br />The judge's comment:<br /><br />'Out of the large number of strong entrants we had one clear winner though. We are pleased to award the prize to Wendy Maree Peterson for her great entry <em>Blown Away'</em>.<br /><br />Here is the <a href="http://wendymaree.deviantart.com/art/Dandelion-Fantasy-112716333">picture</a>.<br /><br />Both wins were a thrill and an encouragement. Thanks <a href="http://www.affordablemanuscriptassessments.com">Sally Odgers </a>and <a href="http://www.cosshall.com">Wayne Cosshall</a> for the opportunity to enter such fun and inspirational contests.wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-17753567666045580192009-06-29T21:51:00.000-07:002009-08-14T02:20:24.892-07:00First Chapter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_C_V_HjdrNSpca0M-hN20HP4-6woATIJkZYTCUGiULMav1lwZ-1ryzMGkKN6Ww-HScyRwUpZExQQEkK1-KnoaLY96vgTJHjyTHja8aX2lS0Zf44AnleCK2WT6WKvWzd6Oqy5WZZarwbPP/s1600-h/rosy-grave2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 356px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_C_V_HjdrNSpca0M-hN20HP4-6woATIJkZYTCUGiULMav1lwZ-1ryzMGkKN6Ww-HScyRwUpZExQQEkK1-KnoaLY96vgTJHjyTHja8aX2lS0Zf44AnleCK2WT6WKvWzd6Oqy5WZZarwbPP/s400/rosy-grave2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353092669298366658" /></a><br /><br /><br />Here is Chapter One of <em>Winter Roses Never Die</em>. :)<br /><br /><U>CHAPTER ONE: MONDAY</U><br /><br /><br />The doors of wood and glass rumbled apart, and a sweet-faced young woman appeared in the opening. Under one arm she clutched two coffee-table sized books, their covers sparkling with the magic of flower-decked nymphs and elfin-faced sprites. With her free hand she fiddled with the key in the lock until both doors were bound together.<br /><br />She turned and gazed at the cold, grey July world. Like the bony apple tree that grew between the footpath and the asphalt road, everything appeared hard and cold. Jennie seemed untarnished by the harshness of the climate, for in her expressive face was warmth and a childlike lack of inhibition. She screwed up her nose at the extreme drabness and chuckled. Extremes sometimes amused her. Against the nondescript winter town she stood out like a neon sign. Her bright, bulky green cardigan, brown pants and navy handbag indicated she was neither concerned about appearances nor the stigma of opportunity shops. The red beret that pushed her fringe into her eyes crowned her efforts to be shabby chic. The distracted way she meandered down the steps and then stared up at the emerging patch of colour in the sky indicated her inner life was richer than her outer one. <br /><br />Near the foot of the stairs, the small, leafless apple tree appeared lonely. Jennie felt sympathy for the tree, the only one in the street to buffer the wind and climate. To her it was more like a dear friend with moods and fruits she knew and appreciated. The tree always looked woe-begotten in winter, but in spring it radiated happiness.<br /><br />“Good night, my friend,” she whispered, smiling as she passed. <br /><br />The wet, shiny road had less traffic than usual during peak hour, but Mondays were also less active in the library where Jennie worked. A small, forlorn group shivered at the nearby bus stop waiting for the five-thirty. She decided not to join them and waited at the curb for the cars to pass. In the grey sky the expanding purplish and crimson streaks gave a surreal element to her predictable life. <br /><br />The promise of the unexpected that lingered in the crisp air and pervaded the surreal sky made her restless. As she hurried across the road, she was glad she'd decided to take the scenic route home. She was also glad of wearing her clodhopper shoes as the road and pavements were slippery and sloshy. Her trademark red beret might prove useful if she was rained on during the homeward trek. <br /> <br />Jennie's pace slowed as she walked into the shadow cast by the length of bluestone wall enclosing the old cemetery. During previous visits, she'd discovered there was a wide pathway that snaked through the grounds until reaching the exit gate on the other side. From there she lived a street, a rural road and a paddock away. She stopped at the arched opening that contained two iron gates. Again, she glanced at the darkening sky then stirred the contents around her shoulder bag. After pulling out a small torch, she experimentally flicked the switch on and off. Then she pushed open a creaking gate...<br /> <br />...and slowly entered. <br /><br />On the inside of the high walls was a different atmosphere to the harried world outside. The grounds had a slow, haphazard rhythm in the rustling leaves, the sound of water dripping from foliage into a puddle and the occasional short whistle from a hidden bird. While a gentle, sleepy atmosphere pervaded the grounds, there was also vitality and abundance. Nature had overgrown nearly everything with weeds and creepers. Even the wall she stood next to was entwined with various foliated climbers. Some parts of the coverage were so dense the climbers looked like a leafy jungle with stems as thick as branches twisting in and out. Layers of cape cod ivy reached up and trailed down from some of the largest branches. Jennie speculated on how long it might have taken for the climbers to turn the wall into a jungle. She also wondered if it supported an eco-system with little animals and bird nests hidden in there. Perhaps a village of pygmies and miniature huts also flourished on different levels of a tribal high-rise. <br /><br />She stepped onto the crunchy gravel path winding between graves and monuments on the left and the lush bushes and trees on the right. The ornate gravesites and monuments still had an old-world charm which imparted a timeless aura to the cemetery. Marble, polished granite, sandstone and wrought ironwork were the popular materials for these resting places of the dead. In modern cemeteries the deceased were lucky if their cremated remains didn't end up in a concrete box. <br /><br />The area on the right of the path was meant to be a parkland for visitors and a place for potential cemetery expansion. However, beyond the impenetrable wall of gorse bushes, speckled with millions of yellow flowers, the parkland had become forested with gum trees. The ever-present gums loomed over the gorse, dripping bunches of dark aqua and olive green leaves. To the right of the pathway, a row of dirt mounds were also overgrown. Their white crosses were almost invisible behind weedy grass and clumps of bright jonquils. The jonquils also grew along the aisles and in the spaces between the graves. Jennie gratefully inhaled their fresh, sweet aroma. <br /><br />She tried sensing the energies around her. What was there about this place that she couldn't see but could feel? She switched mindsets to stem the flow of thoughts and allowed her instinctive awareness to rise. She detected not only a sleepiness, but a loneliness, a lack of caring. But then, maybe, this was just an impression created by the neglected state of the graves. She tried to focus her feelings again. There were also secrets hidden here, perhaps some mysterious occurrence which had led to the cemetery becoming abandoned. Jennie wrinkled up her nose. It was always hard to work out what was genuinely intuited and what was just imagination. Still, it was fun to try.<br /><br />As she followed the curving path, she noticed the older graves with marble coverings were discoloured by black streaks caused by time and weather, while the stonework on the newer graves had patches of spongy moss or greenish-brown fungi . Some of the concrete stonework was cracked or had partially collapsed. Not to miss an opportunity, nature triumphantly arose from the openings in the form of spiky thistles or small shrubs. Rusty-red wrought iron fences surrounded many of the larger grave sites. A nearby rickety fence was bejewelled with diamond raindrops that were studded around a spider web. Some of the other fences were attired in morning glory ivy. Although none of the purple and blue flowers had bloomed, she recognised the tenacious climber as plenty of it grew at home.<br /> <br />Inside one fenced gravesite were masses of snow drops. Jutting above the flowers from the middle of the gravesite was a curved, grizzled headstone. The graceful, drooping stance of the flowers and their tutu shaped petals made the snow drops appear as the ballerinas of the cemetery. Like the jonquils near the entryway, the snow drops grew everywhere not covered by the man-made. In the deepening twilight the white flowers had a faint, luminous glow. She glanced around the grounds. All the self-sown winter flowers growing on the grounds appeared untouched by winter's deathly presence. How ironic that in this place of death and decay, life was more abundant than anywhere else. <br /><br />She was brought out of her reverie by something swooping over her head and making a repeated snapping sound as it passed. The black and white bird flew onto the branch of a nearby gum tree where he, or she, perched and watched. It wasn't the season for nesting, so he couldn't be trying to protect a nest. Jennie conjectured whether he might be a kind of guardian of the cemetery. <br /><br />"Hello," she called out. He tilted his head as if listening. She observed his beak. It looked plenty strong and pointy. He resembled a magpie, but wasn't. He had too many black feathers and was slightly smaller than a magpie.<br /><br />When she turned and continued down the path, he swooped again. This time she felt a breeze as he just missed the top of her beret while making the same unnerving snapping sound. It seemed as if he was trying to prevent her from going further. <br /><br />"Do you mind?" she rhetorically asked him. "I have to get home."<br /><br />The bird burst into loud whistling that sounded like a cranky retort. He was a feisty little chap. She continued past the tree where he watched her watching him. After a few moments, she looked back to see if he was still there. The branch was now empty. She sighed, relieved.<br /><br />While following the path Jennie wistfully imagined she was in a special place where the magical race of fairies still visited. The bird was their guardian, instructed to keep humans away from where these folk came and went. The luminous flowers and lush weeds helped to make this pretence seem more like a possibility. As she didn't remember experiencing so much vitality on her visit last year, she wondered if it was just the light cast by the purplish sky.<br /> <br />Admiring her surroundings, Jennie congratulated herself on the inspired decision to take the shortcut home. She also congratulated herself on overcoming any fears as she was squeamish of whatever lurked in the dark. <br /><br />The mass of gorse bushes on the right of the path were gradually replaced by native she-oaks with dark, needle-like foliage and some smaller wattle trees. In contrast to the grim looking she-oaks, the vivacious wattles had begun to acquire a few fluffy, golden blooms. Dwarfing everything in sight was a ghost gum that stretched white skeletal limbs above the graves on the other side of the path. Around the gum's broad trunk was built a wooden seat now scattered with leaves and bark and encroaching tendrils of ivy. The back of the seat had almost disappeared beneath Cape Cod ivy. Even the broad trunk of the gum tree was invisible within a leafy overcoat.<br /><br />It occurred to her that there was a silent war going on between the man-made and the natural. Nature was intent on reclaiming the grounds for herself, and while there was no human intervention she would win. The man-made constructions had a limited life-expectancy whereas nature could replace herself. <br /><br />When Jennie spotted the life-size statue near the path on her left, she grinned and thought, here's the man-made fighting back. Nothing dared to cling or climb over the mighty exterior of the warrior angel. His strong looking arms held up a sword that pointed into the heavens, while his powerful wings almost reached the concrete block upon which he stood. Jennie admired the determined expression on the sculptured white face staring into the sky. Not to be completely outdone, nature had the statue surrounded. The concrete pedestal was almost hidden behind long-stemmed plants with clusters of magenta flowers, the likes of which grew in her grandmother's garden long ago. <br /><br />Time and weather had hardly touched any of the life-like statues that had 'peopled' the grounds for longer than she remembered. Most of the statues were supposedly crafted from a composite of finished marble and concrete making them look as luminous as the white flowers in the twilight. Further down an aisle, Jennie spotted an exquisite girl. As the light was growing fainter, she turned on her torch and followed the light for a closer look. Wearing a long skirt and simple blouse, the girl held a posy of stone rosebuds that rested on her other folded arm. Jennie thought the statue was of a young Saint Therese, probably the most loved of all Catholic saints. In life, Saint Therese had been a shy person but wrote in her autobiography that when she forgot herself and focused on others she found happiness. Like the warrior angel she gazed heavenward with an incandescence of someone who could see beyond the earthly veil.<br /><br />On the other side of the Saint Therese was a headstone of uneven grey stone which sat atop a similar gravestone. Eroded lettering carved into the headstone proclaimed: 'If tears could build a stairway and memories could build a lane, I'd walk right up to Heaven and bring you home again.'<br /><br />"Oh-h-h," Jennie said, touched that someone had created this homage for a loved one. <br /><br />The cemetery was brimming with love and creativity – and a competitive spirit.<br /><br />It was amazing how the ambience of the grounds changed when the purplish patch of sky faded into blackness. The heavenly world of angels, saints and elementals was becoming a gloomy Hades. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a flicker of movement in the trees. Her heart rate accelerated as she shone the torch into the overhead branches on her right. Nothing but the shadows lurked behind the leaves. She felt another panicky reaction as she passed two willow trees with thick foliage that swept the ground. Anything could be hidden behind that green curtain. <br /><br />She inhaled slowly and deeply as she walked away, backwards, while focusing the light upon the hanging branches.<br /><br />As she approached the centre of the cemetery, Jennie realised if she lost her nerve it was too far to go back to the main entrance, and the exit gate was about another five minutes away.<br /><br />A sumptuous wattle tree, soft and golden in the torchlight, arose from the darkness. Despite the cold and dark, the air was pervaded with a strange, sweet aroma. Where the tree overlapped the path, a few lower branches had been lopped to allow passage. As she walked beneath the wattle, she felt a cold, tickling sensation on the back of her neck and something touching her hair. Frowning, she held up the torch. For a moment in time an eerie, lovely image was frozen in the white beam. A raven-haired girl with skin and facial features as flawless as the stony flesh of the statues reclined upon a twiglike branch. She was adorned in a gossamer gown as green and glittery as her sloe-shaped eyes, eyes that held such power, Jennie went into sensory over-load and couldn't move.<br /><br />Deciding to test this creature, she said the prayer that always drove away her fear, "I plead the Holy Blood of Jesus Christ."<br /><br />As abruptly as the lady had appeared in the torchlight, she vanished. Jennie was too stunned to be afraid. If the vision hadn't appeared in a dark cemetery, it would not seem scary but fantastically beautiful. <br /><br /><i>Could the lady have been some kind of spirit?</i> As the lady didn't look the least insubstantial or as if she had ever been human, she couldn't have been a ghost. Nor was she a nature spirit as Jennie once thought she'd seen faint silhouettes of light that was all a nature spirit was composed of. This lovely vision was a different creature entirely. <br /><br /><i>Could she have been one of the mythological races of Faerie?</i> Strange as this option might have seemed to most people, Jennie felt this was a strong possibility. The various fairy races were sometimes pictured as having slanted, almond-shaped eyes, too. Another indication was that the girl's eyes and gown had been green. In fairy mythology green was a popular colour. Jennie tried to recall her expression and realised there was something regal and delicate about her. Her head was held high on her slender neck; and the way she draped her slight figure over the branch, graceful and yet erect, was poetry for the eye. <br /><br />Perhaps nature has brought in the Big Guns to help win the Battle of the Cemetery. The thought of Mother Nature recruiting help from fairy champions made Jennie chuckle. She sternly reminded herself that she must not let her imagination run away. She might have just imagined the fabulous girl, although this was unlikely. However, the cemetery grounds contained an atmosphere which encouraged the imagination to run as wild as the natural world. <br /><br />She had wanted more excitement by taking this shortcut, but now she was having more than she'd hoped. Into every tree she passed Jennie shone the torch, but no more visions appeared. Several rows of ancient headstones emerged, each one resembling chalky, grizzled teeth. They reminded her of those she had seen in old horror films. All the scene needed was the spooky music.<br /><br />She had barely finished thinking this when music actually began to play. Jennie whirled around, frantically shining her torch this way and that, trying to spot the source. Just single notes from a guitar began the song, and then the sound swelled as more instruments joined in. The music sounded very modern consisting of acoustic guitar, mandolin, tambourine and rhythmic percussion sounds. <br /><br />The music grew louder as Jenny took a deep, uneven breath which helped suppress the scream threatening to undo her self-control. She softly repeated the prayer said earlier. As her terror scaled down, she became enthralled by the beauty of the music. The melody with its slow, heavy beat had sadness, yet, also, richness and sensuality. The acoustic guitar began a solo that was joined by the mandolin. The two played a series of rapid riffs and melodies as if they were taking part in a musical duel. The rhythmic effect was compelling, tempting her to move faster and more extravagantly. However she was too focused on her surroundings and what might be contained in the shadows either side of the path.<br /><br />She realised this music had too much power and spontaneity to be the kind played through a portable CD player. This music was being played live. Tentatively she crossed the path to her left and flashed the torch around. A tall, dark monument with a concrete square base and a narrow, tapering tower emerged. No one was behind it. She crossed the path to her right and looked behind some of the trees. <br /><br />There didn't appear to be anyone around. <br /><br />Jennie shivered, though not from cold. Visions and unexplainable events normally didn't happen to her. Well, there was the incident when she thought she saw the faint silhouettes of nature spirits moving around a pot plant but that was an isolated one.<br /><br />Jennie began to suspect that the music wasn't coming from a single source – or even the same place – because no matter how far she went the sound never faded. With all senses on full alert, she continued warily down the pathway. From what she'd read of the supernatural, ghostly visions and sounds had no power to do harm, unless those being haunted panicked and inadvertently did harm to themselves. It was the old battle of mind over matter, and she was determined to win the fight. She clenched her teeth together, focused on the path ahead and kept striding along.<br /><br />But then the singing started. A man's voice seemed to follow wherever she went. It was a beautiful voice: powerful, deep, expressive. The voice always seemed to be coming from the trees on her right. She shone light into the branches of a huge maple, the only tree in the cemetery to have lost its leaves. The bony branches appeared haunted and empty. <br /><br />Jennie's heart-rate accelerated and panic tickled around her throat, but she willed herself to keep calm and maintain rationality. Meanwhile, the man sang of being just a shell full of sand, and hiding behind lies, and there being too much pain, too many tears, sweat and blood. <br /><br />Despite the cold, Jennie was now sweating as she strode down the winding path. And still the voice followed. He sounded so close that she stopped and swung the torch around, half-hoping, half-dreading to see the owner. In the process one of her library books fell. She bent down to retrieve it, and when she stood again, the torchlight illuminated a large gravesite several graves away. Both the headstone and gravestone appeared covered with an explosion of deep red. She peered down the aisle towards the creeping briars and the many roses. Like large rubies they lay luminous and gleaming upon their leafy bed. Their vibrancy added a warm, velvet glow against the inky backdrop. She had thought the other flowers gorgeous, but these were the jewels of the cemetery. She then noticed an aroma like one you might find in a forest of exotic flowers that was carpeted with rotting mulch.<br /><br />The aroma became odious as the thought came it was disgusting for a sweet, yet overripe perfume to pervade a place of the dead.<br /><br />She flashed the torch down the path and ran. <br /><br />A gigantic man loomed out of the darkness. As his appearance coincided with a dramatic moment in the music, Jennie – well beyond the limits of her courage – screamed loudly. Then she recognised who it was or, rather, what it was. The statue of the Christ was the largest and the most marvellous of all the statues throughout the cemetery. Unlike the marble statues, this one had been stained in full colour. Standing upon a five feet high pedestal, the tall figure was garbed in a maroon cloak that tumbled from his shoulders to just above his feet. Jennie had touched the hem of that cloak on previous visits as it appeared so real. Unlike the many unrealistic paintings portraying Jesus with blond, wavy hair and movie star features, this statue portrayed a man with dark hair and eyes, a thin face, and a long hooked nose. It wasn't a handsome face, but the gentle, knowing eyes and the calm, compassionate expression made it an unforgettable one. The arms were extended as if inviting anyone willing into their embrace. The delicate hands and feet bore the marks of the crucifixion. <br /><br />The music now seemed out of place. While the melody held a haunting sadness and the lyrics were of pain and emptiness, the expression on the Christ told of peace and love. And, yet, the song played rudely on. <br /><br />Jennie kept running until she had left the cemetery behind and was passing the dark paddocks that led to an acreage on her right. Here she lived beside one solitary neighbour, also on an acreage of land. She whipped open the old-fashioned farm gate and dashed down the uneven, cracked concrete leading to her front door. After stumbling up the wooden steps, she opened her already unlocked door, slammed it shut and then deadlocked it – something she never needed to do in sleepy Sycamore. She tripped over a boot lying in the hallway where the light bulb didn't work as she hurried towards the lounge room. When she flicked on the light, normality rose from the darkness to greet her. She tossed her bag onto the green vinyl couch and switched on the small electric heater.<br /><br />"Un-be-lievable!" she exclaimed, then burst out laughing. But this quickly dissipated as she puzzled over the night's events.<br /><br />During her journey home, she had stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone, complete with its own haunting theme. She couldn't wait to tell the girls at work and hear what they had to say. They wouldn't believe her, of course. They already thought her a little bizarre, although Jennie wasn't sure why. On second thoughts, maybe the evening's events were better kept to herself. Damn! She had to tell someone. Perhaps her mother...? Unfortunately, her mother had as little appreciation for the unusual as everyone else in Sycamore. Perhaps she could email her young cousin who lived in Sydney? <br /><br />There came a soft thud from the next room. Jennie looked toward the open doorway and waited expectantly. A grey and white cat poked her head around the bedroom doorway, and a pair of round eyes stared up at the woman looming over the heater. When assured this really was her companion, she padded over to where Jennie stood and performed the ritual greeting of rubbing against legs. <br /><br />"Are you hungry, Honey? Fancy a bowl of warm milk? I might have a glass, too," she muttered.<br /><br />While absent-mindedly stroking Honey's back beside the glimmering heater, Jennie again followed the gravel pathway. She pictured the over-grown cemetery and saw the lovely girl in a green gown staring down from an overhead branch, and then heard the dolorous melody and the darkly seductive voice moaning a gentle harmony to the strumming of guitar and mandolin. And, finally, she was confronted with a display of radiant roses that belonged more to an enchanted garden than an abandoned, winter cemetery. <br /><br /><i>Could it be possible that fairies haunted the old cemetery?</i> Partly because she read fairy stories during story sessions in the library, Jennie had devoured every mythological reference to fairies she could find. She straightened and looked at a large poster on the opposite wall with the fairy art of Cicely Mary Barker. Jennie loved the way this artist painted each picture with a life-like flower personified by an exquisite fairy with the same coloured wings and garments. The fairies haunting the cemetery were of a different breed entirely, more powerful and, perhaps, more sinister. Beside the poster was an old-fashioned frost-edged mirror and on the other side of that was a laminated Star Wars movie poster featuring the characters from The Phantom Menace. Her reflection in the old mirror showed how pale and bedraggled she now looked. Her long hair had partially escaped the pony tail and hung in wisps around her face. Although she unconsciously arranged her features to appear at their most attractive, she decided that pretty she definitely was not. Her elongated face and pointy chin made her appear rather witchy; and if this wasn't bad enough, her poor skin turned blotchy at the least embarrassing thing and at the slightest exposure to sun. <br /><br /><i>Oh, well, I won't give up the day job just yet.</i> <br /><br />Honey, protesting about the lack of service, brought her back to the present moment. She bent down again to rub under the cat's chin, and then hurried into the kitchen to get some milk. While Honey appreciatively lapped her milk in front of the heater, Jennie stared out the lounge room window where the view wasn't obscured by curtains as she didn't have any. Moonlight and the light from the lounge room illuminated the tree tops outside. This side of the house was built over the garage so the wide window looked down over the sloping bush block where an old corrugated tin woodshed, a pump shed, holly trees, tea trees, gum trees, ferns, couch grass and a tangle of morning glory and jasmine still had plenty of room to expand. <br /> <br />While gazing out the window she noticed a darkling creature flit past in the moonlight.<br /><br /><i>Ohmigosh! I've brought the strange and wonderful home with me!</i> She could have easily drifted off into an imaginary scene involving black-winged birds, but Honey, now finished with her milk, clawed at her pant leg for some attention.<br /><br />Jennie bent down and picked up her best friend.wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-27890207914721926102009-06-29T20:47:00.000-07:002009-11-03T05:41:03.097-08:00Winter Roses Never Die<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDomSE1Qsxwk9Nd02o2im_0Y1ZpKnkDERw3cyJYxLzI7xxHoLijbwbs5FH3-iAQhBrf0VocqMAx3irVnQHuDdzUP-kv_Eaozaq6s8XYGJihxsPw_HTeRsv8iE32QIKvvXLAgwvS4tcP_2/s1600-h/title-border+larger.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDomSE1Qsxwk9Nd02o2im_0Y1ZpKnkDERw3cyJYxLzI7xxHoLijbwbs5FH3-iAQhBrf0VocqMAx3irVnQHuDdzUP-kv_Eaozaq6s8XYGJihxsPw_HTeRsv8iE32QIKvvXLAgwvS4tcP_2/s400/title-border+larger.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399871414010688770" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br><br />This novel which I made mention of, below, has been a long time coming. I originally started work on the story ten years ago. I remember the starting date clearly as I was made very aware of my age by the source of the novel's original inspiration. <br /><br /><u>Story Premise</u>: A shy woman struggles to win the love of the most unattainable man ever; but, meanwhile, the man who nobody notices is seeking <em>her</em>.wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-14727619753913091802009-06-29T20:15:00.000-07:002009-08-14T05:00:49.299-07:00Back In Business<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0aoc49PJ5nZ6xXiAkfMXgAZaDK8sBRTg8E_-i3NHYkdqy0ydItOZ3dBvgF4eiwwkm1omO-8bUd-0bOtuj38kF7HTi7I8UF7mDFTCEd_6u6KgN-8mNvaVkDhwp6T4IiJ3tTIGtZEWddBP/s1600-h/wendy2.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 139px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0aoc49PJ5nZ6xXiAkfMXgAZaDK8sBRTg8E_-i3NHYkdqy0ydItOZ3dBvgF4eiwwkm1omO-8bUd-0bOtuj38kF7HTi7I8UF7mDFTCEd_6u6KgN-8mNvaVkDhwp6T4IiJ3tTIGtZEWddBP/s400/wendy2.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352956877141677458" /></a><br />After an extensive period of inactivity, I'm posting some new work later today. I've been in recovery and also writing quite a bit. I think I've written a most contraversial novel. Something in it to offend everyone who doesn't appreciate paranormal romance, fairies and Christian inspirational in the one story. I know I've crossed into sacred territory with this one, but doesn't real life consist of a mixture of genres? I think art should imitate life or, more wonderfully, should suggest new, more evolved realms of thought and innovations. I'll upload a cover and the first chapter later today.wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928318716468310351.post-91471270504842586882008-07-11T03:45:00.000-07:002009-06-29T21:50:16.688-07:00First Kit preview - freebie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4CW_YnoodbQWdM0mr7BRpy5nuACImGoAYwil8uslMpAGtCTtwOYDXAFRIWtWzQ0SUX0_wExzk1glgvXjqy-Xi5wAGJZ9BQX6bPcpXkTHmAUYqPE6N63np0d0E8qoKvmiP9F3A8E7a9zLH/s1600-h/preview-final.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4CW_YnoodbQWdM0mr7BRpy5nuACImGoAYwil8uslMpAGtCTtwOYDXAFRIWtWzQ0SUX0_wExzk1glgvXjqy-Xi5wAGJZ9BQX6bPcpXkTHmAUYqPE6N63np0d0E8qoKvmiP9F3A8E7a9zLH/s400/preview-final.jpg" border="0" alt="click for a larger picture"id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276245850665971874" /></a><br />Click on the picture for a larger version.<br /><br />The full download will be coming very soon. Sorry for the delay :)<br />Personal and commercial use ok. Just have fun. :)wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601761842537889384noreply@blogger.com5