Another New Release by Roseanne Dowell!

Hey y’all!  Welcome back to Flowers on the Fence country!  Guess who’s back?  Guess who’s done it again?  Oh, yeah, Roseanne Dowell’s got another new book out!  Time To Love Again, published by Books We Love.  Sweet romance just got sweeter.  Which is a good thing, ‘cause Rose is actually kinda tart.  But we’ll let her sister tell you about her.

* * * *

Rose Asbury is my sister – was my sister.  After I passed away she became a recluse. Not that she doesn’t have reason to, mind you. We lost our parents within months of each other and Rose and I clung to each for support during our grief. Of course our husbands helped, but Rose and I understood each other.

We were just adjusting when Rose’s husband passed away suddenly. Poor Rose fell apart, not that I blame her. I would have reacted the same way if it had been my husband.  I was just getting Rose to come out of her shell when bam, I was gone.

That did Rose in. She went to pieces and to make matters worse, her kids moved three thousand miles away. She ignored all of her friends, except for Louise. Louise wasn’t about to let Rose ignore her. But everyone else gave up. Heck, you can only call people so long and have them ignore you, not return your calls and won’t talk to you before you give up. So that’s what everyone did. Louise didn’t give up. She marched right over to Rose’s house and read her the riot act until Rose gave in and at least went to the store.

At least now Rose visited Louise and came to grips with life. Not that she had much of a life. Stephen Daniels the guy next aimed to change that – or so it seemed. Good looking guy, too. Anyway he moved in to take care of his granddaughter while her parents did their tour of duty in the Mideast. He kind of took a shine to Rose. Rose wouldn’t give the poor guy the time of day. Most she did was nod at him.

Well, that’s all she did until that day. I can’t help but giggle thinking about it. She fell on the ice and splat, groceries went flying everywhere. Stephen came to her aid – or tried to. Rose, true to form, tried to ignore him. That’s where I come in again. I showed up to talk some sense into Rose. Of course, she tried to ignore me, too, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. It was time Rose started to live again. She was much too young to waste her life away.

Now it seems his granddaughter, Sarah, saw the whole thing and had other ideas. She didn’t care for the way the old lady ignored her grandpa. Yeah, all kids think anyone in their 40s is old. What can I say, we thought the same things.

But I digress. Sarah devised a plan to get Rose to talk to her grandpa. She talked  her friends into building a snowman in Rose’s front yard. You’d think that wasn’t a big deal right? I mean what harm could a snowman do?

Of course, Rose, being the neighborhood grouch –at least that’s what the kids pegged her as – had a fit.

After that things got real interesting. If you’d like to find out more about Rose, you’ll have to buy the book available from Amazon at http://amzn.to/timetoloveagain

To learn more about me and my books check out my website at www.roseannedowell.com

* * * *

Well, I don’t know about y’all but I’m on my way to grab this book!  Not that I’m pushing you out the door or anything, but – y’all come back now, hear?

Come Meet My Supporting Cast!

Hey, y’all!  Welcome back to Flowers on the Fence Country!  You know, that day is approaching, the one that seemed so far away back last June when I signed that magic piece of paper, the one that promised after years of storing manuscripts in my closet, one of them would actually see the light of day.  You know, that first book contract.  The funny thing is, the book that’s actually seeing the light of day first is the one I never took seriously, never expected to see in print in any shape, form or fashion.  Not that I ever really expected to see any of ‘em in print in any shape, form or fashion, but least of all this one.  That’s probably because it was conceived and birthed as nothing but pure escapism – a fantasy land created solely for the author, by the author, as an extension of that bubble-bath commercial.  You know the one?  “Calgon, take me awaaaayyyyy….” 

That’s what Miami Days & Truscan (K)nights was created to do.  Take me away, right along with corporate troubleshooter Tess Ames, through that door in the Bermuda Triangle, into the fantasy land of Trusca where Truscan warriors guard the world from the ravages of the Prian Empire.  An empire with inhabitants who look like humanoid pigs, for cryin’ out loud! Can’t you just imagine how Tess feels?  Jerked rudely out of the jet-setting business world of a Miami based international corporation into a dark forest?  Tossed abruptly into a culture that’s a cross between Camelot and the Dark Ages, a world of magic and omens and portents and Power Stones?  I mean, sure, Randalph of Trusca, Dalph for short  – Truscan Kings don’t stand much on ceremony – well, that boy’s hot, no denying it, but communicating with him? 

Well, Tess lucked out on that one.  See, years before, when Dalph was seven, an American pilot flew through the same door.  His name’s …

* * * *

McKay.  Johnny McKay.  Thanks for finally turning over the microphone, darlin’.  You kinda long-winded there, aren’t you?  Well, being a writer and all, guess you can’t help that, no more than Tess can help being the take-charge kind of gal she is.  Yeah, I’d always wanted to fly, so I joined the Air Force for the training. Loved flying, didn’t care much for the Air Force. So when I got out, I opened a charter flight line in Miami, all those rich folks flying out to the Caribbean Islands, you know. I was checking out a new plane, third one I’d been able to buy. Thought I had the world by the tail. I was headed out toward Bermuda, and I ran into this patch of gray fog that – well, when I ran out of it, I wasn’t exactly in the same world anymore. 

Dalph’s father Brentar was King at the time, figured folks who could fly through the air had to be good for something, he made me Dalph’s tutor. He was seven years old when I came through. Have to say, I’m no scientist or doctor or teacher, heck, I’m a good ole’ Midwestern boy, but just by being raised in our world, in our time, I been pretty handy to have around over the years.  Tess says I’m sorta like the Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. 

And then of course, when the roving patrol that rescued Tess got back to Trussa – that’s the capital of Trusca – I turned her over to my wife, Kiera.  Bless her heart, Kiera speaks English real good, worked hard at it, figured a man ought to be able to speak his own language in his own home, don’t you know.  Yeah, I’m a lucky man, how many wives’d go to that much trouble for their husbands?  Kiera’s Dalph’s aunt from the wrong side of the blanket, she runs the Rata – that’s what we’d call the Castle over here, the royal residence.  Lived with that woman over twenty years, we got two boys, Crayton and Cretor.  She’s yet to call me by my first name, calls me “McKay”, like those Victorian women always called their husbands “mister”.

I needed all the help I could get with Dalph and Tess, let me tell you.  ‘Cause Tess and Dalph – the two of them, well, all anybody’s gotta do is look at ‘em.  Everybody can see it but them.  If I could figure out how to harness electricity, I could power Trusca with the sparks they shoot off each other.  But you know how it is. Sometimes the two involved, well, they’re the very last to know.

So I’m glad I was there for Tess.  I remember.  Stranger in a strange world, you never forget what that feels like.  Glad I could make the transition a little easier for her.  Well, at least she thought so till she misunderstood something I told her just a little bit – okay, so maybe I did misrepresent the exact situation a tad but it was for her own good, really it was – and decided I was Benedict Arnold.  But we worked it out.  We’re big buddies.  I’d die for Tess, just like I’d die for Dalph.  And in Trusca, believe me, that’s a real possibility.

 ‘Course now, I can’t say as how their first meeting set the stage for a real calm relationship.  Tess’d just crash landed in Trusca with a dying pilot and a wrecked plane, after all.  And I can see where she might have gotten the idea she wasn’t being rescued so much as she was being captured, we didn’t have a hell of lot of time for explanations, the Prians being hot on our tails. Dalph didn’t have any choice about the pilot, now, that poor guy had seconds to live at most,  and no way were we leaving him for the Prians, dead or alive, those pigs got some strange dietary habits.  But Dalph blowing up her plane and all for the pilot’s funeral pyre – yeah, I can see how she might have gotten the wrong idea.  ‘Cause there’s one thing sure.  Once you come through that door, you ain’t in Kansas anymore.  See, it happened like this:

* * * *

He dived forward and hit the ground as he made his toss, and now he jumped to his feet as the roar of rushing flames drowned out my continuing protests. He shouted over the roar and Johnny tugged me toward the horse-like creature sporting horns as Dalph ran forward and grabbed the reins.

“Get on Dalph’s horse. He’s stronger. An extra rider won’t slow him down much.”

“Like hell I will! He just killed my pilot!”

“Like hell you won’t! I know this ain’t exactly anybody’s idea of over the rainbow, but darlin’, believe me when I tell you this. You ain’t in Kansas anymore!”

“I will not!”

Dalph spoke again, but I doubted it was a literal translation since Johnny was talking at pretty much the same time.

“He says you got exactly ten seconds to move toward that horse.”

“Or what?”

“Or he’ll knock you out and put you on it.”

I glared at them both.

“No.”

I guess my actions or lack thereof spoke louder than words and, needing no interpreter, Dalph shrugged, moved forward, and I felt the force of his fist for only a split second before the world turned black.

* * * *

April, 2012.  MuseItUp Publishing.  Y’all come back now, hear?

Another Rose for Flowers on the Fence!

Hey, y’all!  Today I’m collecting a specific flower – a Rose!  I’ve already collected one by the name of Roseanne Dowell, and today I’ve got a Rose by the name of J. Q. in the spotlight.  I am thankful every single day for the wealth of new friends in my life from such diverse locations, of such diverse personalities.  I consider all of them true gifts from God, and Janet, you are certainly one of those gifts!  And before I hush and let y’all enjoy her, let me say that her new short, The Good Neighbors, is hysterical.  Yes, I cheated.  I’ve already read it, and she’s sharing an excerpt too!  Please bear in mind that all proceeds from this short are going to support local food banks.  So without further ado – here’s J. Q. Rose!

Gail, thanks so much for having me as a guest on your delightful blog, Flowers on the Fence.  Please let your readers know I am giving away a PDF copy of my new holiday, short story, The Good Neighbors, to the winner of your random drawing.

The Entertainer

By

J. Q. Rose

I always dreamed of being Carol Burnett. She had the most entertaining show on television. She made everyone laugh and forget their troubles for that one hour through her crazy skits and loud, and I mean loud, singing voice. She, Tim Conway, and Harvey Korman cracked each other up and then tried to play through the hilarity. Those were some of the funniest parts of the show. She was/is a true entertainer, my role model.

As a kid, I dreamed of being a great actress and dancer. I think it all started when I was about four years old. My older brothers and I were the “entertainment” when we performed in my grandmother’s living room after family dinners. John laid down on the floor and Jim beat on his tummy like a drum. I took center stage and danced to the beat usually pretending to be a mysterious Arabian princess. I still remember the joy in my parents’ faces, the applause, and the hugs.

 As you all know, we have to grow up and deal with life’s realities. I had to be realistic so I settled for “performing” in front of classes of third graders as a teacher. (You who are teachers know how you have to entertain kids to keep their attention.) I sang in the church choir, accompanied the children’s choir, and played in the bell choir. Those were enjoyable outlets for me sending the music heavenward and filling my heart. But, not exactly entertaining like in my Carol Burnett dreams ….until….. I was chosen to play a maid and a Hooverville bum in our community players production of Annie.

I was chosen to be a chorus member. I did not have a speaking part as the maid, but I had one line as the Hooverville bum. For me, the very best part of the play and the scene I was most proud of occurred when I joined all the other bums at the front of the stage. We formed a chorus line performing like New York’s Radio City Music Hall’s Rockette dancers kicking and dancing as we sang. I finally fulfilled my dream in front of an audience of town folk and friends who raucously applauded our efforts every night. I think even Carol Burnett would have been proud of my “performance.”

Writing stories is an outlet for my aspiration to be an entertainer. I wrote Sunshine Boulevard for fun and shared it with my writing group. They encouraged me to submit it so more people could be “entertained” by my writing. I am so happy they did because Muse It Up Publishing released the e-book to a much wider “audience” than I could have imagined possible.

My latest short story, The Good Neighbors, includes the characters Jim and Gloria Hart from Sunshine Boulevard. I wrote it just in time for the holidays with the hope that readers will get a chuckle if not a flat-out belly laugh when reading the story.

I get a kick out of entertaining readers and making them happy through my stories. On the other hand, if you know of anyone needing a gal to do high kicks for a chorus line, call me!

Happy Holidays to everyone!!

Tag line for The Good Neighbors-- Jim and Gloria Hart, snowbirds from Michigan, always help out the neighbors in their Florida retirement community when asked. Who knew being good could turn out to be so bad?

The Good Neighbors Excerpt:

“Jim, wake up.” Gloria shook her sleeping husband.

“What? Am I snoring?”

“Shh…I hear something out back. Someone is out there,” she whispered.

Jim sat up in the bed. He flipped on the lamp on the nightstand and tilted his head to listen with his good ear.  “I don’t hear a thing. It’s probably a cat. Go back to sleep.”

Gloria tried to comfort herself by believing it was a cat making the soft sounds in the night, but her ears were attuned to the night sounds. Was that an owl hooting? A dripping water faucet? An armadillo passing the house?

It was probably nothing, she decided. Or was it? 

Gloria trudged out to the kitchen in the morning. It was only 6:30 a.m. and Jim was already on his third cup of coffee perusing his seed catalogs. She smelled the fresh coffee and like a zombie, headed for the coffee pot. She was not ready for morning yet after such a night of restless sleep and nightmares.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Jim looked up from the page of cabbage plant pictures just long enough to greet her.

She heard the furnace blowing warm air through the floor vents.

“How cold did it get last night?”

“I had twenty-four degrees on my thermometer this morning. Good thing we covered up the plants and brought Paul’s plants home. Otherwise they’d be goners by now.”

“I could have sworn I heard someone out back last night. I couldn’t go back to sleep after I woke you up. But you were snoring in five minutes.” She sipped the creamy coffee to perk her up this morning. No decaf in the morning. She needed the caffeine.

“Alright. I’ll go check out back if it makes you feel any better. I have to get that other seed catalog off my workbench anyway.”

Jim frightened her when he slammed the kitchen door shut on his return from the shed. His face was twisted in anger. He didn’t have the seed catalog in his hand. Why was that so upsetting for him?

Find me on the Internet:

J Q Rose Website http://www.jqrose.webs.com

 J Q Rose Blog  http://www.jqroseauthor.blogspot.com

Buy link for The Good Neighbors—All royalties go to support local food pantries

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066CYXQI

Miz Ging Dishes It Out on Flowers on the Fence

Our own Queen of Humor honors us with an appearance today! Multi-talented, multi-faceted, multi-genre. I’m pretty sure I’m not posting the covers of all her books but blog pages are just so long, right?

So – are you ready to laugh? Com’on in!

IT'S BECOMING PAINFUL TO WATCH TV

I've always been very open to suggestion and even had to stop watching Marcus Welby M.D. in my youth because I manifested the same symptoms after I viewed an episode. Yep, the morning I woke up with a paralyzed arm identical to that suffered by Dr. Welby’s patient the previous night, I knew I needed to change my viewing habits. Now don't class me as a hypochondriac... there's a vast difference between inventing illness and mimicking one.

I thought I had a pretty good handle on medical problems, but now I have to worry about the side affects of the medicines I take. You know all those things they babble faster than the speed of light at the end of the recommending ad? Would you rather have RLS (Restless Leg Syndrome) or a severe gambling problem? I'm not sure. Depends on my luck, I guess.

Although I don't suffer from the condition, I'm thrilled that those with genital warts are trying to protect their partner by taking a little pill a day, but how happy will they be when their mates suffer a stroke? How about that commercial that shows someone slumbering restfully after ingesting just one little tablet? How peaceful can you sleep when complex behaviors such as “sleep-driving” have been reported by people taking the drug? I kid you not!

And what about this epidemic of penile flacidity? Is that even a word? Has this always been a problem and if so, why are we forced to hear about it now, and ad nauseam? I puzzle over why, when a man takes one of those little pills, he and his intended sexual partner end up in separate bathtubs, overlooking the ocean. I can’t seem to make the connection. Now back in the day when Ricky and Lucy or the Cleaver’s graced the screen, I understand why we never saw the couples in the same bed, but c’mon, this is 2011 and the soap operas and reality shows display everything…and I mean
e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g!

The ads on TV are enough to make you avoid getting prescriptions filled, but if the commercials don’t make you leery enough, read the literature that comes with your medicines. Start a pill regime with a healthy liver, end up with a bad one and kidney failure. Have restless legs? Wake up and find yourself in an Indian Casino, miles from home, still clad in your pajamas and hunched over a blackjack table. Through the magic of FDA approved medications, you can grow excess facial hair, lose hair you want to keep, see double, triple, or risk blindness altogether. Ain’t it grand?

I can't take over-the-counter cold products with my blood pressure meds because I might have a stroke, and if I combine anything for sinus problems with a certain anti-depressant, I might become suicidal. Next thing I know, I won't be able to have sex on a night with a full moon in any month beginning with J. 

What happened to the days when we didn't have to hear about feminine itching, hemorrhoids and especially sexual dysfunction? Do we really want to see a couple who has that problem, see the twinkle in their eye and know their business? I don't. I'm an author and I believe in a good romance, but I like something left to the imagination. Don't you? Honestly, TV ads take the R right out of Romance sometimes.

Meet Barbara Ehrentreu a/k/a Our Own Barbara E!

Today I’m collecting a flower I’ve been after for a long time.  In the press of our busy lives, it just hasn’t happened yet.  But it’s about to.  Please join me in welcoming my guest today, Barbara Ehrentreu. 

Barbara’s very special for lots of reasons, of course – she’s a Muser and Muse only calls special people. And when those special people are called and arrive home through the Muse doors, who’s one of the first “faces” they see?  Barbara’s.  Via her virtual chocolate chip cookies and fruit basket. Her YA novel If I Could Be Like Jennifer Taylor debuted in September and has been collecting five star reviews right and left.  So exactly who is this woman called Barbara Ehrentreu?  Let’s find out.

Barbara, I have to ask you this.  Don’t you get tired of folks tellin’ you you look like Barbara Streisand?  ‘Cause I swear, every time I look at a picture of you that’s my first thought.

Actually, people say I look more like Bette Middler or Carole King. There’s a funny story about looking like Carole King. When I was thinner we looked almost identical, so one day I was eating lunch with my daughter and this woman sort of peered over at us and almost jumped when she saw me. Then she said: “You’re Carole aren’t you?” I said no of course, but she continued, “My aunt knows her and you are her, just admit it.” Well she went on like this for a few minutes and then finally she accepted that I wasn’t her, but as she was walking away she said, “I still don’t believe you.” There is an addendum to this story. A few weeks later I was interviewing for a teaching job in Bedford, NY where she lives. Her grandkids went to this school. When the principal saw me she said: “I didn’t know Carole was going to be here.” To be fair, she saw me from a few feet away, but there you have it.:) A lot of people joke with me and call me Bette too. I have a story about her too, but that is for another time.

Can’t say as I’d sneeze at being compared to any of the three.  I know you taught for many years, and still tutor, I believe?  Which of course explains why you write such wonderful YA.  You have met the audience and made them yours.  But give us some memories.  What was the most satisfying moment of your teaching career?

There are so many wonderful moments and not so wonderful moments. I guess the one that stands out is what happened with a student I had my first year of teaching. I taught sixth grade and I was only 21. The kids were around 8 or 9 years younger than I was. They didn’t really listen to me, because I looked like a 16 year old. This one boy was especially difficult and acted out a lot in class. So I contacted his mother, who told me she took in invalids and nursed them. So this boy could never act like any 12 year old likes to act in the house. He had to do a lot of chores too, so he had very little time for play. When I realized this I had a talk with him and his mother and he started to improve. She invited my husband and me for Christmas dinner and it was an amazing experience for us. However, his work did not improve, since he had been goofing off too much and was very behind. I had to leave him back for the next year and he understood. The following year arrived and this was a different boy. He became the class leader and helper and when he went on to the middle school I found out he became class president. I will never forget him and his mother. I wish all parents could be like her.

That’s wonderful!  Knowing that you made such a difference in a child’s life.  Now we all know there’s no honesty like the honesty of a kid, nor is there any subterfuge like the plot of a child trying to get away with something – and the combination of the two makes for some hysterical moments.  What was the funniest moment of your teaching career? 

Again, there are too many moments to remember, but one time all the kids hid in the coatroom and then jumped out and yelled “Surprise”. If I had a few memory joggers I could remember more.

And I just bet you were, too.  Surprised.  Muse is one big extended family, and one of the best things about it is sharing each other’s heritage and history.  The Holidays are coming up and all of us have our own treasured traditions.  What’s the most treasured of your family traditions during the Holidays?

We don’t do much of the traditions anymore, but when the kids were younger I wanted them to have a taste of Christmas. We used to go to my English sister-in-law, (now ex) and she would do up Christmas big. So they had stockings filled and one gift when they woke up Christmas morning. I used to read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, to my younger daughter every Christmas eve. As for my own religious traditions, we still light the Menorah, which is the candelabra with 8 candles representing the 8 days the oil burned in the Temple. Sometimes I make latkes, the traditional potato pancakes or we buy them. Homemade is definitely best, but it takes awhile.

Speaking of homemade and food – you told me an hysterical story once about a family gathering.  Something involving an uncle, a fainting spell, and a moving food line?  How ‘bout you tell everybody?  Because I swear, that needs to a scene in one of your books!

Yes, you wouldn’t believe it if you weren’t there. It was a holiday occasion at my brother’s house and my ex sister-in-law invited my cousins who had to drive hours to get there. So anyway, my cousin’s husband, who is usually very quiet, was in the buffet line and suddenly he went down. We had no idea why and someone immediately called 911 for him. My aunts, one of which is no longer here, looked at him and just stepped right over him like he was an obstacle in the road. They would have their food no matter what. I was behind them and I couldn’t believe it. One of them was his mother-in-law!!! The rest of the line stopped in horror as they watched the two of them blithely go on filling their plates. It turned out my cousin’s husband had a few too many drinks, but we couldn’t believe that. He was someone who never made waves at all. So the firemen came and he was okay, but they stayed and had some drinks and food. The poor guy never lived it down to this day! It is probably the most told family story ever!! I will have to figure out how to put this into my next book.

Gives new meaning to mother-in-law jokes, huh?  The other day, The Book Breeze published a few of your shorts, and you knocked me and several other Musers for a real loop!  This is our BarbaraE?  Who writes YA?  And I know I for sure and a few others too, let you know right quick we thought you ought to expand your genres.  We know YA will always be a genre you love, but I really want to see some more of the Barbara who wrote the stories we read in The Book Breeze.  And on that note, when you and I were talking about that, you shared with me a story that’s much shorter than Flash, and you called it a “Drabble”, I think.  It knocked me out!  Would you share it here on Flowers on the Fence?

Definitely. I will be happy to share it. I have a few others that are a little longer and may start posting them on my blog. So look for them. Here it is:

Happy Anniversary 

Twilight on the water was always an array of rainbow colors. Tonight the colors only emphasized pain. Karen had thought coming to the city where they spent their honeymoon would rekindle the flame of their love. Now as they neared the shore she knew his affair with her best friend had killed it. 

The roses Ken, her husband of 20 years, had bought on impulse from the vendor were wilting without any water. She heard the bells ringing from the church tower flanking the piazza where they first met. Karen moved closer to Ken. Placing her lips on his, she reached out with both of her arms and pushed.

Grabbing the flowers, she heard the splash and smiled.

“Happy Anniversary, Ken,” Karen said throwing his roses overboard.

The Fiction Flyer published in April, 2007

* * * *

And so I ask you, gentle female readers – is that Everywoman’s Fantasy or what?!  So com’on, help me out here!  Post your comments and let Barbara know – we want more!  We want more! But before we go this time, here are the links to If I Could Be Like Jennifer Taylor, along with Barbara’s bio and an excerpt from the novel.

And y’all come back now, hear?

Muse Bookstore
https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=203&category_id=6&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1
Amazon - Paperback
http://www.amazon.com/If-Could-Like-Jennifer-Taylor/dp/1927085926/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1322072164&sr=8-1
Amazon - Kindle

http://www.amazon.com/Could-Like-Jennifer-Taylor-ebook/dp/B005NWRLL6/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1322072164&sr=8-2

 Barnes & Nobles
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/if-i-could-be-like-jennifer-taylor-barbara-ehrentreu/1105870667?ean=9781927085929&itm=1&usri=if+i+could+be+like+jennifer+taylor
 

Bio: 

Barbara, a retired teacher with a Masters degree in Reading and Writing K-12 and seventeen years of teaching experience lives with her family in Stamford, Connecticut. When she received her Masters degree she began writing seriously. If I Could Be Like Jennifer Taylor, Barbara’s first YA novel, was inspired by Paula Danziger. Barbara is a NY Literature Examiner for Examiner.com with several articles for them. Her blog, Barbara’s Meanderings,  http://barbaraehrentreu.blogspot.com is networked on both Facebook and Blog Catalog. She hosts Red River Writers Live Tales from the Pages on Blog Talk Radio every 4th Thursday. In addition, her children's story, “The Trouble with Follow the Leader” and an adult story, “Out on a Ledge” are published online She writes book reviews for Authorlink.com. and several of her reviews have been on Acewriters and Celebrity Café. She is a member of SCBWI. Writing is her life!

If I Could Be Like Jennifer Taylor

Carolyn Samuels’ freshman year becomes a series of lies to cover Jennifer Taylor’s terrible secret in return for popularity.

 Carolyn Samuels is obsessed with the idea of being popular. She is convinced that the only thing keeping her from happiness is her too heavy for fashion body and not being a cheerleader. Hyperventilating when she gets nervous doesn’t help. When she is paired for a Math project with the girl who tormented her in middle school, Jennifer Taylor, she is sure it is going to be another year of pain.With Carolyn’s crush on Jennifer’s hunky Junior quarterback Brad her freshman year in high school looks like a rerun of middle school. After Jennifer’s the only student who knows why she fell in gym class, Carolyn is blackmailed into doing her math homework in return for Jennifer’s silence. Jennifer takes on Carolyn as a pity project since she can’t be seen with someone who dresses in jeans and sweatshirts. When Jennifer invites Carolyn to sleep over to make her over and teach her to tumble, Carolyn learns Jennifer’s secret and lies to her own friends to cover it up. Will Carolyn become a cheerleader and become popular? Does she continue to keep Jennifer’s secret? Or will she be a target of this mean girl again? 

Excerpt:

Feeling my old hatred of gym, I glance across the locker room and see Jennifer in red designer shorts and a tight sleeveless shirt to match. She's standing in front of the only mirror in the room turning back and forth.

Becky and I slide into our loose camp shorts and a T-shirt, and once they're on, we race onto the gym floor. Always better to be early for gym the first day. You never knew what kind of teacher you'd have. My athletic ability is zero, so I don’t take chances. Once I was a few minutes late, and the gym teacher in middle school made me run around the gym ten times. It took me the whole gym period.

Becky and I sit on the low seats in the bleachers, but Jennifer and her group saunter into the gym and choose the highest seats avoiding the rest of us. Miss Gaylon, the gym teacher introduces herself and gives us a few minutes until the last stragglers come from the locker room. For those few minutes, I almost feel comfortable. My breathing returns to normal. I hear giggles from Jennifer and her group, but I ignore it.

"Maybe it won't be so bad this year, Carolyn." Becky always tries to cheer me up now. This wasn’t true a few years ago. I had to cheer her up a lot. Becky’s brothers are just turning five, and they’re both in kindergarten. Her mom remarried after being divorced for ten years. Becky was just getting used to her new stepfather when her mom got pregnant. I remember how miserable Becky was the first year of middle school when her mom spent so much time with her twin brothers and didn’t have enough time to help Becky with her homework. Luckily, Becky’s stepfather is a history teacher, so she got very interested in history and current events.

"Right, Becky, and maybe I'll learn to be a gymnast in ten minutes. Reality check, remember last year?"

"Okay, I'm hoping it won't be so bad."

"You mean like the dentist finding you only have one cavity and filling it the same day?"

"You’re so lame, Carolyn. Since we're all older, maybe she'll treat us differently. People change over the summer you know."

"Look at her, Becky."

Becky turns to look over at the group at the top of the bleachers and then turns back to look me in the eye. “You know you have to put that stupid day behind you.”

I pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “What stupid day?”

Like I don’t remember every detail.

“The zip line day.”

“Oh, that day,” I say with a combination grimace and smile. “The day I wound up having to climb off the platform. I wanted to bore a hole into the ground so I wouldn’t have to walk past them but couldn’t, and everyone screamed at me: ‘Breathe, Carolyn, breathe.’”

“You have to admit it was funny the way the gym teacher ran up the ladder like a squirrel to rescue you. Everyone laughed at how stupid she looked. Jennifer got the whole class going with that ridiculous ‘breathe, Carolyn, breathe.’” Becky looks behind her to Jennifer. “You know I wanted to run over and punch her, but I couldn’t because I was still on the platform, and it was my turn to go.”

“Yeah, if I had a few more minutes, I would have been able to get up the courage to grip the zip line and hook myself to it. Stupid teacher didn’t give me a chance. This not breathing thing when I get nervous really sucks.”

Becky nods because she knows me so well.

“So then Jennifer started with that horrible chant, and of course, the whole class followed her, like always.” My eyes fill with tears as I remember, and my breathing is getting worse by the minute.

“I thought it was a dumb idea to do ropes course stuff in school. We did it at my camp the summer before, and no one was forced to do it. Anyone could get nervous with Jennifer in front of them,” Becky comforts me.

I continue talking as if I’m in a trance. “Remember how last year whenever I ran into Jennifer she would whisper ‘breathe, Carolyn, breathe,’ so no one could hear it except me. Once she did it just before I had to go up in front of the class in math. Sometimes she would do it in front of everyone and, of course, get a big laugh while I wanted to turn into a piece of furniture.”

Becky grabs my arm. “Do we have to go back over this again? You need to forget about it.” She takes her hand away from my arm as I continue to speak.

“Becky, I can’t. The thing is it’s this bad movie in my brain looping the same horrible scenes. The funny thing is, most of the time, she would ignore me. I would never know what she was going to do. You have to admire someone so single-minded she managed to get to me at just the right time.

You remember don’t you? And today did you see how she wore the same outfit as me? It’s spooky.”

My funny breathing returns as Miss Gaylon tells us to line up on the yellow line alphabetically. I hope there will be someone to go between Jennifer and me. No luck. Jennifer is going to be behind me all year. I hold my breath. I couldn't stand more of the same this year. I pray for the day to end soon. A glance at my new watch shows me fifteen more minutes left of the period. Is Miss Gaylon's voice getting lower? What is that pounding in my ears?

Jennifer turns to face me, and I hear, "Breathe, Carolyn, breathe.” Then my world turns black.

Conclusion - Of An Only Slightly Premature Holiday Kick-Off!

Conclusion – of an only Slightly Premature Holiday Kick-Off

Today Tanja Cilia’s “timely” Christmas trilogy concludes.  And personally, I think I saved the best for last.  I have to confess I think this one’s my favourite.  If anyone missed the first two, here’s your golden opportunity to read them all at once.  I hope all of you enjoyed this view of Tanja’s “dark” side as much I did.  Didn’t these stories remind you of looking through a mirror?  Into a world where things are slightly skewered, a bit out of line, a little hazy but sharp at the same time?  Please stop by and let Tanja know how much you enjoyed them!

The Ghost of Christmas Future

The calls from the withheld-number continued, and my migraines grew worse. The person who was calling me always seemed to know when I was alone. So I took to leaving it switched off. But whenever I switched it on to check whether I had any messages, the mysterious caller inevitably made his presence felt. It was not a missed call that came in when the other messages did; it was always in real time.

This was spooking me. I asked my children and my husband to swap phones with me. And the calls with the withheld-number switched to which ever phone I would be using at the moment.

I couldn’t take it any more, so I went to the Administration Department of my server. They told me I had to file a Police report, if I wanted to know who was invading my privacy; their simply divulging who was calling me would violate the Data Protection Act.

I went to the Hamrun Police Station, and indicated the screen of the mobile phone, which showed no less than 20 “withheld-number” calls within two hours. The Policewomen was sympathetic, but adamantly repeated what the clerk had said. She handed me a form to fill in, but I declined the offer.

As soon as I turned the corner, I smashed the phone against the wall, and then ground it with my heel. I knelt down, scooped up the pieces, and put them in my handbag, meaning to dispose of them bit by bit in each bin I came across.

I caught the bus to Valletta and bought myself a new mobile telephone from a different server. When it came to choosing the number, I asked each of the three clerks for a random pair of digits. The number these made up was fortunately available.

No sooner was the telephone functioning, than a withheld-number call came through. “See how popular you are?” joked the clerk. I felt faint. One of the young ladies ran to bring me a strong coffee from the eatery next door; another gave me her chair.

I took a deep breath and told them the bare bones of what had been happening. They informed me that with them, the procedure to find out to whom a withheld number belonged was the same as that of the other provider.

The only reason I had not placed a trace on my line before was not to give my tormentor the pleasure of knowing he had got at me. But it was now time to change my mind.

I was given a series of numbers for myself and all the members of my family to key into our phones immediately following a call from a withheld number. This allowed me to switch between using them.

But abruptly, on Christmas Eve the calls ceased. But, just in case they began again, I did not report this. I took to leaving my phone switched on.

On January 11, I was summoned to the Police Headquarters.

“Well?” I asked, mentally going over a list of people I knew disliked me. “Did you find the culprit?”

The Sergeant smiled wryly. “Do you remember Rom Houben - that man with the locked-in syndrome, misdiagnosed as comatose for 23 years? Do you remember how he said he was aware of what was happening all the time he was said to be vegetative, and how his imagination helped him survive?” “Yes, I do, albeit vaguely,” I replied, “but what does that have to do with the calls I’ve been receiving?”

“Do you remember Marija Refalo?” “Oh, of course I do, we were best friends in Primary School. When her Irish mum died, her dad had moved back to Gozo so his mum could take care of the family, but we’d lost touch after a couple of years...”

“Marija married a Norwegian. She’d been on holiday here - she was the pregnant woman thrown through of the windscreen in the accident where the bus overturned...”  “She’d lost the baby and was in a coma, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. At first her husband had insisted she be given artificial nutrition and hydration. Then, he met someone else... and he suddenly decided that it was cruel to keep her suffering. He decided to pull the plug on her. Incongruously, the calls you were getting came from her childhood home number... an empty house. No one lives there now.”

I flinched as if someone had slapped me. “It was Christmas Eve, wasn’t it, when they killed her?”

An Only Slightly Premature Holiday Kick-Off Continues!

Welcome back to Flowers on the Fence Country!  The trilogy of Tanja Cilia’s Flash Fiction, showcasing the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future, continues with….

The Ghost of Christmas Present

He’s in Malta! she muttered, as she waited for the line to connect.  “Meet me at the Upper Barrakka in ten minutes, near where the Lift used to be!”  he said.  That’s all.  Not even the usual “See you!” which he knew could make shivers run up and down her spine.

He had told her not to contact him unless he gave the all-clear, and the coded message had finally come through on her mobile telephone. He was paranoid, she told him, when he insisted that she did not try to contact him on any social site, or even try and track his movements any online newspapers or on search engines. But he said he knew what he was doing – and she trusted him with her whole body, mind, heart and soul. So she didn’t.

Oh heavens, he knows I’m pregnant.  Why didn’t he pick the Lower Barrakka, just across the road? He knows I tire easily – and it’s uphill all the way... I will never understand that man as long as I live.

She bunched up her hair, jammed on her crochet beret, and as she struggled to put on her parka, she rapped on her neighbour’s door and told her she was going out, and handing her the key to the flat, asked her to switch off the oven in fifteen minutes’ time.

“You look excited!” exclaimed the woman into who she bumped as she turned into Saint Christopher Street.  Oh yes, something’s come up... she blushed, and ran up the few steps.   She crossed Saint Ursula Street and turned left when she got to Saint Paul Street.  She was already huffing.  She counted each corner. At the back of her mind, there were those dreary history lessons in which she had learned how the streets of Valletta, except for the coast road, were at right angles to one another.  However, learning their position on a map was extremely difficult for her (she is dyslexic).

Her English language teacher had mocked her in front of the whole class when, during the Careers Convention, she had declared she wanted to become a journalist.  “You can’t even read a Primer!”  I’ll show her, she’d thought.

Eventually, her name had appeared on the front page of The Times of Malta, over the story about how ghostly presences had been seen walking along Saint Barbara Bastions. 

The said teacher had called her editor to say that someone must be ghost-writing her articles...

A medium had sworn he’d been contacted by ‘foreigners speaking heavily accented Maltese’ who were against the proposed underground track service, since it would desecrate their final resting places.  The people who had been commissioned to see it through said he was talking bunkum – there was a lot of money involved in the project. But it turned out that a prison for slaves had existed underground in that general area at the time of the Knights of Saint John.

Not many people noticed that, one Sunday morning, a priest had visited the site, said some prayers and sprinkled some holy water from an asperges over the bastion sill. She had been looking out of her bedroom window, but kept mum. She included the incident in her report... and it was not gainsaid by Church authorities.

He’ll think I’m not coming she gasped, as began climbing the shallow steps in the upper part of Saint Paul’s Street.  People were looking inquiringly at her flushed face given her evident pregnancy. A couple of them made as if to stop her and ask whether she needed any help – but she waved them off. She was actually on maternity leave, but she wanted to one-up the silly journalist from the rival paper with this Christmas scoop.

Once at the very top of Saint Paul Street, she took a deep breath and ran all the way to the entrance of the gardens, heading towards the back. “You made it!” he smiled. It struck her simultaneously that he looked deathly pale, and that he did not get up to greet her. It was only when she went to hug him that she noticed he was sitting in a wheelchair. She flinched.

“They broke both my legs.  And then kneecapped me, to make sure I never walked again... But it doesn’t matter.  Here, take this,” he said, as he handed her a big manila envelope, bulging with secrets.  “Leave.  Now.” 

She made to complain. He shook his head; and suddenly the wheelchair was empty. She gasped, and instinctively felt that for their baby’s sake, it would be better if she left immediately.

Returning home down Saint Ursula Street, where the steps were right across the street that was narrower than the one from which she had come, and no traffic could pass, she felt safer. But she hurried, nonetheless. She heard a squeal of breaks and a sudden commotion. People screamed as an SUV skidded to a halt behind and above her, just in front of the gates of the public garden.

It was later reported that four thugs wearing balaclavas had dashed out of the vehicle, leaving the doors open, and ran into the gardens, guns blazing. Five persons, two of them children, had been injured.

Hearing the staccato shots, and knowing full well she would have been a victim had she been seen holding the envelope, she bent double and retched. An old lady looking out of a tiny side-window at street level saw her.  Idħol, she said, inviting her to push open the door - kept on the latch as is still the habit in some places in Malta. She accepted a mug of hot, sweet tea and played for time just in case ‘they’ began scouring the streets.

Later, much later, she googled his name. The first link that came up was his obituary. He had died five months previously, in an unexplained accident on a business trip.