Roseanne Dowell Presents - Secrets, Lies, & Love!

Hey, y’all!  And welcome back to Flowers on the Fence Country for a return visit from one of my favorite flowers, Roseanne Dowell.  Roseanne is prolific.  We all know that.  And tireless in her efforts to promote and nurture Muse and all Muse writers, having just added Author Liason to her already impressive resume.  Mother of six, grandmother of fourteen, great-grandmother of one.  Writer of romance.  Connection of the Minds, Stranger on the Shore, Double the Trouble, Geriatric Rebel, A Second Chance, and coming soon from MuseItUp Publishing, And They All Fall Down and Elusive Mission.  Her first published novel, Satin Sheets, sold over 35,000 copies.   Coming January 4, Secrets, Lies, & Love from Books We Love Publishing.  And Roseanne brought a guest with her today, too!  Come meet the heroine of Secrets, Lies & Love, Miss Meghan Shelby!

Hi, I’m Meghan Shelby. My parents moved away from Littleton when I was seventeen, but now here it is ten years later and I’m back.

I inherited the family home, a Queen Anne Victorian from my Aunt Beth. I always loved that house, so needless to say I was excited when I received the letter from my aunt’s attorney. Not that my aunt passed away, I was very sad about that, but coming back to Littleton after all this time was exciting.

I’m not sure why we moved away. It was all kind of sudden and we never came back. Not once in all those years, not even when Gran passed away. I never knew why. Every time I asked, the question went ignored. Eventually, I quit asking.

Anyway, here I was back in the town I loved, standing in front of a dilapidated, run-down home that used to be one of the most elegant in town. Shutters were hanging by one hinge, windows were broken, the porch floor was rotten and the back door lock was broken.

How had Aunt Beth allowed this to happen? I was half afraid to go inside, but I ventured in. What a mess. It was going to take a lot of money to get this place back to its glory days.

To make matters worse when I went inside, the stench was almost unbearable. Well, no wonder, there was a dead body in the living room.

Who he was, or why he was there in my house, I had no idea. For some reason, the sheriff wasn’t convinced of that. To top it all off, he caught me in the arms of my new boss, the principal of the elementary school and the guy I had a crush on all those years ago. Oh, I was hired as school secretary.

Needless to say, I was the main topic of conversation around town the next day. Gossipmongers in Littleton were having a ball at my expense.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the next day several eighth grade boys caught the principal kissing me in his office. I’d never live this down. Not that I minded being kissed, especially by Patrick. I just didn’t need it spread all over town.

Once I hired a handyman to fix the windows and change the locks, I rolled up my sleeves and got busy scrubbing the place inside so we could paint. I hired high school kids for that job. There was only so much I could do with working full time. But at least I was able to move in.

That’s when more trouble started. First I received phone calls warning me to leave. Obviously, someone didn’t want me here.

Secrets, Lies, & Love releasing Jan. 4, 2012 from Books We Love Publishing.

http://bookswelove.net/dowell.php

A dilapidated Queen Anne Victorian, a dead body, and an ex boyfriend complicate life for Meghan Shelby when she returns to her hometown after a ten year absence.

Excerpt:

Meghan loved this time of year, though a little too hot to start school in her opinion. Why they felt the need to go back in August was beyond her. She remembered her mother complaining about it years ago. “What was wrong with starting after Labor Day like they did in my day?” Her mother used to rant and rave for weeks before school started. Even got on the School Board. Not that it changed anything. School still started the last week in August. Meghan smiled at the memory.

Now that she thought about it, it was silly. Like they took the last week of vacation away from the kids. Bet the teachers didn’t like it either.

Meghan pulled into the school parking lot. Not much had changed here either. New landscaping, new windows, but that was about it. The old building looked pretty much the same.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty hall. She’d never been in the school when it was empty before. The strong odor of wax and other cleaning products prickled her nostrils. The clean smell lingered through the first few days of school.

It had been a long time since she’d been to the principal’s office and she stopped outside, took a deep breath and held it. Here goes nothing. Mr. Duncan said look for Mr. Mac.  He must be new in town. It wasn’t a name she remembered. So what was the worse he could say? Letting out her breath, she hurried inside, before her nerve left her.

A man stood with his back to her, unpacking a box of books.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Mr. Mac.”

 “I’m Mr. Mac.” He turned toward her.

Meghan’s breath caught in her throat. “Patrick!” The word slipped out of her mouth, before she could stop it. The love of her life stood in front of her, even better looking and sexier than she remembered. Her heart skipped a beat, her legs turned to jelly, and she grabbed the edge of the desk to steady herself.

Patrick smiled at her. That easy smile she remembered from long ago. The smile she used to love. It lit up his eyes.

“Little Meghan Shelby. Not so little anymore I see.”

Heat burned her cheeks as Patrick looked her up and down, apparently taking in every inch of her. He remembered her. After all this time he knew who she was. Would wonders never cease?

“Uh, um...” Oh crap. Now wasn’t the time to get tongue tied. “You’re the principal here?” Lord, could she work for him. See him every day?

“Yes, I am. I heard you were back in town. Are you staying then? Do you want to register your child?”

“Huh?” Her child, was he nuts?

 “Uh, no,  I’m here about the secretarial position. Mr. Duncan was supposed to call you.”

“Really? You want the job?”

“Yes, didn’t Mr. Duncan call? He told me to come right over.”

 “If he did I didn’t hear the phone. I’ve been in and out of the office.” He nodded toward the stack of books. “Too busy around here this time of year.” Patrick grinned and motioned her into his office. “So tell me about yourself. What qualifies you for the job?”

Qualifications? Think, damn it. What was the matter with her? She’d lost all train of thought. “Well, I’m computer proficient. I’m good with math. And I love children.” What more could he want?

“I see. So why do you want the position? Tell me about your education.”

His deep voice sent shivers down her spine. Meghan couldn’t take her gaze from him. All sense of reason flew out the window. She had the most God awful urge to reach up and push his dark hair out of his eyes. “I’m a former Math major, have two years of college. I’m a quick learner.” Finally, she looked away.

The phone rang.

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.

An Only Slightly Premature Kick-Off to the Holiday Season

Welcome back to Flowers on the Fence!   I’ve collected this particular Flower before.  On my second blog posting, in fact.  To refresh your memories, I introduced my sister-across-the-water Tanja Cilia and shared her impeccably crafted Haiku. 

Well, I’ve got a new mission in life.  Think back with me.  How many times in the group e-mails have you seen Tanja preface remarks with “I’m an editor, not a writer but…”  But nothing.  Tanja Cilia is a writer.  Her specialty – and I’ve been privileged to read many of them in the past months since we’ve come into each other’s lives – is Flash Fiction.  The woman writes Flash Fiction worthy of the most classic episodes of The Twilight Zone.  I have never, ever, in my entire life known anyone who says so much in so little, twisting and turning her words like a knife until – she flashes in for the kill.  She’s represented here by the image of Athena that has become her trademark.  She prefers it to an actual photo, she says, for the same reason she prefers radio over television.  The imagination produces better pictures.  Maybe that’s the secret to her incredible shorts.

After much cajoling, I have prevailed upon her to allow me to re-present a trilogy of Flash Fiction that appeared in 2009 in the online Christmas Supplement of the Malta Times.  Today Flowers on the Fence – most proudly – presents  The Ghost of Christmas Past, as told by Tanja Cilia.  Stay tuned, though!  The Trilogy will continue…through the present…through the future…..

The Ghost of Christmas Past 

I open the secret drawer of the bureau I’d bought myself as a Christmas present from the auction. I’d always wanted one.  The very idea of combining the old and the new – setting up my laptop on an antique, and in my own version of retro chic, excited me.

One of the carvings going down the side of the bookshelf stood proud of the rest.  I reached out to flatten it – and a panel at the side of the bureau sprang open.

Hey!  That’s MY handwriting.  That’s MY diary!  How on earth could my diary for 2008 be here, of all places? How come it’s so dusty?

I had been a gifted child. My peers and teachers had hated me for it, and tried to break my spirit.  When I fidgeted because I was bored, they said I was arrogant.  They mispronounced my name on purpose, just to see me get het up.  When I put my hand up to answer the teacher’s questions, I was always ignored.

For the official documents of my consultancy firm, I always use black ink.  For private use, I always use “nice” ink colours like aquamarine and lilac and peach.... I know it’s frivolous, but my friends, to whom I still send snail-mail letters, really appreciate it.

But the diary is written in blue ink, throughout.  It’s weird. I never, but never, use blue ink. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I am compelled to read the entries, as if this would soothe the unease I am feeling. It’s the exact opposite of déjà-vu.  A presentiment that something ominous is about to happen.

It’s like a rumbling behind my belly-button, and the vertiginous feeling you get when you look out of a high-rise building, and the aura before a migraine strikes, and a tingling sensation behind my knees..... as if something is not quite right with my body, but I cannot quite put my finger on it. 

April 12... My daughter came home from school in a teacher’s car because she had twisted her ankle when playing volley-ball.

The name of the teacher as given here is Miss Camilleri.  But I know for a fact that Miss Camilleri  cannot drive.  It was Mrs Brincat who had brought Ruth home; she had been in my class at school - we had been best friends -  and she always gave my daughter special attention, for old times’ sake .... 

I turn to June 5, on spec.  That was the day the brakes of our car didn’t hold, and we ran into the car in front of us.  Yes... here it is, “car crash”.  Oh, no!  It says we were in the ‘new’ Getz Malibu...  When the accident happened we could not have been in any other car but our old trusty Triumph Toledo. We never had any spare cash to purchase the car we really wanted – a Toyota.

July 28.  My sister-in-law’s baby was stillborn. 

It was not.  In fact, the baby died of an internal hemorrhage six months after he was born. And my sister-in-law says that she has never told anyone but me about her recurring dream, in which the baby is stillborn. 

August 17.  There was the explosion at the fireworks factory across the fields from our house. Someone had bought some contraband Chinese fireworks, and they were dismantling them to see how they were assembled. Snow put out the fire from the explosion.  

Snow?  I cannot understand this. We never get snow in Malta – and if we did, it would never have been in August, when the weather, as we say colloquially, is hot enough to fry eggs on pavements. 

My head spins; I think I’d best make myself a mug of tea and lie down. But first, I have to check - although I am afraid to do so - September 3....

I remember that on the night of my birthday, I had cried myself asleep because I felt unloved and unwanted.  The husband and kids know I hate surprise birthday parties and yet they threw me one anyway.  True enough.  I made a scene and spoiled it all for them, saying that what I want is respect and not empty meaningless, expensive parties... My sister-in-law called me a spoiled brat.

That is so not true. I didn’t want to be a killjoy, and so I pretended that I was enjoying it. I can still recall the ache in my jaws from my false smiles, trying to make them believe I was enjoying it. Later, the little one asked me whether I would have preferred “just a hug and a kiss” from each one of them... and that is when the dam holding back my tears had burst.  

I hear a key turn in the lock. I call out to tell my husband I am in the sitting room, and he asks what the matter is.  He probably realizes from my voice that I am under shock, and I hear him running along the corridor. 

He is not my husband.  I can see the puzzled look in his eyes. And when I silently point down at the diary in my lap, the pages are blank…

Nightmare Before Halloween

The writer pulled herself back from sleep. The words of a character already born on paper but not yet even a submission to her publisher rang in her ears. Tamara? Impossible. Tamara, the Voo-Doo priestess, the Mambo, the servant of the sweet Loa of the Rada, powers of the Light that guarded the world from the bitter Loa of the Petro, forces of darkness – Tamara lived in 1888. And then only in the writer’s heart and soul.

‘Dis worl’… it be ringed with worl’s on worl’s. Dey shift, ‘dey overlap, and some of ‘dose worl’s be real dark, full of evil and danger, and some of ‘em, ‘dey be real bright and beautiful. An’ sometimes, folks whut doan’ know what ‘dey doin‘, ‘dey can make things happ’n whut wasn’t never ‘sposed to happ’n. An’ things can cross over from ‘dem other worl’s into ‘dis one.”

I fought to pull myself from the clinging tendrils of gray mist that engulfed me, hiding misshapen images hinting of evil, of danger, trying to peek through. “I’m the writer,” I told myself. “I’m Gail Roughton Branan. I control my characters. Sometimes. When they’re not controlling me. I live in the worlds on worlds that ring this world. I create parallel worlds of romance, adventure, horror. And worlds wherein I collect my special moments, my special people, the things that make me who I am, Flowers on the Fence Country, the blog that holds pieces of my heart.”

I felt lost, adrift in an alien world. It was All-Hallows Eve, that night of all nights when the veils between the worlds is thinnest, when reality mingles and merges with the realities of other dimensions. Over there, behind that rock enshrouded with mist, was that…could it be? I heard Johnny McKay’s voice, straight from the pages of my first soon-to-be-published novel, Miami Days & Truscan (K)nights, explaining to Tess Ames something of the world she’d crashed into.

“…the Prians, they’re some of the ugliest motherhumpers ever created…. Broad. Very strong. …almost no foreheads, eyes like Porky Pig, nose like a flat snout, big mouths… imagine a pig that’s turned human but not cute and you’d be pretty close… ”

There was a Prian behind that rock! I cleared my eyes but the image didn’t change. And then, out of nowhere, misshapen creatures, bat-like of body and demonic of face, flew out of nowhere and swooped and swirled…. One of them settled on top of Reverend Dennard’s skull and melted itself down over it. An eerie blue light glowed from the bone and red sparked from the eye sockets.

Wait just a minute here! Those misshapen creatures belonged in the not yet even submitted dark horror novel, Dark Destiny, with Tamara, she whose voice had first wakened me in warning. From the swirling mists, I spied a giant of a man, with shaved skull, chanting to himself, “My name be Cain. An’ my color be seb’n.”

A gravely voice answered him, animalistic, the grunt of a humanoid, but not a human. “Halt! You have no standing here. From where did you come, daring to intrude on Prian territory?” Kruska. The Bog Hog himself, King of Pria, mortal enemy of Trusca, the two major powers in the world beyond the door that swung open in the Bermuda Triangle when the swirling, insidious gray mists devoured the sky and sea. The gray mists! No wonder it looked familiar. Tess had flown through just such a miasma of nothingness when the door opened and thrust her into an alien world.

“Prian territory?! Don’t know who you think you are, son, but you in my county! And you and big boy over there can just move y’all’s carcasses right the hell on out!” Oh. My. Lord. Big John Kincaid, the bad guy of Down Home, my to-be-published next September novel. The man who’d run Rockland County with an iron fist for well on fifty years.

Under attack. I was in Flowers on the Fence Country. I could see the remnants of my beautiful fence, bright with flowers, my winding driveway draped with purple clusters of wisteria, withering quickly in the insidious, poisonous mists. My sanctuary was under attack! The door between the worlds now swung wide, allowing Kruska and Cain entry into Flowers on the Fence Country! My warriors, my heroes. Where were they?

As if on cue, the deep voice of Dalph, King of Trusa, sounded in the mists over to my right. “Green eyes, stay close. Kruska’s here, we cannot lose him now.”

The retort came quickly, my heroine Tess not being one to stay behind. “Then I suggest we move our rears and find him, my King!”

Dalph laughed softly. “And possibly if you cease scolding me, my Queen, we could manage not to alert him to our presence. I don’t know this country, Tess. I don’t know where we are. If we had someone familiar with the terrain –”

“Well, we might be able to help y’all out with that. Don’t you think, Maggie?” That came from behind me. I’d know that voice anywhere. The slow Southern drawl, not exaggerated and mutilated as it so often is on Hollywood’s big and small screens, but the real deal. As it should be. Billy Brayton, the hero of Down Home, home of country espionage mingled with a touch of the Redneck Comedy Tour.

“Don’t see why not. Be downright inhospitable not to. Not to mention dangerous.” Maggie Kincaid Brayton, steel magnolia. “Know I heard Daddy Dearest over there. Not sure what else is loose in the woods, Billy, but I got an idea we don’t want ‘em here in Rockland County. And for sure not in our woods. And we know we don’t want Daddy Dearest runnin’ loose. Hey, y’all. I’m Maggie Brayton. This is my husband,
Billy. And y’all would be?”

Of all my characters, Billy and Maggie Brayton knew Flowers on the Fence Country. It was their country, too, Down Home being modeled on the country life and folks I knew so well as my home town.

“Our pleasure. I am Randalph of Trusca. Call me Dalph. This is my queen, Tess. And one of the things loose in your woods is the King of Pria. And no, you do not want him here.”

“Sounded strange. Don’t b’lieve I’ve ever heard a human sound quite that. Almost like a pig snortin’.” Maggie, born and bred in Flowers on the Fence Country, would know.

“Good ear,” Tess said approvingly. “That’s close. But the other guy over there, the one mixing up numbers and colors, that ‘my color be seb’n’ dude, I don’t have a clue about him.”

“And that would make you a very lucky lady.” That voice came from the left. From Dark Destiny, not yet even submitted for publication. “Cain’s not a man you want to socialize with. If he’s even a man at all.” The soft, cultured Southern voice of Dr. Paul Devlin, who’d defeated Cain for the first time in 1888, in another southern town I knew intimately. Macon, Georgia. But he was by himself. Where was – Oh! There she was. Ria Knight, the fearless attorney who’d fallen in love with Paul Devlin over a century later in Rose Hill Cemetery, who’d joined him in the second battle against Cain.

“He’s not so tough as he thinks,” Ria hooked her arm through Paul’s. “You’ve taken him down already, darlin’.”

“But he so persistently comes back!” Paul shook his head.

“Third time’s a charm,” said Ria.

“You say that here, too?” asked Dalph.

“Excuse me, formal introductions are nice and all, all of us having lived together for so long in that crazy writer woman’s head, I swear, does she pop happy pills for breakfast? I mean, how else could she think of all this stuff? But can we get down to business here?” Trust Tess, the true businesswoman, the corporate troubleshooter, to get right down to the nitty-gritty.

“I don’t mean to assume, but I believe I know just the solution to this problem.” Lord, I loved Paul Devlin. Though I loved Dalph and Billy just as much. No mother could choose between her children, after all. “And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a feel in the air that makes me think we don’t have a lot of time to implement it.”

“Well, don’t be shy, sugar, please enlighten us.” There was something so down right down home about Maggie.

Billy, lifelong lawman, cocked his head and lifted his eyebrown. “And something else is gettin’ ready to start shakin’?”

“Oh, yes, there’s the same feel to the air – ” Paul broke off. No time. They were out of time. A lightning bolt struck down, almost at their feet. The air filled with electrical current flowing from the lightning that flashed as other doors cracked, opening in to the worlds on worlds that ringed this earth. But this was different. The air didn’t just crackle. It hissed, it burned, it smoldered.

It appeared from nowhere. At one moment, it wasn’t there; the next it was. It. The beast was huge, ten feet or more in height. It stood before them, and opening its mouth, gave a mighty roar. It seemed a composite of all predators that roamed the earth. My mind, not capable of fully accepting the true appearance of the beast, swiftly translated its characteristics into terms the human brain could comprehend. Visions of a lion’s mane, a wolf’s fur, a monkey’s face, a lizard’s feet, ran swiftly before my eyes, and settled in dread on the alligator-like teeth that ringed the open mouth.

It growled and turned toward my characters. It could smell the blood, I knew. Lovely blood; hot, rich and heavy. Though it came here seldom, and though the doors almost never cracked between the creature’s world and ours, this was its favorite hunting ground. The inhabitants of this plane were so full of blood; bright red blood which ran like wine down its thirsty throat, not like the anemic creatures with which it habitually had to content itself.

Billy, Investigator for the Rockland County Sheriff’s Department, reached for the Glock in his belt. The twin of the Glock appeared in Maggie’s hands, though I didn’t see her pull it out. Dalph, warrior from an earlier time, drew his sword. Tess did the same, and just as swiftly, too, my mother’s eye noted in approval. My modern American girl had wasted no time in figuring out that the rules of the game had changed and she’d best be getting conversant with the rules of the world she’d ended up in.

“Admirable speed, but I’m afraid those won’t do you much good,” Paul advised. “That’s a Blood Drinker.”

“We’re open to suggestions, buddy,” drawled Billy, sighting the Glock directly on where he hoped the creature’s heart was. “Maggie, aim for the eyes. That’s gotta do something, no matter where any other vital organ is.”

“Tamara!” Paul’s shout rang through the mists while the Blood Drinker advanced towards my characters. My other family. My children. “Tamara, where are you?”

A figure materialized beside the Blood Drinker, regal of bearing, copper of skin, a rag turban highlighting beautiful cheekbones that gave the impression of an African Queen. Oh, yes. Tamara was in the house. She fell to her knees and began to chant. Her face poured sweat. The small capillaries in her eyes popped in the intense concentration and poured blood. She chanted like she’d never chanted before; begging God and the Loa of the Rada, all the sweet spirits of the Light, to stop this intruder, to send the invader back, back to the worlds which were its by right.

Never, never in her long battle with the dark had she swayed with this intensity. And in reward, the Loa poured their power through her in a scalding flood. Drenched in sweat, she felt the Rada battling with the Blood Drinker, the child from the outer reaches of the planes of darkness. So did the Blood Drinker. It started towards Tamara, who chanted relentlessly, pouring sweat in rivulets, and abruptly, the air was split with a monstrous bolt of lightning and the Blood Drinker disappeared. Tamara collapsed.

My characters rushed to her, but as they approached, her figure wavered and disappeared and only her voice floated back.

“All y’all! You be children of ‘de light! Doan you nev’r give in to the darkness! Do you hear me?”

And in another instant, all my characters disappeared. My eyes flew open. I was sitting on the backyard swing, my favorite reading spot for those perfect fall and spring days.

My five year old grandson slipped his little hand in mine.

“Grandmama? Where’d they go?”

“Where did who go, honey?”

“The people. The monsters.”

“You must have been day dreamin’, honey,” I assured him, knowing full well he wasn’t.

“No, Grandmama! The heroes were here! I saw them by my own eyes!” He reached his hand up and traced a line underneath his eye and across his cheekbones with his finger. I smiled at his wording. I’d miss those treasures of childhood that disappeared as children grew. “I want to see them again!”

“Well, you learn to read and grow up for a few more years, I can show them to you.”

“All of them?”

“Well, I can’t promise all of them right yet,” I said, smiling as I remembered my soon-to-be-published characters’ parting words to Paul and Ria, who’d not yet been submitted for publication.

“Hurry, come join us! It’s time to be born! Don’t let her dilly-dally around with you!”

Guess I’d better get busy on Paul and Ria’s final polish.

Don’t y’all think?