06 October 2017

Playing house, are you? Self-medicating?

Did you know that in ancient times the snake was a symbol for healing?

Only one thing cures your misery, but you refuse to look me in the eye.

22 May 2017

There are helicopters over the Pass again. Eight a.m. and already seventy degrees, the sky a cloudless vault of white-blue heat. I sit alone and listen to the still air being shredded; now and then the whirlybirds appear over the trees, back and forth like vultures. There is no other sound, no other movement except the occasional butterfly dancing on my roses.

I should keep bees, I think. It would be a humanitarian thing to do. By which I mean good not only for the bees but for the human race as well.

Not that I begrudge the butterflies. My heart lifts a little every time one flits past, as though it would fly with the bright yellow wings and leave the shell of me here on my porch.

08 January 2017

The way she leaned just slightly toward him in her chair, and he toward her more pronouncedly—they were like two trees whose trunks twisted toward one another as though to become one. Yet neither of them showed any notice of this, and the others around the table waited to see . . . If the two of them would just turn their heads at the right time, even only to look at one another, an inadvertent kiss would be the likely result.

27 December 2016

Next Regency Book Idea

After giving birth, Fae Milne's mother went crazy. She insisted Fae was a changeling, not of the known world. Duncan Olivier thinks it may be true. Fae's sweet temperament and dreamy nature, along with her affinity with animals, do seem otherworldly.

Fae's older brothers Richard and Edward guard Fae's virtue—but is there more to them than meets the eye? Or are they merely doing their brotherly duty?

Duncan Olivier is desperate to find out the truth about Fae and her family, but what will it cost him?

14 December 2016

It started with the low whispers that adults use when something is very wrong. The rapid hissing and sudden stops. If they really want to hide things from children, they should just talk normally.

So it came as no surprise, really, when my father came upstairs, his face drawn and grave. "Lizzie," he said, "sit down."

I obediently took a seat on the edge of my bed, and my father sat next to me. He looked at me for a long time, and I looked back, unflinching, willing him to just come out with it.

After what seemed like years, he said, "Your mother..."

I shifted where I sat, which seemed to break his concentration. My parents were no longer married. Mom lived across town in a nice house that I visited infrequently. It wasn't hers; it belonged to her family, and her two brothers and mother still lived in it. At least, I thought they did. It was difficult to tell. My mother and her family were a strange lot. I much preferred the relative quiet of living with just my father.

Dad got back on track. "She's..."

I squinted at him, trying to see into his head so he wouldn't have to say whatever he was having such trouble saying.

"Dead," he finally said. I wondered whether he'd been testing other words in his mind: gone, passed away... But Dad and I were alike in more than a few ways, and being clear and direct in our words was one of them.

Now he squinted at me, gauging my reaction. "They're going to move us, aren't they?" I asked.

Dad grimaced. "Probably."

I sighed. "Was it because of you?"

"We don't know."

Was it because of me? But I didn't ask that. It made little difference if it was because of Dad or me; we were a package deal. Mom had said so herself when swearing us off, unable to live under the heavy hand of the government any longer.

But that hand had also protected her.