Fall From Grace – Chapter 14

Here is the next installment of Fall From Grace. As Always feel free to tell me what you think and Happy Reading!

The blazing midday sun turned the Dungeon and Jail into a humid oasis of pain and displeasure baking in a cramped beehive. Grace and Tituba sat in the shadows of the window bars with their backs to the stone wall.

Grace’s bloodshot eyes glowed as brightly as hot embers in the dim lighting of the cell as they overlooked the roaming prisoners, her throat and jaw were a mottled mass of bruises resembling the garish makeup worn by the royal court.
Just after dawn the two guards came and whisked Mrs. Nurse away to her trial, leaving Tituba and Grace alone in the confines of the cell. Tituba quietly sat up with Grace after the sheriff departed from the communal cell last night, whispering prayers that no one could hear; every so often she would wake Grace to make sure that the young woman didn’t leave the cell in the company of the grim reaper – the king of terrors frightened all who resided on earth. After the sheriff stormed out in a rage the other prisoners settled down to rest as best they could in these hellish conditions.
The heat of the sun signified that it was almost time for the afternoon meal. The accused in the large, communal cell took turns walking in the walled off courtyard, while Grace watched them as her head rested on Tituba’s bony shoulder.
The bruising on her neck resembled the vibrant hues of autumn leaves with some patches being as dark as freshly tilled soil. The dim lighting of the cell may have hidden her bruises, but it couldn’t hide the ominous glow of bloodshot eyes leaking murky tears.

Those same eyes widened when the door separating the cells from the sheriff’s office opened with a thud. Four men rushed into the midst of the prisoners. Grace could hear metal clanking as the shackles that hung at the deputies waists moved about. Their hands were filled with rough, heavy rope.
Each of the deputies had full beards and enough scars on them to frighten the devil himself. They wore no hats, leaving their shaved scalps, glistening with sweat, for all the world to see. As the grit built up in her eyes and her vision continued to burn and blur Grace watched the deputies roughly seize the prisoners and bind them together with shackles.
Shrieks and cries resounded in the Dungeon and Jail as multiple people were crammed into the remaining solitary cells – four at a time. The prisoners rained curses down upon the jailers as though it would make them see reason. They tripped over each other as their bindings caught and landed in piles of arms and legs. Apparently, the sheriff had not taken the prisoners show of solidarity lightly.
The cacophony of terror that the prisoners were shouting resembled horses stampeding down a dusty road in a deluge of rain. The only thing clearly heard over the noise was the foul insanity that the deputies were growling. Once the last of the restricted cells were slammed shut, the deputies stomped out to the courtyard and rounded up those that were still free.
Those outside were pulled into the communal cell in pairs of two, bound by rope. More than one of the prisoners had fresh cuts that stung as sweat and dirt mixed into them. Of all the prisoners only one was escorted in by herself.
Her proud head was bent while her steel grey hair was streaked bright with blood, but the strength in her shoulders was not to be denied. As the guards drug the middle-aged woman between them, her head flopped from one shoulder to the next. When Grace caught a look at the limp face on the rough body that the guards were dragging towards her cell, she paled allowing her blood shot eyes to glow in horror at the sight of an abused human being.
Bruises formed on Mrs. Bishop’s blood soaked body. Two deputies roughly pulled the unconscious form of Mrs. Bishop in front of the cell Grace and Tituba inhabited.
One deputy roughly held the still body of the tavern owner and the other unlocked the cell. Mrs. Bishop was roughly thrown to the floor in a limp heap as the cell door slammed shut.
Grace looked upon Mrs. Bishop with pity and took a deep breath while glancing at Tituba before gruffly asking, “Why are we the ones accused of witchcraft, when they are the people that go against God’s Law?”
Even though prisoners were still wailing and groaning about their fate, Grace’s gravelly voice carried. Tituba looked at her friend as though Grace had lost her wits. The other prisoners were muttering in agreement with Grace’s statement and the guard that had thrown Mrs. Bishop around like a rag doll had the decency to blush apple red in shame.

The other deputy on the other hand, sneered at Grace and spat, “Were you Godly citizens we wouldn’t have to be teaching you your place.” The grey eyes of this deputy were colder than a sunless day in the dead of winter, showing Grace all she needed to know about this so-called creature of God.
“Were the Reverend Parris not so greedy, we wouldn’t be here. He wanted more firewood and stricter laws to curtail our small earthly pleasures away from the Town and thus reigned this evil down upon us. Now he and the judge believe the mouths of babes who have naught enough to do during the day,” Grace boldly stated.
The deputy with the cold grey eyes turned an angry shade of purple. Rather than open the cell to rain down another punishment on Grace for her stubbornness , the deputy stood as close to the cell door as he could and spat on Grace.
The man’s spittle landed on Grace’s chin and was a mix of slimy mucus and day old tobacco. Grace angrily bestowed a glowering glare on the guard as his spittle dripped onto her already tattered and filthy dress adding another stain to the mix; she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her clean his filth from her face. Pride may be a high offense to God, but Grace would not give this soulless creature the pleasure of seeing her break.
“We shall see how prideful you are the day you swing lifelessly from Gallow’s Hill as God condemns your soul,” the deputy sneered as he turned from the cell in a cloud of dust.
“Should that day arrive I will meet God with a heart full of devotion. Can you say the same,” Grace retorted. This bold statement caused only one of the guards to hang their heads in front of the prisoners; though none of them could face the accusation honestly.

Rather than face the truth, the deputies did the only thing left to them. They strode from the communal prison leaving only a mouse to scurry around looking for crumbs of a meal not yet served.

Fall From Grace – Chapter 13

It’s been a while since I posted about my latest WIP – Fall From Grace. For all of you wondering about what is going on, here is a rough copy of Chapter 13!

I would also like to remind you that the Salem witch trials were a dark and ugly period in the United States’ past. In this story I am striving for historical accuracy. My goal is to shed light on these actions and to tell a tale that leaves you thinking and wanting more.

As always, Happy Reading and feel free to leave a review!

 

The dying embers of the communal fire were all that could be seen in the despairing pit of the jail. The heat the fire gave off disappeared shortly after sunset leaving the multitude of prisoners lost in their own shadows and trapped in the torments that their minds played on the stone walls. Grace and Tituba sat next to each other in their tiny, rock-hewn cell; the rope that bound them together lay lax between them. They shared what little heat their bodies provided. An old woman with steel grey hair lay just outside their cell.

Tituba’s head rested on the wall as she asked, “Miss Grace, why aren’t you bitter for being held with no cause?”

Grace let out a breath and quietly answered, “Bitterness has only been known to accomplish despair; faith in God, on the other hand, is known to work miracles.”

“You can’t see God, Miss Grace. In times such as these, seeing is something we can grasp in our darkest hours.”

Grace hummed lightly and answered, “God is all around us. He created the sun to warm us and plants to nourish us. If the bounty in the earth can come back after a bitter winter, surely we can follow God’s plan without seeing him,” Grace finished serenely.

“To right you are Grace Bacon. Remember though, the bible also directs, ‘When ye thought evil against me, God disposed it to good, that he might bring to pass, as it is this day, and save much people alive,” the old woman on the other side of the cell softly croaked.

“Mrs. Nurse! You shouldn’t be awake. The least you could do is try to rest in these deplorable dungeons,” Grace quietly exclaimed.

Mrs. Nurse scoffed before replying, “Tosh Child! These hard stones do nothing for my creaky, old bones that hurt with the cold and rain. ‘Sides you’ll need to speak louder than a prayer for my failing ears to hear you. What need of sleep have I, when they’ll be deciding my fate in the dawn,” she boldly stated in her frail voice.

Grace shook her head and answered, “Mrs. Nurse they could do nothing but find you innocent of all charges. The entire town knows of your piety; your regular attendance at church shows that – as does your kindness for those in need.

“Besides, your children and grandchildren follow yours and Mr. Nurse’s generous lead in the world,” Grace insisted.

Mrs. Nurse scoffed as she began, “Good Lord child! You are naive! The curse of man is that he always has a choice. Remember, God does not force our hand; man does.”
A lightening bolt flashed outside emphasizing Mrs. Nurses’s dire words. Grace sighed loudly at the omen of the weather to come. Before she could say anything a roll of thunder shook the Dungeon and Jail.

“It seems that nature thinks we need another bath,” Grace tartly stated.
Mrs. Nurse chuckled at that before muttering, “I’d rather meet my fate clean and smelling of rain than streaked with mud from these suburbs of hell.”
Tituba and Grace chuckled at the truth in that. “The court would definitely prefer the smell of clean skin and spring blooms to the stench of human waste,” Grace assured grimly.

“I think we’d all prefer it,” another woman replied from within the cell.

“A gentle rain would be nice; it’s been awful dry this spring. They’ve not even brought us winter wine to drink,” another woman hollered from across the room.
Several of the prisoners nodded at the injustice of being denied a strong drink.

“You think we can get them to bring us some from The Ship,” the same woman halfheartedly mused.

“Doubtful, Mrs. Bishop, but it couldn’t hurt to try – especially as what they serve is the best made on Gods sprawling hills,” a man dryly answered.

“The Reverend didn’t like the fact that travelers stayed up later than curfew, gambling and a drinking; so it’s Witches Brew they accuse me of making.

“Never mind that Judge Sewell uses my winter wine for his fancy syllabub. A noble drink for a high-classed man.

With my luck they’ll post the jury summons for the trial on the doors of my own tavern,” Mrs. Bishop finished snidely.

Before the imprisoned crowd could become unruly Grace began, “Ladies and gentlemen, please calm down. If the sheriff should come in here and find us in a such an angered state, I feel God wouldn’t be able to make our stay in this Dungeon and Jail more bearable.”

“The devil himself couldn’t make our stay more vile,” a random man called out.

“You would be surprised by who and what can be forgotten. A meal or two can easily be missed as the sheriff will easily be distracted by other duties,” Grace insisted.

“They’d not miss a chance to charge us for our stay,” another woman countered, this was punctuated by another flash of lightening.

“Yet such an act has been done,” Grace tried to reason over the growing dissent as thunder rolled once more.

As the prisoners grew more restless a clinking of metal on metal rattled causing Grace and Tituba to flinch.

“Enough! Bacon if it be your wish to start a ruckus, mayhaps you should plead guilty to the courts and see us all rid of your abhorrent presence,” a rumbling male voice shouted from the front of the cell moments after Grace’s warning.

Lightening flashed outside the Dungeon and Jail, illuminating Grace’s pale, haggard features. Her stringy hair lay matted to her face while eyes flashed in anger. For the first time in months her scalp didn’t itch. Her temper on the other hand would not be stayed, “May God lay me low if any word I speak is untrue. My hand has signed no contract with the devil, your actions on the other hand suggest you have.

“Were your mother to see the way in which you treat these fair people she would bear more shame than there are leaves in the trees,” Grace finished vehemently.
The sheriff stormed over to the tiny cell, pushing the other prisoners out of the way. Thunder rocked the Dungeon and Jail with every step he took. The anger distorted his face and the dim cell light so that he resembled the creature the accused were said to follow.

The sheriff stopped at the edge of the cell and reached one hand in, tightly gripping Graces’ jaw, “ My sainted mother sits in the golden pews with God. She would have no pity for the likes of a witch serving a sinful master!”

Gasping for breath, Grace gurgled, “Than I hope God takes pity on your soul; for there is no way that your mother would.”

As the sheriff’s hand squeezed her throat tighter, Grace began to wheeze. Her vision started to gray while her arms and legs became tingly and numb. She struggled to pull the sheriffs hands away from the base of her throat. Her nails were so weak they wouldn’t leave a scratch against the sheriff’s tough, leathery skin. As bleak unconsciousness was about to claim her, Grace heard, “Let her go!”

With a whoosh of air Grace looked up to see Tituba clinging to the arm of the sheriff. On the other side of the cell the prisoners were pulling the sheriff away, forcing distance between him and the confined prisoners.

A human shield formed between the sheriff and the bars to Grace’s cell. These tired and tattered people found a cause to unite them – protecting one of their own from undue harm.

While the sheriff limped from the communal cell, Grace lay confined in her tiny cell with her head in Tituba’s lap. The filthy rags on her chest heaved as though she were drinking in the air around her. As sweat beaded her forehead and she tried to catch her breath, Grace heard, “Don’t let them forget us, Miss Grace.”

Fall From Grace – Chapter 9

I have been working slowly but surely on Fall From Grace. The amount of research that I have already put into this is staggering – and to think, I’m still not done. One thing I have found is a new sympathy for the Puritans.

Other things I have noticed are the severe inaccuracies that we are taught in school. There are quite a few of those. A fascinating fact is that  the colonies were known as the land that spawned grandparents. Less industry in the so-called new world meant people could live longer and for the first time, parents were seeing their grandchildren being born.

Another fact is that contrary to popular belief, Puritans married for love. The median male age for marriage was 26, while the females tended to marry at 23.

Before I continue on the amazing and wondrous facts that I have learned, I give you Chapter 9 in Fall From Grace.

As always feel free to share your thoughts and Happy Reading!

The three prisoners stayed up well into the night as there was no way for them to get comfortable. The full moon lit up the little cell illuminating the haggard looking prisoners.

Though thunder rolled through the sky promising to let loose a downpour that could flood the crops – and their cell, there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

“What happened to Mrs. Good,” Grace whispered.

“She was sent to Ipswich Jail on account of her being with child. They’ll probably try to charge her newborn with witchcraft as well. Lord above knows that they charged her four-year-old with it,” Mrs. Osbourne bitterly informed.

Grace sighed and managed to look angry rather humiliated. With her neck bent, the moonlight made the lice in her hair sparkle and crawl at the same time. “They’re charging children,” Grace exclaimed in horror.

“That has been our way since the beginning. You know well how children are expected to act, Grace,” Mrs. Osbourne sternly reminded.

“I realize they are held to adult standards but, at four a child’s mind is filled with whimsy and imagination. Young Dorothy Good wouldn’t be able to speak intelligently enough to answer the interrogators,” Grace confirmed with muffled tones.

“What they’re doing’s not right, Miss Grace. They even sent Miss Dorothy to Ipswich with her mother,” Tituba whispered.

“Why do they have the right to hold a child in shackles,” Grace asked plaintively.

“Those are the rules. Besides, she claimed that a snake spoke to her,” Mrs. Osbourne insisted.

“Rules or not, they aren’t right. A talking snake is nothing more than her own imagination. There aren’t many ways for a girl to occupy her time. It’s not like we could go out and learn a trade,” Grace insisted with her bent head.

“We shouldn’t be here accused of crimes that weren’t committed, Grace,” Mrs. Osbourne stated to a flash of lightning and roll of thunder.

Rain poured from the sky in bucket loads obscuring the once bright moon. The fire in the hearth across on the other side of the jail did nothing to warm the cell as rain leaked through the window above them.

***

The mid-day sun was turning the cell into a sauna. Bodily waste baked in the scorching heat of the sun. Water from last night’s down pour had long since evaporated. An incessant clanking of metal on metal reverberated around the room.

It wasn’t long before long the clanking stopped and the women gave a sigh of relief as their shoulders sagged. Their semi-relaxed air was not to last as stomping feet made their way closer to the cell.

The women gazed at the cell bars from the floor. Tattered and stained clothes only enhanced the bruises and lacerations that adorned their faces. A short, thin man stopped in front of the cell. The thick blue haze of tobacco smoke that surrounded the man smelt vaguely nutty.

His leather boots were worn in such a way to blend in with the drab wooden floor. He was bald except for a white ring of hair around the base of his skull. He looked upon the prisoners with enough disgust to wither a crop field. He shook his head and sharply stated,

“I hadn’t thought to believe that the daughter of a baker would stoop so low as to sell her soul to the devil’s fiery furnace.”

Grace tried to look up to glare at the man only to find herself staring at her soiled skirt. “I will tell you like I have told the interrogators, Grandfather. I am no witch; nor would God allow me to sign the Devil’s Book,” Grace snapped.

“I told your mother she was marrying the wrong man. She was of age and wouldn’t listen to me though. She could have had a wealthier suitor and more comfortable life, but she chose your father. Now look what she has to deal with. A daughter that would dare go against all that is holy,” Grandfather spat.

“At least she has love. Unlike you she didn’t dishonor herself and God,” Grace venomously spat back.

“Instead, she gets a daughter whose neck won’t bend from stubborn pride,” he shot back.

“I am not guilty of turning my back to God. If my faith costs me my life, than so be it; but I’ll not confess to something that I didn’t do,” Grace forcefully stated.

“And break your mother’s heart while your at it, no doubt,” Grandfather sneered.

“Man breaks my mother’s heart for bearing false witness,” Grace snapped from her bound position.

“You are naught to my family. The next time I will see you is the day you swing on Gallows Hill for your treachery,” Grandfather fumed as he stormed away from the cell.
Grace took a calming breath as her grandfather arrogantly strode away from the cell and implored, “Pardon the disgraceful scene, ladies; unfortunately, grandfather has always been a bitter man.”

“I’m no lady Miss Grace, but to me that sounds like ones dirty laundry blowing in the breeze – and were always taught that God frowns on that,” Tituba said dismissing Grace’s apology.

“Bah, child. No need to apologize for someone else,” Mrs. Osbourne firmly informed as she began to cough.

Tituba tried to reach around Grace to comfort Mrs. Osbourne as hacking coughs racked her body. The only comfort that she could give was to hold the older woman’s hand.

Daughter of Alchemy

Hi all,

I finally finished it! Daughter of Alchemy is live and ready for you to enjoy. This title (like all others) is printed with double spacing for the paper back so that people with reading disabilities can enjoy the expierence of Iseult’s world. I invite you to click on the link Daughter of Alchemy to experience the trauma and drama of Iseult’s world for yourself.

Remember to feed an author with a review. Further down this post is a little clue as to what is contained within the covers.

As always Happy Reading!

“He’s yours to do with as you please,” the cold voice invited to the snarls that began to sound.

“You won’t get away with this Bricius Aeilius! The Council will stop you,” Patrik screamed as an iron door swung open.

“The Council is mine, just as you were for all those years. And in due course the power of this world will be mine, “Bricius icily informed as he pulled the door closed with a heavy clang.

The snarling intensified as the werecats closed in on the cell. Patrik looked around the cell as the animals approached and shook his head. “I had my freedom Aeilius. You just didn’t know it. The rest of my powers are not yours for the taking.

“If anyone on the council breaks this pendant, know that iron will cage the beast for eternity.”

Patrik then clutched the amulet on his neck. When the iron bars of his cell opened to admit the snarling cats Patrik firmly shouted, “Ignis!”

Fire encased the cell and the whining of wounded and dying cats sounded throughout the memory. The memory was so vivid that the stench of burning flesh filled the projection room as the memory went dark and the room returned to its normal luminescence.

Something New

Here lately I have been having a bit of trouble connecting wit my latest WIP- “Isis’ Savior”. Iseult is proving to be a bit stubborn – the good ones usually are. That is still its’s working title. So for the time being I am going to put it aside and work on something completely different.

It seems to me that King Arthur and his Knights of the Table Round never go out of style. I thought for the moment that I would retell some of those wonderful tales.

I started a rough draft that works off of that iconic first scene of that legendary king. Arthur pulling the famed Excalibur and claiming his birthright.

Feel free to leave me feed back and as always, Happy Reading!

 

White snow fell softly from the night sky. The snow covered a dirt road that was lined with wood and stone buildings. On the stone buildings were dying torches with glowing red embers. On one side of the street was a large stone inn. On the other a church with darkened stained glass windows. Silver moonlight reflected off of a gleaming sword sticking out from a scorched stone anvil. In the distance the raucous sounds of a cheering crowd could faintly be heard.

The sword was seated in the quiet church yard; snow piled up around the anvil as though it were highlighting something special. The sword was the only thing brightening this cold night. Wrought iron fencing closed off the courtyard. Low hedges lined a path to the heavy wooden doors of the church. There was a plaque at the base of the anvil that made no sense to Arthur as he couldn’t read.

From beyond the gates a boy with a muddied face and gleaming blue eyes peered through. His blue eyes were fixed on the sword. His hair was shaggy and his clothes tattered and torn. The young boy looked left and right making sure he was alone. With a deep breath he slipped through the bars and carefully approached the stone and sword.

A trembling arm reached forward and grabbed the hilt of the sword. Firmly the boy pulled on the sword until it began to slip from its stone sheath. The boy’s eyes widened as the sword briefly warmed in his palm.
Within a moment the gleaming steel sword lay in the hands of a street urchin no older than ten. He looked one way then another. Seeing no one in the courtyard the boy scampered back through the iron fence and down the street.

He quickly made his way to the crowd. Once there he weaved through a sea of brightly colored tents until he stood outside one that was adorned in blue and red. The colors of his guardian – Sir Ector.

Sir Ector was a bit rough around the edges but he had been a kind guardian for as long as the boy could remember. Sir Ector was the only guardian the boy knew. The man had been kind enough to raise him along side of his own son – Kay.

The boy peeked into the tent of Sir Ector and saw it empty save for a girl his own age. “Seraphim, have they left for the joust yet?”

The girl whirled around to face the opening and softly exclaimed, “Arthur! You’re almost late. They left a few moments ago. If you hurry you should be able to catch up with them before they enter.”

“Thank you, Seraphim,” Arthur gratefully told her.

“Just because I am a girl doesn’t mean I can’t keep an eye on things for you. Were you able to get Kay’s sword from the inn?”

“It was locked up tighter than a prince’s treasure room. So I borrowed one instead,” Arthur quietly informed her as he turned to leave the tent.

“What do you mean borrowed,” Seraphim asked as she followed him out of the tent.

“That old one sitting in front of the church. I’ll return it in the morning,” Arthur defended himself.

“Are you sure about that Arthur. That sword is holy! What if they find out it’s missing before then,” Seraphim worried.

“It’s not holy, Seraphim,” Arthur told her sternly.

“Than why was it at the church,” Seraphim asked pointedly.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders as they continued weaving through the crowd. After bumping into a few people the two found Sir Ector and his son Kay. Father and son stood waiting outside the registry ten. They were both stocky with stringy blonde hair.

Arthur tugged on the tunic of his guardian. “Here’s Kay’s sword, Sir Ector,” Arthur eagerly informed.

Sir Ector nodded his head as he blindly reached for the sword in Arthur’s hand. With his back to Arthur, Ector dismissed the child. Before Arthur could take two steps though Ector whirled around and demanded, “Boy, where did you get this sword.”

“From the church sir! The inn was locked up tight and Kay needed a sword for the joust,” Arthur replied with a tremor to his voice.

“Who gave it to you,” Ector harshly demanded.

“No one sir! It was just sitting there and Kay needed a sword for the joust. I was going to put it back,” Arthur insisted.

“Did that young wench put you up to it,” Ector demanded motioning towards Seraphim.

“No sir! She stayed in the tent as you told her too,” Arthur desperately informed.

By this time Ector had drawn the attention of the crowd around him. Surprised rumblings were going around the crowd as the spectators took in the sword that Sir Ector held. It took only a moment for the field marshal to come out of the registry tent. “See here! What’s all this fuss and grumbling about,” he demanded.

Sir Ector was in shock for a moment before answering, “It’s my ward, Sir Girard. He claims to have taken the sword from the stone in the churchyard. See for yourself,” Sir Ector finished, handing over the sword.

“What,” Sir Girard exclaimed as he took the sword from Sir Ector. As Sir Girard examined the sword his eyes turned into saucers. This was nigh on impossible. The letters engraved on the hilt said otherwise though.
Sir Girard looked down at Arthur and demanded, “How did you get this sword?”

“I pulled it from the stone anvil Sir! The one at the old church!”

“It’s crooked to lease to a marshal at a joust, lad,” Sir Girard pointedly stated.

“I’m not leasing sir,” Arthur insisted.

“He wouldn’t know how. The boy is a truth teller to the last,” Sir Ector inserted gruffly.

Sir Girard looked doubtful but shouted for a page. “Yes sir,” a boy no older than Arthur answered.

“Go find the Bishop Blaise and tell him that I need him here. After that find Prince Pellian and tell him the same. There’ll be a silver piece in it for you when you return with the Prince,” Sir Girard promised.

“Yes Sir,” the boy excitedly replied with a bounce of his head.

“In the mean time, the two of you best get in here and stay quiet,” Sir Girard instructed. A mute Arthur and Sir Ector followed him into the tent.
Arthur did his best to stay out of sight. These people could be scary. There were half a dozen men in the tent and they all had swords. Arthur had been practicing with a wooden sword so he knew the basics. Kay had let Arthur watch while he practiced with the real blade and those things were devilishly sharp. Arthur had even watched Kay slaughter a pig with one before. He had no desire to be near these people with their weapons at the moment.

In the center of the tent was a long wooden table. It was covered with what Arthur knew to be parchment. What was on the parchment had to be a list of knights competing today. Arthur had no need to know those names though. Or any other written word.

He was an orphan destined to work the land. The land was all he needed to know. Truthfully he liked it that way. Let Kay worry about making sure people were fed and duties were paid to the crown. That was more fuss than Arthur truly wanted in life.

While lost in his thoughts Arthur didn’t notice the arrival of an old man in a worn grey cloak. In fact, it seemed as though no one noticed the man’s arrival. He stood off to the side of the tent just beyond the opening. His dark eyes took in the excitement of the people here. In the end though his gaze rested on the steel sword. It was finally time.

Let the Season Begin

“Dashing through the snow” We all know the words to the populat carol. Many of us have fond memories and traditions for this time of year. Jack Frost has forgotten this.

Over the years he has become a bitter being who has forgotten why he celebrates the season. For us mortals, that bitterness can have devastating effects.

Giving a young Jack Frost the chance to remember is the premise behind a new holiday classic, Spirit of Winter.

To give you a better idea here is a bit more of an idea for you to ponder.

The entrapment of his sister’s spirit has caused Jack Frost to forget what it means to play; thus causing bitterly cold winters.

Santa Claus, Mother Nature, and Father Time conspire to show Jack the meaning of winter once more. To accomplish this they turn him, and by extension themselves, into children. Will learning to play again bring Noelle Frost back?

Will Jack remember his sister’s spirit or will winter become frigid and inhospitable for the rest of time?

Keep in mind that the paper back form of Spirit of Winter is printed in the double spaced format so that people with reading disabilities may enjoy the story as well. This includes dyslexia.

As always,

HAPPY READING!!

#StoryofJackFrost

‘Tis the Season

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0163KXWBE

We all know the holidays are upon us once more. Have you started decorating yet, or are you already done? What are you doing and who are you spending time with? Do you like to read? Need a book to gift?

How about one that reminds us that there is a reason for the season? Spirit of Winter is just such a book.

The winter beings have decided that Jack Frost has become too bitter. Towards that end they decided that he needs to remember the most important reason that winter is around. To do that though, Jack needs to learn one major lesson – to play.

Will this work? Will Jack Frost’s icy point of view thaw?

Find out in Spirit of Winter.

Remember the physical print copy is printed in double space format in order for people with reading disabilities to have an easier time enjoying the story. This includes people with dyslexia (something my husband will attest to). As Always,

Happy Reading

Spirit Of Winter

It’s live folks. Spirit of Winter is now available on Amazon. Feel free to check it out. As always the physical print copy of this is printed in the double-spaced format, which I have dubbed the Easy Read Format. As always feel free to leave feedback! We authors thrive on that.

Happy Reading!

Meeting of the Minds

Hi all,

I’m still working on Frozen in Ice. And tonight we have a snippet from the Winter Beings. All they really want to know is if Santa’s crazy plan is working. Do you think it will? Feel free to leave me your thoughts on the matter. As always,

HAPPY READING,

The normally yellow kitchen walls were covered in silver glitter. Blue and purple stains were on the white tiled floor. Grandpa Frank was standing in the doorway shaking his head. This kitchen hadn’t seen a mess like this in more years than he could remember. Taking a quick glance outside the window Grandpa Frank saw that Nicholas and Jack were building a snow fort.
Grandpa Frank turned the kitchen clock backwards and the mess cleaned itself up. With a chuckle Grandpa Frank went to the dining room where his guests awaited.

Entering the room Grandpa Frank saw that Dr. Amber and Dr. Simon were seated in the wingback chairs. The flames were merrily burning in the fireplace.

“Thank you both for coming. How is everyone faring on their little jaunt to the mortal world,” Grandpa Frank asked cheerfully.

“I haven’t skated this much in years,” Mother Nature enthused.

“I am finally able to show off my quilt collection. Not to mention my skill with paint and wallpaper,” Sandman gushed.

“What about you, Father Time,” Mother Nature enquired.

Father Time chuckled before responding, “I haven’t had this much fun in generations! Although I did have a close call earlier this week when young Jack had an adverse reaction to The Clock.”

“He said it made him really cold. Although it warms my heart to see that he still loves his hot cocoa. Mrs. Claus will be delighted to hear that when things get back to normal,” Sandman wisely predicted. This statement caused both Father Time and Mother Nature to chuckle.

“So will Santa. Jack’s cocoa is the best compliment to Mrs. Claus’ cookies,” Father Time joked.

“Has anyone recently checked on Noelle,” Mother Nature asked seriously.

“Why,” Father Time asked nervously.

“When I was talking to Jack earlier he said he saw her standing in the snow,” Mother Nature quietly informed.

“I sent Donner over after Jack left the office. Jack said Noelle was in his dreams last night,” Sandman calmly reassured.

“Any word back,” Father Time asked worriedly.

“Not yet. He should come through the fireplace at any moment,” Sandman informed calmly.

“Does anyone know how Santa convinced Donner to take human form for this assignment,” Mother Nature asked. Both gentlemen in the room shrugged their shoulders in
response. The three adults let the silence linger while the flames crackled brightly in the room.

True to Sandman’s word the tall, bulky form of Donner stepped through the fireplace. His thick beard was streaked with soot and his brown eyes showed an intelligence beyond he thirty-some odd years.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting but I had to make sure my daughter was in bed. It would have been difficult to explain turning into a reindeer and traveling through a fireplace to a seven year old doe. Especially one with her intelligence. That’s what I get for feeding her so many carrots.

“As you asked Mr. Sandman, I checked on Miss Noelle. The ice around her is a little thinner and there is more color to her. Beyond that I can’t tell,” Donner reported.

“There wasn’t any water around her was there,” Mother Nature asked.

“I didn’t see any, Miss Mother Nature,” Donner answered respectfully.

“Had she moved any,” Father Time asked nervously.

“No. Miss Noelle is still as stiff as the day she was encased,” Donner answered.

“Thank you for your help Donner. I’ll be sure to send over some extra carrots for you and your daughter in the morning,” Mother Nature graciously informed.

Donner let out a whistle that sounded like a neigh as he smiled to the group. “Thank you Mother Nature but I would do anything to help Mr. Jack and Miss Noelle. The both of them were always so kind to us. We just can’t stand to see them hurt,” Donner explained.

The other winter beings nodded their heads in remembrance of times long gone as Donner turned around and disappeared through the fire.

Already A Legend

Hi Folks,

Once more we are sticking with the Arthurian theme. This time though we have an appearance made by Elaine, Lady of the Lake. She is known to have raised Lancelot du Lac. This time though the eternal figure has a question for the famous descendants of the king of Albion. From here on out I give you – ALREADY A LEGEND.

As always feel free to leave a review and Happy Reading!

Already a Legend

 

In a German prison-palace sat a man with bright reddish-gold hair and eyes the color of a cloudless sky. There were no adornments on his fingers and his clothing lacked any fancy embroidery. It was in this palace that he resided since his capture by his cousin Leopold of Austria. Normally the man had a jolly grin on his face, today though he was pensive. His current predicament was heavy on his mind.

The weather had forced him to take the more dangerous land route from the crusades back to a kingdom that he really didn’t like and the only use he found for it was as revenue. This latest Crusade had been trying on him but at last Christians had more access to the holy land of God.

Here in this prison-palace he had basic rights and the assurance that his captors would not kill him due to his exalted birth – although his brother John would probably like for him to disappear permanently. His daily routines were not changed. He had one servant girl assigned to him. She had dark hair that was held back with an iridescent pearl net and ancient blue eyes. Never once did she say a word to him and yet Richard got the feeling that every time the woman even glanced his way she said a volumes.

The raven haired woman always bore him his meals, but never once had she uttered a word, causing him to assume that she was a deaf mute. A fair occupation for such a creature.

Richard would swear though, that she was not dumb. There was too much intelligence in her aged eyes.

In a few minutes Richard would once again see the raven haired woman. For the sun was about right for his midday meal.

Right on time the servant girl came into the room with his noon victuals. This time though, when she looked at him she asked a question, “Tell me Coeur de Lion, which would you prefer – the sword or the scabbard?”

Her soft voice was melodious. Richard looked surprised at the woman. Without a moments hesitation he answered, “The sword Milady. How else were I to defend myself?”

The dark-haired lady shook her head mournfully and answered, “Than I fear, brave-hearted one, that your demise shall be as sad as Charlemagne’s predecessor.” She ended this statement on a sigh as she set the tray of victuals down.

“The man you speak of was naught but a myth,” Richard replied haughtily.

“Arthur was more than myth and fable. But if it is the sword you want than it is the sword you shall get,” she stated with finality. There was a slight sneer on her delicate lips as she turned from him and left the room in something of a temper.

As the woman left she slammed the heavy wooden door as hard as she could and if Richard could have seen her blue eyes he would have wondered if the woman was mortal or one of the Church’s despicable demons.

Once outside of the room the woman carefully worked a spell throughout the castle so that she could leave as unnoticed as she had arrived.

Oh! Why did the men of Constantine have to be so stubborn! Could none of them see that Arthur was right all those years ago? Even now, not a sole believed him and that deplorable fact was the fault of Arthur’s final orders to his Champion. Why did she have to be so successful?

But there was no use in lamenting the fact that orders had been followed successfully so she’d best get on with the future, else it wouldn’t happen the way that the immortals wanted it to. So if it was Excalibur that the Kings of Albion wanted it was Excalibur that Elaine of the Lake would give them.