Friday, February 17, 2017

Short stories, Poems, Art pieces



SHORT STORIES





POEMS


G'day all;
Here is a wee rhyme I wrote and recorded on the Peace Arts Counsel CD marking the 75th anniversary of the building of the Alaska Highway. There are two spoken recordings and several songs ... some great work by artists from all over the Peace Country. They can be found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTt25BOVaqs

The Road That Couldn’t Be Done
D.M. & K.L. McGowan
They came to build a road
That some said couldn’t be done
But they did it damn it and did it fast
And even had some fun
The US Army Engineers
Several regiments strong
Cut and slashed through timber
And laid it across the bogs
With local trappers, packers and guides
And with sightings to the sky
They found a way through passes
And over mountains where eagles fly
Civilians from all walks of life
From all across the land
From Labrador, Ontario
And down to the Rio Grande
They dropped them off at end of rail,
A place called Dawson Creek
A bunch of young eastern boys
Too excited to sleep
The final push to build it came
December seventh, Forty One
And before Christmas the following year
There laid the road that couldn’t be done.
Oh, and sure it was only a trail
With decades of work to be done
But now millions of travelers
Use the road that couldn’t be done.
 _________________________________________________________

Hi,
I'm enclosing a poem for PnP's April magazine. This is its link: https://susanneleist.wordpress.com/2017/02/10/empty-walls/

                    EMPTY WALLS


Source:mslovejoy 

 A grand house had once stood here.
Many disappeared in fear.

A dark past had given it fame.

End House had been its given name.

 Now all that is left are rocks and mud.
At night I swear I can hear a thud.

Reminiscent of bodies falling down

To the empty dungeons beneath the town.

 I miss the beauty of this place.
This destruction I cannot face.

The Dead might groan & moan.

But we’ll rebuild our home.

 THE DEAD GAME by Susanne Leist


_______________________________________________


The Awakening

Ceremonial dress of rushing haze

bellows out its stupor into the mirror's reflection

she stood unclothed and complete

sheathed in the sleek dampness

the haziness implores an awakening

blaring at the eye's insight

thrilling, at an opening door

to see through the cleansing

scattering to catch the opening light!

the meeting of an unclothed self!

copyright, 2013
______________________________________


Peter’s Story

Probably every writer has used imagery to amplify an idea, create a scary scene or enhance a story idea.  We do so with the tool known to most of you as Pareidolia (pair-ah-doh-lia), a psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus, image or sound, being perceived as significant as seeking familiar forms in disordered images  like clouds or objects where none exists, as animals, faces, and the well-known Man in the Moon, used in many fantasy stories.   The famous Rorschach inkblot tests use pareidolia in an attempt to gain insight into a person’s mental state.  Leonardo da Vinci wrote of pareidolia as a device for painters.  Any spotted walls, or stones, or trees with various stains, etc. will yield scenes as on mountains, rivers, rocks, rivers, plains, wide valleys and various groups of hills.  Images will be there if their existence is merely suggested and pointed out.  Religious imagery detail scenes of Mary, Jesus and the like as being significant messages from God to give people a greater awareness of Christian belief.  In Singapore, a callus on a tree resembled a monkey leading believers to pay homage to the “Monkey god”, used today in the Asian calendar.  The Deep Dream program on the computer shows images of pies with eyes and faces of dogs.  A Shadow Person attributed to the paranormal and supernatural and ghosts shows itself in haunted houses, alleys, dark places, cemeteries, gives the reader a scary feeling and satisfies the writer’s desired goal.
The number of objects, real or imagined, are countless.  The mind can often be convinced, as in mass hysteria, to see what others believe they are seeing, as in lights in the sky being portrayed as ET spacecraft from distant civilizations.  Most of the images observed are harmless to the  human mind, and add to the writer’s arsenal of tricks of the trade writing aids.  It is sometimes dangerous when those people under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs perceive themselves as, for example, being able to fly, and attempt an aerobatic feat off an elevated platform that they soon discover the error of their perception, and sadly results in serious injury or death.  There is a most famous projection in Heimaey, Iceland known as the Elephant Rock, that if you observe it long enough, you might swear you saw it move, thus, the phenomenon, Pareidolia.  There is no harm in incorporating these many images in one’s writing, as they make the story what it was meant to be, thus adding to the skills of the writer and the enjoyment of the reader.      Now, after looking at this guy for a while, and you swear it shifted position, just remember that I told you so. So you think thi
s image is merely a cloud?  If you should find yourself in an isolated location, all alone, and you chance to look out the window and see these piercing eyes staring down at you, you might not want to venture out of doors just yet. Now this guy may give you less fear as it appears to be a fun-living bear, but is it a stuffed bear you ask?  Or does it just appear to be in that form?  Stay indoors unless you must leave the safety of your home.  You say you’ve walked on that path many times in the past with no fear of the unknown, but just never looked off the side of the road?  It is merely a dead, or dying leaf, is it not?  You might wish to speed up your walk, however, should you not be certain of what you just saw, or, thought you saw.   Now, on that same walk, on that trail familiar to you from the past, you observe this image, along with the dead or dying leaf, you might wish to cut short your trip through the woods and head for home.  We have all looked to the sky, particularly in the evening when the moon was full, but how many of us swear that while we were looking out, someone was not looking in.    This is an actual image taken by NASA of what appears to be that famous Man on the Moon.
Do not fear the use of Pareidolia in your writing, for you know the image affixed is merely a figment of one’s imagination; just leave the mystery of whether what they are looking at is real or imagined to the reader.





IF YOU'D LIKE A WEB PAGE OF YOUR BOOKS LIKE THE ONE YOU WILL CLICK ON THAT SAYS...http://www.pattimari.com/ BELOW, it will be on magazine for each month's issue.

WEBSITES OF AUTHORS

http://www.pattimari.com/


RECIPES


RECIPES FROM OUR AUTHORS, POETS, AND ARTIST





Slow cooker lamb one pot
8hr10min
Tender lamb joint in the slow cooker with vegetables and gravy. One pot and easy - all you need to do is make some Yorkshire pud to go with it and add some mint sauce. Seriously [...]
Recipe by: Samantha's Supper




Ingredients

    • 2 pounds zucchini, trimmed and cut crosswise into thirds
    • 3/4 cup chopped onion
    • 2 garlic cloves, chopped
    • 1/4 cup olive oil
    • 4 cups water, divided
    • 1/3 cup packed basil leaves
    • Equipment: an adjustable-blade slicer fitted with 1/8-inch julienne attachment
Buy these ingredients               
Preparation
    1. Julienne skin (only) from half of zucchini with slicer; toss with 1/2 teaspoon salt and drain in a sieve until wilted, at least 20 minutes. Coarsely chop remaining zucchini.
    2. Cook onion and garlic in oil in a 3- to 4-quarts heavy saucepan over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add chopped zucchini and 1 teaspoon salt and cook, stirring occasionally, 5 minutes. Add 3 cups water and simmer, partially covered, until tender, about 15 minutes. Purée soup with basil in 2 batches in a blender (use caution when blending hot liquids).
    3. Bring remaining cup water to a boil in a small saucepan and blanch julienned zucchini 1 minute. Drain in a sieve set over a bowl (use liquid to thin soup if necessary).
    4. Season soup with salt and pepper. Serve in shallow bowls with julienned zucchini mounded on top. _____________________________________________________________________________Hi Pattimari,
  1. I hope this finds you well.  Of course I can help with anything you need.
    I would like to participate in being your columnist in your magazine. Attached is my front cover and an excerpt.
    Finally, here is a recipe:


    Apple Crisp
    If you were family or friends, you could count on an apple crisp from momma for Christmas. Which she claimed were so good because her apples were made from love.”


                                                                        -Our Family Quilt by Rhonda Cratty
    Within the pages of Our Family Quilt Grace tells the story of her momma’s Apple Crisp.  Then she teaches Audrey and Jana how to make it. Below is the recipe.


    Apple Crisp
    5 cups of sliced, pared apples
    ¾ cup of packed brown sugar
    ½ cup of flour
    ½ cup of oats
    ¾ teaspoon of ground cinnamon
    ¾ teaspoon of ground nutmeg
    ¾ teaspoon of cloves
    ½ cup of butter
     Preheat oven to 375
  2.                                               Spray pan with non-stick cooking spray.
    Arrange apples in pan.
    Mix remaining ingredients, then sprinkle over apples.
    Bake 30 minutes.
    Serve with a good book.
  3. Have a great time,
    Rhonda


 CLICK ON THE BELOW ADDRESS for Short Stories, Poems, and Art


ABOUT AUTHOR'S AND THEIR BOOKS


______________________________________________


Ethics of a Psychic Reading

In addition to being a guide for people working in the field of the paranormal and energetic worlds & students, Ethics of a Psychic Reading is also an autobiography of one aspect of my life – living and working with psychic abilities.
Since publishing the book has also become a favourite for people interested in the subject and also what is acceptable in psychic or card reading delivery styles when you go for a private session or attend public event such as a fair or show. There’s explanation of terminology, the different types of psychic and spiritual connection and divination tools, anecdotal stories and why an ethical approach is important. Ethics of a Psychic Reading is a guide to the responsibilities of communicating psychic information in the 21st century.

Please visit my website http://suzanne-newnham.com for access to Ethics of a Psychic Reading at either Balboa Press or Amazon.

A look inside (page xvii):

Preamble

In 600BC the Greek scientist and philosopher Thales of Miletus observed the effect when he rubbed a piece of amber causing what we now know as the effects of static electricity. Given that the serious work in static electricity (electrostatics) didn’t commence until some 2,200 years later how would Thales have explained what the general public might have perceived as a type of magic?

Even today, superstition can cause fear and misunderstanding when magic or the supernatural is then given as an explanation for paranormal abilities. A vague wave of the hand and saying “the [psychic] information came from there” is often the only description currently available until the scientific world can uncover a more objective and rational explanation for natural phenomena.

Even if not considered conventional, psychic connection exists and when utilised and relayed ethically can assist humanity and the environment on a multitude of levels. Whether through a paranormal connection, or learned modality, dealing with what would be considered beyond the normal has up until now been reliant on individual intention and integrity. Ethics of a Psychic Reading is written to enable the amateur or professional purveyor of psychic messages or readings to gain an understanding of the responsibilities of imparting such information.

Enjoy the journey








Excerpt for Two Worlds Collided


A portion of Chapter One


"I just wish…" Lisa sighed, "I wish there could have been some way to save him, you know." She absentmindedly played with the spoon in front of her before placing it on the napkin once again. "I took a picture with him once. Still have it in a frame on my dresser. Of course, my mother gives me a whole lot of grief about it, 'Unless you can time travel and change his past, you best forget about him and stop wasting your time with the fan club. If you put as much time as you do with that damn fan club, you'd have finished school by now. Why can't you be more like your sister?' Jeez, I'm trying to find what I want to do. I can't help it if nothing interests me enough to choose a major." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, fans have been adding their stories on the site about the first time they saw Bellamy perform and where. There's also interesting stories about mementos fans have kept. Someone has a napkin Bellamy doodled on, and another posted they have a lock of his hair."


"Makes me wonder how they managed that?" Kelsey said.


"Right?" Lisa agreed. "Like to see it though."


"Did I ever tell you guys, I was approached to be Bellamy's private assistant on that last tour?" Evie asked. 


"What?" both Lisa and Kelsey said in unison as they stared at her.


"As long as we've been friends," Kelsey said, "you left that little tidbit out. What gives?"


"Yeah, what gives?" Lisa repeated. "'Cause, I would have remembered if you had said something like that. Do tell." She leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hand.


"There's not much to tell. I didn't take the job, obviously, but I had my reasons." She chewed on her lower lip as the memory of that reason came to mind.


"We're listening." Kelsey leveled her gaze at her, daring her to refuse to continue.


She shifted her weight. She'd bet Kelsey perfected that look while working in the ER. Anyone would be hard pressed to refuse her demands. "You know my brother was Civilized Heathens' photographer and cameraman for promotional purposes."


Lisa nodded. "Your brother's work is fantastic."


"The band wanted someone with a low profile to be Bellamy's assistant while they conducted interviews and other promo events before the tour began, and preferably someone with a nursing degree. Bellamy at the time had been in rehab," she reminded them since there weren't too many secrets involving the last months of the singer's life, they would have read the same articles she had. "But he hadn't completed the program, and because it had been a voluntary stay, he checked himself out early. The band knew he was unpredictable, and wanted someone to keep him on schedule."


"They wanted a babysitter," Kelsey added what Evie hadn't said.


"I've always felt guilty I didn't take the job." She shrugged. "Might not have been able to do anything to stop him in the end, but… I suppose we'll never know."


"Out of curiosity," Kelsey asked, "why didn't you take the job?"

Only her brother knew her reasons, but she guessed it didn't matter now. "I've been a big fan of Civilized Heathens since the 80s."

"Of course," Lisa said with a nod. "I dig those 80s songs." Lisa would have been four-years-old when their single, 'Go For It' reached number one on the pop rock charts, and only fourteen when Bellamy Lovel died.

"I was banned from Civilized Heathens' concerts. Told by security if they ever saw me at one again, they'd have me arrested."

"Omigod, you?" Lisa asked. "You? Calm, collected bookworm that you are, how in the world did you manage to piss off the band?"

"It was all a misunderstanding, really." She shrugged. "And I realize it had only been a scare tactic on their part, but I was embarrassed. When I was offered the job, I was scared they'd remember the incident. At the time, it seemed it would be the end of the world if they did."

As she told the story, she thought back to the 1987 concert at the small venue in Orange, where the host stamped the patron's hands with a red circle if they happened to be underage and couldn't be served alcohol. Funny, the band members were all underage. She'd been fourteen at the time, skinny, no boobs and she'd just had her braces put on, not one of her finer years in the looks department. Her brother, three years her senior, had taken her to the concert after she begged him and then threatened she'd tell their parents about the girls he would sneak into his bedroom. He finally relented.

She stood right at the stage, where all the other teenage girls were huddled. Most of them were a few years older than she was, more developed and most likely would catch Bellamy's eye before he'd ever glance in her direction, but she didn't care. She was in heaven.

The eighteen-year-old Bellamy knew how to play to the audience even back then. He leaned down and shook hands with the screaming girls at the stage, her included. She hadn't meant to hold onto him so tightly nor did she mean to yank him toward her, but he lost his footing. Thank goodness he was agile and shifted his fall to land on his feet in front of her as he steadied them both, but the crowd pushed forward trying to reach him. She was crushed against his chest and his necklace tangled itself in her hair.

Luckily, security came to the rescue and quickly lifted Bellamy back onto the stage and to safety, but his necklace didn't make the transition and was torn from his neck.

"Wow, that was close," Bellamy said from the stage. "Babe, maybe later?" he winked at her.

He actually winked and her mouth started to hurt from the wide grin she wore. He continued to belt out the song as if nothing had happened, but her world had tilted on its axis. She gripped the necklace that happened to be a bonelike carved hippocampus, a mystical sea beast with a head of a horse and a tail of a fish. She had to give it back to him. She knew this. He hadn't meant for her to have it. Her darn frizzy hair.

"I don't have backstage passes," her brother told her. He had yet to become their photographer and cameraman for the band, and it had been a few years since Clark and he'd hung out together. Clark's parents had divorced when he was in the tenth grade and he'd moved to live with his mother in Irvine.

"But we know Clark," she insisted.

"I know Clark, but he probably won't even remember you. Just keep the necklace."

But did she listen to his advice? No, of course not. When his back was turned, she tried to sneak backstage. She spotted Bellamy and yelled to him with a wave. He glanced her way, but the security guards stepped in front of her, stopping her from reaching him and hauled her off and told her they had her photo on record. If she showed her face at another concert, she'd be arrested.

"Humiliated, I ran off to find Bryce," she told Kelsey and Lisa as she came to the end of her story. "Never saw him so pissed, and had to hear about it all the way home."

Lisa was still chuckling as she reached for her soda. "Now that is a story you should be telling. It's hilarious. I can't believe you've been holding out on us, Evie." Lisa gave Kelsey a sideways glance with the straw still in her mouth as she spoke. "You've been awfully quiet. What gives?"

Evie glanced at Kelsey, who eyed her with a strange glint in her eye.

"Yours and Bellamy's paths have crossed a few times," Kelsey said with some thought, not really a question, but as if she were thinking out loud. "It could work." She slammed her fist on the table.

"Jesus, Kelsey," Lisa said with a start. "What's with the theatrics?"

"Only the solution." Her lips curved wide as she glanced at Lisa. "You gave me the idea. Never thought to implement such a thing, but you, my friend," she leaned across the table then and reached for Evie's hand, "are the key to this. Please tell me you still have the necklace Bellamy gave you."

"He didn't give it to me."

She waved her off and sat back in her seat. "No matter the rhyme or reasons, do you have a possession of Bellamy Lovel's or not?

"Yes, of course, but–"

"Then it can be done. I'll have to check my mother's book and…" Kelsey once claimed her mother's family practiced voodoo or was it hoodoo? Evie was never quite clear which it was.

"What are you babbling on about?" Lisa interrupted.

Those large amber eyes widened with excitement. "Time travel, my lovelies. We're going to send Evie back in time to save Bellamy Lovel." She rose from her seat and grabbed her purse. "Meet me back at your place," she said to Evie and hurried away as if contemplating time travel was a normal everyday conversation.

"Is she on something?" Lisa asked. "Because that was just crazy talk."

"I have no idea." She chuckled. "I guess I'm heading back to my place. I'll talk to her then."

"I'll go with you. I have the life-size cutout of Lovel in my car. Charged it to my credit card. Wait 'til you see it. It's just about as huggable as you can get."

After Evie ordered a slice a pie to go, they drove back to her place. She and Lisa were discussing the last of the details for the gala when the frantic knocking at the door put an end to the discussion.

"She's here," Evie said and stood to open the door. Kelsey strode inside, holding a plastic bag without so much as a greeting of hello. "Good Lord, Kelsey, what's that smell?" She fanned the air in front of her nose.

"Where is–" Kelsey stopped cold and Evie followed her gaze to where the life size cutout of Bellamy stood, wearing white pants with blue stripes and an open shirt. He was crooking a finger at them as if to say, Slide a little closer. "That is perfect," Kelsey exclaimed. "Loved him in those tight pants, and whoever thought he should wear a button-down shirt and show off that chest should receive a medal. Bring it outside," she ordered. "And Evie, get that necklace. We're going to need it, too." Kelsey was already heading out the back door to the patio, fully expecting them to follow her instructions.

Lisa looked to her for an explanation and Evie shrugged. "You got me. Let me see if I can find the necklace. I can't help but be a tad bit curious. Aren't you?"

"If you say so." Lisa retrieved Bellamy. "I guess we're going to a party," she said to the cardboard cutout.

When Evie and Lisa stepped outside, they froze as they watched Kelsey drawing a circle on the ground.

"Is that blood?" Lisa choked in disbelief as she stood witness to this lunacy. She placed the cardboard cutout of Bellamy next to her.

"Of course it's blood," Kelsey said without pause. "You need fresh blood to perform the ritual."

"What did you do?" Lisa asked as she drew a little closer. "Did you murder someone on the way over here?"

Kelsey harrumphed. "As if I'd have time to kill someone, fill a bottle up with their blood, and hide the body so I could hightail it over here without being caught."

"It's blood, though," Evie said, just as shocked as Lisa was. That had been the scent she'd picked up when Kelsey had strode into her house.

"It's chicken blood, girls. Get a grip."

"Ew," Lisa said.

"What?" Kelsey said sarcastically. "Did you think when you carnivores picked up your chicken pieces that there was never any blood involved?" Kelsey was a vegan and wouldn't dream of harming another animal for food, but here she was with a bag full of chicken blood. "Stop looking at me as if I murdered your grandmother, Evie. I picked up the blood at the butcher shop."

"Tell me again, why do we need blood?" Evie asked, really concerned that Kelsey was suffering from some kind of mental breakdown.

"Time travel requires fresh blood," she answered. "The essence of all living creatures."

"Well of course blood is needed," Lisa's sarcasm didn't go unnoticed. "You do know time travel is not possible."

"Tell that to my mother who's serving 10 to 20 behind bars."

"They arrested her for time traveling?" Lisa asked as she followed Kelsey's progress of carefully making sure the line of blood remained unbroken, adding more blood if it was.

"Don't be an idiot, Lisa," Kelsey snapped. "My mother time traveled back to kill her no good boyfriend before he could beat my sister half to death."

Evie shook her head in disbelief. When she'd first met Kelsey, she told her the story about her mother being in prison, but she'd conveniently left out the part about time traveling. "Your mother traveled back in time to kill her boyfriend?" she repeated just to make sure she'd heard this correctly.

Kelsey paused to peer at her and said, "Am I speaking a different language or something? Listen, she traveled back too far in time. She should have waited for when Barney – the boyfriend – was stinking drunk but she plopped back when he had just arrived home from work. Makes it difficult to claim your life and your children's were in danger when the man bore no weapon and his blood alcohol level was zilch."

"So why didn't she just travel back to the correct time and fix her mistake?" Lisa offered.

Kelsey rolled her eyes as if she were explaining the details of time travel to a bunch of imbeciles. "You can't travel back in time to the same event line twice. It's a one-time shot. We have choices, a fork in the road. Both paths have a different outcome. Doesn't mean the one path will be what you hoped for, but it's an option if you know the other totally sucked." She looked at Evie. "My mother, she meant well, but she used magic to take a life. There's always a hefty price for dark magic, even if the bastard deserved it. Do you understand?"

"Don't kill anyone. Got it," Evie said, even though murder would never enter her mind or at least she would hope not. She found Kelsey eyeing her closely. "What?" Evie asked.

"I know this is a lot to take in. Your journey will be nothing like my mother's." She finished the circle, then placed the bag down and slipped her hand into the pocket of her jean jacket. "Now for the symbols."

"You have to read instructions to do this." Lisa threw up her hands.

"It's not like I've done this before," Kelsey said. "I had to find out how to do the spell from my mother's spell book. Now hush. I need to get this right. You wouldn't want me to send Evie back to a place she shouldn't be, would you?"

"Are you hearing all this?" Lisa asked Evie as if she hadn't been paying attention.

Oh, she'd been listening all right. "Why can't you go back in time yourself?" Evie asked, playing along for now. "Why do I have to go?" If anyone could talk someone out of ending their life, she'd place her bet with Kelsey.

"'Cause you have all the correct variables to make this a success. You've crossed paths with Bellamy. You were supposed to be with him right before the Fall Fest Tour began and you have something that is his. That's a must if you're searching for a particular point in the timeline. The necklace is your anchor to the past, but you also need an anchor to come back, which will be Lisa and me."

"What if I run into my younger self? What then? Won't that cause a paradox or something?"

"Listen," Kelsey said. "I'd love to give you the complete lesson on time travel but we don't have all night. I have to go to work at eleven, but I'll give you the quick version. When you go back, you'll still be you. You'll merge with your younger self in a way. Both of you can't exist in the same place in the timeline, you sort of merge into one. You'll remember all you know now, only you'll resume your life where your younger self had been."

She blinked as she tried to comprehend what Kelsey was telling her. "And where exactly does my younger consciousness go?"

"Waiting in a kind of limbo, I suppose. That's why you can't stay in the past. You have to eventually come back. Don't know what happens if you don't, but I'm sure it isn't good." She returned to her notes again, mumbling something about special relativity and space-time, and other words she couldn't pronounce. Then she took out a piece of chalk to draw the symbols. "Some of these are for protection," Kelsey explained.

Evie motioned for Lisa and she made her way over to her. "We'll humor her. What harm could it be? She'll do the ritual and when she sees I'm still here, she'll give up the time travel possibility."

"If you say so," Lisa whispered. "She doesn't look like she'll be easily swayed."

"I can hear you," Kelsey said.

They jumped at the sound of Kelsey's voice and turned to find her standing inches away from them. They hadn't even heard her move.

"You have to agree," Evie said, "time travel seems a little..."

"Crazy," Lisa offered.

"I was going to say farfetched," she said hoping to sugarcoat her worry.

Kelsey sighed and folded her arms across her chest. "I forget how closed minded people can be, but I can perhaps see your point. But let us for one moment pretend you do believe in time travel. Would you go back and try to save Bellamy Lovel?"

"In a heartbeat," Lisa said with a nod.

"Of course I would," Evie answered. "I would at least try."

"Then let's give it a whirl, shall we? What's the worse that can happen? You won't go anywhere, and I'll help you clean up the blood before I head home to change for work." Her amber eyes pinned Evie down. How could she say no?

"Okay, let's give it a whirl," she finally agreed.

Lisa gave her a look of surprise and mouthed, "What are you doing?"

Evie ignored her. The sooner they played out this fantasy, the sooner they could all end the charade.

Kelsey turned away to fetch the Bellamy cardboard and place him in the center of the circle. "Evie, you'll need to be in the circle, too."

Evie complied.

"Once I start the spell, visualize where you were on the day you were asked to be Bellamy's personal assistant. Do you remember the date?" she asked.

"It was my nana's birthday, August 3, 1997."

"Keep that date in your mind. Don't think about anything else." She paused. "Where's the necklace?"

She held up her hand and dangled the hippocampus from its chain. "Shouldn't I be visualizing the hotel where Bellamy died? I could step in and–"

"It doesn't work that way," Kelsey interrupted. "You can't just pop in where you've never been. There's no connection there."

"But I was only asked to be with Bellamy until the tour started. That was the contract presented to me. Bellamy didn't end his life until three weeks later."

"You'll have to give him reasons to go on living."

Evie laughed with annoyance. "So I'm to act like a crazy person and just say, Hey Bellamy, I'm from the future and –"

"No," Kelsey again interrupted and appeared alarmed. "You can't tell him he's going to commit suicide. If you do, you'll be snapped right back here so fast your head will spin. You can only shift events, not shout on a soapbox as if you're a prophet. Bellamy, in the end, will still have to make the decision without you spelling it out for him. It's all about balances in the universe." She sighed. "He may still end up dying, but on the off chance, he was leaning the other way, perhaps your subtle influences will be the factor that keeps him from making that fatal decision. We're all connected in some way, Evie. We never know who might be influenced by something we said or something we've done."

Evie stared at her as she tried to wrap her mind around all Kelsey was saying to her. She could almost believe Kelsey knew what she was talking about, that she could somehow truly send her back in time.

"Hold on tight to that necklace," Kelsey told her. "Now…" She clapped her hands and rubbed them together. The action reminded her of a mad scientist, and she was the science project. "Let's get started. I'll need your full name, middle name and all."

"Emerson Violet Reid," Evie said.

"How in the world did you manage the nickname Evie from Emerson?" Lisa asked as she took her spot next to Kelsey.

"Bryce, my brother. It's my initials. E for Emerson and V for Violet. E. V., Evie.

Kelsey cleared her throat and they both looked at her. "Can we get started now?"

"You're cranky when you have to cast a spell," Lisa grumbled, but then fell silent.

"Remember," Kelsey said, "the spell is temporary. It's like we're boomeranging you into the past but you'll eventually come right back again. So don't tarry."

Easy for Kelsey to say when she had to figure out a way to influence Bellamy in a positive way, and give him something to take with him when he checked into that hotel room on September 22, 1997, that will stop him from ending his life. Sure, don't tarry. It's all good. "How much time do I have?" she asked.

"How should I know? I've never time traveled."

Evie rolled her eyes and wondered why she even asked the question. It wasn't like she was going anywhere. Right? "Fine, I'll do what I can before it's too late."

"Exactly," Kelsey said, and then looked at Lisa. "I need you to stand on the other side of the circle and grasp my hands."

"Why?"

"It's to keep the magic contained and it's stronger when there is more than one person's energy propelling the magic."

Lisa made a big production about complying with an over exaggerated sigh and a roll of her eyes, but she reached out her hands and Kelsey clasped them. Evie stood in the center of their clasped hands like they were going to play a game of London Bridge is Falling Down. The nursery rhyme seemed almost fitting. However, she wouldn't be repairing a bridge, but a life. Making it stronger in hopes that despair didn't weaken the mind where irrational decisions lay in wait to destroy. Evie stood nose to nose with the cardboard cutout of Lovel. It seemed creepy to be staring into those baby blue eyes and smiling face when she was about to take on a mission to save him from killing himself.

"If you zap us to oblivion, I'm going to be so mad at you," Lisa grumbled.

Kelsey ignored her and began the spell, "Send Emerson Violet Reid back to August 3, 1997, before Bellamy Kendrick Lovel drew his last breath." She went on and recited something that Evie didn't understand, something old and foreign, but as Kelsey spoke the words, the air around them felt different, heavy and charged. She gripped the necklace tighter and her gaze shifted to the cardboard Bellamy lookalike. The world tilted, making her dizzy and Kelsey's voice grew farther away. Then she felt a surge of wind around her, and a light so bright she shielded her eyes. Darkness blasted her senses next, and her body felt weightless as it zoomed through a black void. Sounds blasted her from every side and she wanted to cover her ears but couldn't move. She was at the mercy of whatever force was driving her away from her friends.

Just as fast as she traveled, because she couldn't think of another word for what was happening to her, it all stopped. Halted as if someone had pressed on the brakes at top speed and she'd forgotten to wear her seatbelt. She jerked forward then back with such force she feared her neck would snap. Her breathing came in short quick breaths and managing anything deeper into her lungs hurt too much.

"Nurse Evie? Are you all right?"

She blinked a few times before her surroundings came into focus. She realized she was sitting on a linoleum floor, not her patio, not in a circle of blood. She turned her head to find a wrinkled-faced woman peering down at her from a hospital bed.

Had she really time traveled?

About Two Worlds Collided:

Evie Reid on a whim agrees to travel back in time to 1997 to change bad boy Bellamy Lovel's path of destruction. She's smart with a college degree, but she is still fan-girl crazy for the rock band, Civilized Heathens. Evie knows despite all Bellamy's smiles and enthusiasm on the stage, he's destined to end it all on one lonely night in a hotel room unless she can change his path.

Bellamy isn't keen on having Evie as his personal assistant, hired by his band mates to watch over him, and keep him on schedule. However, there is something about the woman that sparks his interest, despite his best to ignore her. When darkness threatens to consume him, he realizes she may be the only light that will chase the shadows away.

Available at:
Ebook: 
Amazon / Amazon UK / iTunes / Smashwords /Nook / Kobo


Karen Michelle Nutt
Website:
http://www.kmnbooks.com


___________________________________________



Christmas Folly

by

Eve Gaal






An old friend and I were catching up at my holiday party. We hadn’t seen each other for years but now that we were back in the old neighborhood, we decided to invite him for Christmas dinner. I told him I wrote a couple of books since the last time he saw me. He looked around the room and loudly proclaimed, “She wrote a book everyone. Did you hear that? Congratulations—she wrote a book.” While my friend is a funny person, upon reflection it dawned on me that he was being sarcastic which is still comical but not very nice and rather caustic. I’m going to chalk it down to the holidays and not judge him. He’s still a nice man and truth be told, he had a point. EVERYONE seems to be writing a book these days. EVERYONE!




 Things were moving along fine until I made it worse. Towards the end of the evening, I wanted to pry his eyes off his cell phone by initiating some conversation. I thought I’d tell him about my book. (I’m either stupid, stubborn or a very bad combination of both!) He nodded yes, his eyes still glued to his Smartphone, “Oh, yeah, love to see it. Can I have a copy?” I have to admit that I had over-salted the gravy, but that wasn’t the only mistake I made. I ran to dig out one of the few print copies I had paid for and ordered from my publisher. I signed the book and gave it to my guest who promptly forgot about it when he left. There it was wedged and dog-eared next to a cushion, to remind me of my foolish behavior. My humorous friend had now twisted the carving knife before walking out my door and yet I still believed all of this was my fault. After all, everyone IS writing a book and why shouldn’t I have the audacious assumption he’d want to read it? After all, it was Christmas. The cooler air, twinkling lights and holiday cheer squeeze our hearts like a hug--until we let our guard down and become dangerously sentimental--ready to believe in the holiday spirit and the magic of the holidays. 




Fortunately, guest lists can change and I know I can improve my gravy but my fragile ego needs to change too before the holidays are upon us again! Lastly, and perhaps most important of all, I need to make sure there are no more print copies around next season!



Has anything like this happened to you? I’d love to hear from all my friends at PnP and the best way to reach me is by sending me an email, evegaal@gmail.com or by visiting my blog or website. My website is evegaal.com and my blog is at http://evegaal.blogspot.com

 _____________________________________________________________________________





Our Family Quilt
by Rhonda Cratty


Excerpt from Our Family Quilt
Prologue
The quilt folded into the box with the ease of well-worn fabric, the fibers soft from years of use, embedded with memories and love. My hand brushed over this fabric of time as I tucked the tissue gently around it and placed the lid on the box.
 Last summer I found the perfect Christmas paper to wrap the quilt in; the paper itself is red, green, and white in a log-cabin pattern. The artist must have been quite the quilter, as tiny stitches could even be seen. I used invisible tape to secure the ends and tied the package with strips of fabric.
 Using a piece of red fabric and a piece of green fabric approximately eighteen by twenty-two inches, I began by folding it in half, noticing that my hands now looked like my grandmother’s had the summer we made our quilt. I wanted three red-and-green flowers for the package. I cut the material at six and a half inches and then in half again at three and a quarter inches. I could hear her voice reminding me to measure twice before cutting. Now, I had two pieces of fabric, one red and one green, measuring three and a quarter by twenty-two inches.
 I started to draw my flower templates, and my eyes blurred as I thought of the hours I’d spent making templates with my grandmother. “Be accurate,” she would say. “Templates are tools, and your work will only be as good as your tools.”
 With my fabric folded and all three flower templates pinned into place, I cut out two of each size at once, for a total of six petals.
 As I cut out thirty-six flower petals with her scissors, I had to smile. Her sewing scissors were sacred—the only time I ever saw her speechless was when she found my son using them to cut a toy car out of its cardboard package. Her face flushed from white to pink as he busted the car out of the package, running to her with a smile and a hug. He played with his much-loved car all afternoon while I took Grandma’s much-loved sewing scissors to be sharpened.
 Getting a needle and thread from her sewing basket, I stacked up four petals for the base of the flower, then took four petals and folded them into a heart shape. I usually don’t use a thimble, but that day I slipped hers over my middle finger as I took one of her needles and thread and tacked down a heart-shaped petal to the petal shape underneath with a simple stitch. The thimble seemed warm as I took another petal and placed it on the opposite side from the first petal and tacked it down. I tacked down the third petal and then the fourth with an X stitch—perfected with handwork we did together while the summer days sped by. Digging into the bottom of the much-used sewing basket, I found the perfect button to stitch on top of the petals.
 I stitched all three flowers onto the strips of fabric I had tied around the box. I patted the box. This would be the last time our family quilt traveled between my grandmother and me. A lifetime of memories, good and bad. Would the life of our family quilt continue?
 I moved the gift to the table, embedded with three light grains followed by four dark grains on a diagonal, next to my great-grandmother’s framed recipe for apple crisp, with my quilted purse, and I went to get dressed for the hospital.
Chapter 1
Audrey—Twelfth Summer
The summer I celebrated my twelfth birthday loomed over me like a lonely prairie. I was lost between a child and a teenager, between homes—as my family was moving—and between friends and schools. I didn’t know where I belonged. My parents, busy with new jobs, a new home, and a new life of their own, shipped me to my grandparents’ home in Summit, Colorado. Tucked into mountains, it was always both an adventure and home.
 I was glad. It was a familiar in the vast unknown of what was to be.
 My grandmother greeted me with open arms and a plate of oatmeal cookies.
 “Where is Grandpa?” I always counted on him being there.
“Fishing with the guys. They’ll be back tomorrow.”
 We spent that first evening sitting on her back porch listening to the evening sounds and smells. The wail of the neighbor’s cat on his nightly prowl and the chirp of the crickets mingled with the smells of damp earth and pine trees and the taste of strawberry shortcake. We talked into darkness about family, home, and change.
 Grandma’s voice was soft, and although I couldn’t see her, I knew her eyes twinkled as she asked, “Audrey, what color reminds you of family?”
 I looked toward her voice. “I’m not sure our family has a color.”
 “Everything has color.” My grandmother’s voice was so sure, I believed her words as they floated into the night. “Birthdays are pink, laughter is silver, and when you smile it is golden. I want you to think what color our family is.”
 As we walked arm in arm toward our dreams, I felt treasured. I snuggled down into the crisp, white sheets, stretching my legs out and thinking about color and family. Turning on my side, I tucked my arm under the pillow, closed my eyes, and saw blue.
 I was snuggled beneath the perfect amount of covers, not wanting to stir. Yet Grandma’s spicy coffee lured me out of the covers. Slipping my feet into fluffy slippers, I made my way to the kitchen. Grandma sat at the table, coffee cup in one hand, with piles of quilting books all around her, smiling as I walked into the room. She was dressed in jeans with a shirt over a T-shirt. As she stood to give me a morning hug, I noticed her fuzzy pink socks.
 “You slept well?” she asked, while reaching for a large mug. Filling it half with milk, she popped it into the microwave and heated it.
 Everyone knows Grandma Grace was always tweaking food, adding special touches out of her spice cupboard. When the milk was heated, she stirred in a spoonful of chocolate and topped it off with her own blend of hot cinnamon chocolate.
 We toasted the morning with our cups, and she nodded to the ingredients laid out on the counter. “I thought we would make French toast for your first morning.”
 I moved to the sink, washed my hands, and said, “Sounds wonderful.”
She cracked the eggs, and I whipped them with a handheld eggbeater. “Now add a splash of milk,” she directed. I splashed.
 “A drop of vanilla.” I dripped a drop.
 “A sprinkle of cinnamon.” She nodded as I sprinkled.
 I blended it all as she got out fresh sourdough bread. We soaked the bread until it dripped the egg mixture, then set each piece to sizzle on a hot, buttered skillet. As Grandma warmed the syrup, I flipped each piece of bread, adding butter to the top. Loading our plates and filling our cups, we moved to the table stacked with books, and I got my first introduction to the world of quilting.
 Looking through these books with glossy pages of geometric fabric shapes and tiny stitches made my eye twitch. Rulers with fractions of measurements—it all looked like homework, specifically math.
 The same old feeling started crawling up my spine, the one I’d had when I found out we were moving. The same one that makes me feel like running when I am called on to answer a math question. I looked down to the floor, with the feeling I’d had when I found out I had to go to Grandma’s all summer vacation. I saw red with purple splotches.
“What are you looking at?” Grandma looked at the floor. “Did I spill?”
Glancing back at her, the truth slipped out. “I see red and purple.”
Grandma looked back to the floor. “Well, I must be going color-blind, because all I see is wood. Unless you are picturing it in your mind? If that is the case, you really have a thing for color and will make an excellent quilter.”
I looked into Grandma’s blue eyes and spoke from my soul. “The idea of quilting makes me feel like I’m doing math homework. I’m no good at math.”
“Oh, that is a load of doggy doo doo.”
I stared at her, shocked and in awe. Had my grandmother just said that, or are my ears deceiving my brain?
“You heard me.” Grandma smiled her sweet grandma smile. “Your parents have been heaping that math story on me for a few years now.”
“I…” I started to explain, and she just waved me off, offering me some more syrup.
I shook my head no as she proceeded to speak, and she pointed her fork at me. “You just haven’t found your math way.”
“What is my math way?” So I was curious. I really did want to at least pass a math class.
Grandma tucked her last piece of French toast into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and began to show me how her mind worked. “I think, years ago, people thought up these algorithms, a set of rules to find the answer for many problems, and they worked for most. But not for all.” With her fork she made a pattern in her syrup on her plate. “You, my dear granddaughter, have a beautiful mind and need to find your own algorithms. What works for you. Then you will have found your math way.”
“So what you are telling me is I do not understand math the way my teachers are teaching, so I have to search for a way I understand for myself.” I knew I was talking a bit grumpy to my grandma, and I expected a reprimand, but before I could continue, she smiled widely.
Clapping, she stood up and said, “I knew you were brilliant. Now, I am off to get all dolled up for the quilt shop.”
Oh my God. What had my parents got me into? I am with a lady four times my age who tells me I can and will do math—all I have to do is figure out my own way to do math problems because I am brilliant—and am off to get all dolled up.
Gathering up the dishes, I flopped to the sink in my slippers. As I rinsed the dishes, I looked at my reflection in the window and rolled my eyes. “I better go get all dolled up, whatever that means.”
Softest jeans, bright-pink soft socks, blue T-shirt, old blue hoodie, and best tennis shoes—oh, wait. Tucking my ponytail through the hole in my baseball cap, I looked in the mirror. “I look good to go.”
With a clumping sound, I skipped down the stairs, looking down at my grandma smiling up at me. Oh, I see. That is what “all dolled up” means.
Circling Grandma, I whistled. “Grandma, you are all dolled up. I love the boots. Black jeans and your blouse together look so pretty but comfy.”
“Yes, I am a beauty. I got my face on and my hair combed.” She laughed.
I glanced down at my clothes. “I’m not sure I am dressed up enough to go out with you.”
“Of course you are. You just need…” Grandma walked over to her closet and grabbed a long pink scarf and placed it around my neck. “You just need some accessories.”
She rushed out of the room and back in while I stood still, like a doll. Reaching up, she pinned something to my hat, placed a scarf around my neck, and then, using a light-pink lipstick, tinged my lips. “Now you are all dolled up.”
She guided me to the hallway mirror. Standing side by side, we looked at our reflections in the mirror. I had her nose and eyes, and I wanted her smile. When she smiled it reached her eyes.
The pin sparkled with fake jewels, and, spread out like a flower, the soft pink scarf gave my blue shirt a purple tint, and the tiny pink lipstick made my face light up. I felt pretty.
Grandma put her arm around me. “The idea behind getting all dolled up is feeling good about you, having a little fun—just because. Keep the pin and the scarf; they look fantastic on you.” Did I know that Grandma had just started a lifelong accessory trend for me? Pins, scarves, and hats would always be part of my dressing package.
Grandma turned and grabbed her purse, looking at me. “Where is your purse?”
Never letting me finish, she opened the closet door and took out a quilted bag. “This is your purse now.”
I took the bag and looked inside. “I guess I can put my phone in it.”
“Not today.” She laughed, plopped my phone in her candy dish, and guided me out the door, down the sidewalk, and into her car.
Without my phone? I just can’t imagine. I reluctantly went out the door and down the steps.
Sliding into the car and hooking my seat belt, I looked over at my grandma. “Are you sure I shouldn’t take my phone?”
She smiled and backed out of her driveway. “Absolutely.”
One of my favorite drives is around the lake to town. Each corner shows an amazing view of water, mountains, and tress. I settled back, without my phone, and enjoyed the ride.
As Grandma tucked her red Honda into the parking spot, she laughed. “Right in front!”
I looked through the windshield at the quilt shop as Grandma asked, “Have you come up with our family color?”
“Blue,” I said absently.
Grandma opened her door, and I did the same. We slid out of the car, our heads popping over the roof.
Smiling at me, she said, “Blue is perfect. Now we need to work on values, tones, and shades.”
She reached for the door of the store and opened a world of color and the smell of fabric. Fabric was on the walls, displayed on tables, and in cubbyholes—all around, the most intricate quilts, designs that flowed from floor to ceiling. Tools hung from pegs between books and magazines all covered with quilts.
I was drawn to the blue fabric, now understanding what Grandma meant by values, tones, and shades of blue. There had to be over fifty bolts of just blue, and under the bolts were square stacks of more fabric.
“Hey, Grace, who is your friend?”
“Audrey, I would like to introduce you to Helen.” Grandma interrupted my treasure hunting.
Helen looked to be a force of nature, solidly built, with hair that was whipped up into a mass of gray and black. Her eyes were dark and intense above glasses perched low on her nose.
Spread out on the table between Helen and Grandma was a quilt with millions of stitches.
I touched a corner to feel the satin thread. “This is unbelievable.”
Helen chuckled. “It’s my family quilt. I have been working on it for years. I understand you are creating your own family quilt?”
“I am not sure how I could do something like this.” I circled the table so I could see the quilt from the right side up. It was a huge tree with names stitched into the leaves. Each leaf was stitched around.
“You start with picking fabric and a design, and then just one stitch at a time.” Grandma was delighted.
“Family quilts have been created one stitch at a time long before sewing machines. Women would begin by making a small blanket for their children before they were born, about crib size. These quilts were necessary to keep their family warm; you just couldn’t hop down to the store and buy a blanket. Each year they would add to it. Time permitting, they might work a stitch or two a day. Fabric was treasured, so they would put as many stitches in as possible to last through time.”
“Wouldn’t women get bored working on it?” I couldn’t wrap my head around spending a lifetime on one project.
“Well, they might have ten family quilts going, all a different pattern, and it was their art, their play, sometimes their social interaction. It was a different time, and women weren’t artists; this was their art. There wasn’t time for women to play sports, jog, read a book, go shopping, or go to a movie. Quilting was a way to provide for their families and have a little creative fun. They would get together with other women and quilt. Many women learned to read around a quilt. They would take turns reading the Bible or even the Sears catalog. If they were rich, they might take turns playing the piano. By the end of the sewing circle, they would have more done on their quilt, gotten caught up on gossip, and gotten their social fix.”
“It’s like a painting done with thread.” I loved the work, feeling both overwhelmed and delighted.
Helen sounded impressed. “That is exactly what it is. Many fine artists have moved from paint to fabric art.”
I could feel myself being pulled into this colorful world.
Grandma bubbled. “We’ll go explore the stacks. We want to find four shades of blue and a red that matches.”
As I started down the walls of fabric, I touched some that appealed to me, but as much as I liked them, I didn’t love the feel. Instinctively I knew I would spend a lot of time with this quilt, and I needed to love the fabric.
I turned the corner and found a section of star fabrics that jumped out at me. The fabrics were four shades of blue. A dark night-blue with swirls of a lighter blue with white-and-gold stars. The second fabric had the same dark night-blue with a few stars, plus small white-and-gold planets. In the same grouping was a medium blue with dark night-blue and-white swirls in the background filled with white-and-gold planets. Along with the other three was a light, soft blue with light swirls and white-and-gold stars. Finally, there was a red fabric with the same swirls in darker red and the same gold stars. “It’s perfect,” I said to myself.
“Well, I don’t know about perfect.”
I followed the voice to the floor. There sat a smiling girl, about my age, reading a book. She got to her feet and placed the book on a stack of fabric, reaching a hand toward my fabric.
“I think they will want you to pick fabric that doesn’t all have the same pattern and colors.”
“It all has different patterns, and it blends really nicely. I really like it.”
“And that is what is important.” Helen stepped forward. “This opinionated but precious girl is my granddaughter, Jana.”
Grandma Grace, who was never to be outdone, stepped up and introduced me to Jana. “This precious girl is my granddaughter, Audrey.”
Jana and I grinned, the first but not the last grin, for we both knew we were going to be great friends because, if nothing else, we both had feisty grandmothers who loved us.
Helen, however, had no problem voicing her opinion. “Audrey, dear, those are all the same pattern. I think you would be happier with your fabric if it had three different patterns in the same color family. It will give you variety.”
Jana started laughing. “I just knew it, and I told you.” Then she looked at me with such understanding. “However, you should choose the fabric you want. This whole process will take time, and you should love the fabric you are working on.”
Grandma smiled at Jana and turned to Helen. “Helen, your granddaughter is not only precious, but she is a wise young lady.” Plucking the fabric from my hands, Grandma walked over to the cutting table. “Actually, you do have a light blue, three various shades of darker blues, and a red. If we use the light on one side of the block and the three darks on the other, it should work.”
Helen went to one side of the table and Grandma to the other, both seriously considering the fabric as Jana and I stood in the middle and watched them like a tennis match.
“I thought I would start Audrey off with a basic log-cabin block. I am thinking about the top size to be thirty-two by thirty-two, with the block size eight by eight, plus the border. I want her to cut each strip one and a half inches, so each strip can make up to one inch—four rows of four blocks.” Grandma was just warming up to her topic, and I felt hopelessly lost. Like Alice in Wonderland, I had gone down a rabbit hole filled with math.
“That is so cool, Audrey!” Jana giggled. “Your eyes are glazing over like you can’t focus.”
My hands felt clammy, and I knew the door wasn’t too far away. “I don’t do math.”
“This isn’t math. We are determining the yardage you will need. It would be awful if you got into your quilt and didn’t have enough yardage to finish it.” Grandma patted my hand. “You’ll be OK; just breathe.”
Helen pushed a candy dish over to me. “Have a piece of chocolate.”
I unwrapped the chocolate and popped it into my mouth. “How do we do that?”
 “Well, let’s see.” Grandma pulled a pad and pen out of her purse and leaned on the table. She started to draw as she showed me in a picture what she was thinking.









What Inspires Me to Write


My family and friends, trips to the mountains, baking apple crisps, and quilting. Everyday experiences nurtured and inspired me to write Our Family Quilt.


Whether I am quilting, writing a book, an article or a blog, it never just happens. It takes experiences, adventures, love, encouragement and support from family and friends.


Our Family Quilt didn’t begin when I sat at my laptop. A tiny seed was planted in my writing soul when my mom, started me on my sewing journey. A box of scraps of material inspired my first try at putting bits and pieces together to create something new. A Christmas sewing basket with little scissors, thread, pins and buttons is still treasured. My grandma, gave me her sewing machine she used since the 1930’s. I remember the moment she gave me the machine and tried to weave it into my book. On my thirteenth birthday, my parents gave me a Sears Kenmore that went forward and reverse (which I took with me when I got married, sewed little-boy blankets, and used until it would sew no more). It was those memories I put into words.


Once I was married my husband became my creative sounding board, patiently listening as I created with words, pins and thread. Supporting me with many adventures to fill up pages.


While I was raising children, teaching, and writing articles an idea for a book started brewing. My life supplied the inspiration. I developed the prologue and the epilogue. I also knew from beginning to end the journey I wanted to take the characters on. I knew how to sew but not quilt -which was critical in the story.


I walked into my friend’s office, who quilted, and asked her to give me enough information so I could write my book.


With a happy heart, she took me into my first quilting class and I was off on another adventure. I went to quilting shows learning everything I could. I joined a quilting guild, listening to all their inspiring speakers and meeting encouraging quilters. I bought quilting magazines and books. As we traveled we stopped at each quilting shop along the way. As I absorbed new experiences, I became inspired to add a different dimension to both my quilting and my book.


I not only finished the book but fell in love with the art of quilting. The needle became my pen and the thread my ink. As I wrote about Grace, a master quilter, -as she shared her creative gifts with her young granddaughter, Audrey. I was thinking about sewing with my mom.


As I wrote about their lives unfolding around their family quilt. The love between grandmother and granddaughter was a mirror of my love for my grandmother.


Each memory you create today becomes a springboard for a future work. So you too, may piece together your own story.


Rhonda Cratty To read: Our Family Quilt: The Fabric of Life visit Amazon.com.


 
_________________________________________________________________________________


                                   
                                           Time Heals, Forgiveness Mends
                                                     by
                                                          Pattimari Sheets Cacciolfi

In this suspenseful crime story Susan Morgan's life is turned upside down after her husband, John, is brutally murdered. Suspects are questioned, one by one, each having their own motives for the killing. Susan's life has drastically changed, but with time and forgiveness she races ahead to mend past hatreds and abuse. There are some who think she has gone off the deep end when she reaches out to the very ones who are suspects in her husband's murder, but someone has to break the cycle of vengeance hatred. CAN SUSAN DO IT?
_________________________________________________________________________________
DEAD GAME
by
Susanne Leist









I am sending my first Chapter of Lets go to the Writing Land.  I have completed eight chapters and will start chapter nine. I would like to continue to do Column Writing. This is for April Issue






Let’s Go to the Writing Land





There far away near the shores, lived a young lady named Anamelia. She was bright and extremely beautiful. Her friends would say to her, “You ask the questions and answer them.”



     She was a dreamer and lived in her own world, and daydreamed a lot.  Amamelia in her life had everything, but she was very lonely. She couldn’t focus either. She stayed home and sometimes felt homesick. She was a very good writer, but did not format or have proper editing work in her writing. She had a list of books, but at the end of the day she was a little too tired to read. She usually wasted time on the phone. Then one day she met the one with the positive energy. They helped her focus. Then she had the people who were the criticizers. They were too critical. Then she decided to go to the health specializer, and they told her to have a success chart, do all the things that would help her grow, and let go of the negative voices of the criticizers. She should have a schedule, and then asked her, “Are you doing a writing project?”      



     She said, “I want to go to the writing land.”



     The health specializer said, “Go there.”



     One day as Anamelia was sitting in her room, she went into deep meditation, and started meditating deeper and deeper as her eyes were closed. When Anamelia opened her eyes she was in a room with a big library shelf that was filled with books. Setting on the side of the shelf was a big table with big paper on it, and stories were written all over it. She pressed a button on the wall, and the doors revolved around until she was in another room with a big castle. The castle in front showed the writing door with a picture of a statue of a Prince and Princess. As she was going towards the door her foot stepped on a rock, and she fell inside sliding down a tunnel, and then landed on a soft pillow shaped like a book with a story on it. She suddenly got up. A soft hoarse like voice asked, "Who comes at my book?" "Do you have a story to write?" "Are you creative?" If you answered yes to all my questions, and tell me who you are then you may enter.      



     Anamelia said, “I am Anamelia,” in a shaky voice soft voice. I am twenty two years old, and the daughter of Franklin Moore who works as a literary agent. I live near the shores. I am creative and talented according to my friends. I have a story to write.”

     The voice asked, “What would make you the best author with millions and millions of authors, or what quality do you have for writing”?

     Anamelia answered, “I write nonfiction short stories about myself. I daydream more than anyone, and I even see the words in my dreams.”

     “Do you have any powers?” asked the voice.

     Anamelia said, “When my emotions are down and something tragic happens, I get words right away in my mind, and then I come up with a poem or a short story.”

     The voice then spoke, “My name is Agatha Aldwright, and I am the queen of writing in writing land. I will publish your book when you graduate from Castle land. I have interviewed many but none were able to enter the castle.  It’s been 175 years since someone has graduated from here. The task is going to be a challenging one, and I feel by what you have said you may progress in writing and learn a lot. Graduating would be a challenge. I was looking for the one and I will let you enter writing land. You must stay up nights, and write everything consistently. You need your writing to flow with a good format and grammar that is perfect. Then you will go to higher level class.”

     Agatha then went in front of the mirror and touched it. She then had her and Anamelia come to the reading room. There were shelves of grammar books. For example, how to write a story in seconds, and format a book, and also books on how to write princess stories. There were also cookbooks on how to diet. The castle was filled with books. Agatha told Anamelia,” you must read five grammar books, and five how to write in seconds book, and five how to format books, and then you can advance to the next room. There will be lots of distractions in the room, so you must focus, and read. Go and find a table.”

     “Thank you,” Animalia said.

     “Good luck,” said Agatha.   

Copyright@Vinita Singh Oct. 17, 2015
______________________________________________________




Cold Coffee Press Author Spotlight Interview With  Peter & Pattimari Sheets Cacciolfi


Cold Coffee Press Authors Peter And Pattimari Sheets Cacciolfi write as individual and as a team. The Man in Black In Space is just one example of their joint writing accomplishments.



Bio: Born, to a great father who was a great story teller and avid reader - he encouraged Pattimari to write stories. Her mother instilled in her to go after what she was good at in life. She wrote poetry as a child, but didn’t begin writing novels until long after she grew up. Her first novel, Time Heals, Forgiveness Mends, was based on a story of a friend who endured many things that happened in Time Heals, therefore there were feelings and emotions affiliated while writing it. Her second was her poetry book; from childhood to present, and the writing became so magical and fun that she still hasn’t stopped after 28 books. She tried it all; her novels were from crime/mystery to fantasy, but the books that she is the most proud of are her and Peter's children’s books. These books are of lessons and values for the younger generation and for that she will continue to write because in today’s times, it is much needed.

Six years ago, she met and married her husband, Peter, who is now her writing buddy. His talents affiliated with writing are outstanding and having a master’s in English helps tremendously. Pattimari having a degree in psychology is added perks to creating interesting stories.

Peter & Pattimari Sheets Cacciolfi are a team when it comes to writing their fun stories. They have published more than thirty books together, and have traveled extensively to New York, Chicago and Florida where they enjoyed different cultures, and different environments. During their travels they began a journal, which led them to writing short stories.

Pattimari achieved her teaching degree with a minor in Psychology, and later went on to achieve her psychology degrees. She worked with ADHD, Autistic and problem children, family counseling, seminars, workshops and groups. She sat on the board at Family Communication Center.

Peter achieved his teaching degrees in New York, and later moved to California to finish his teaching career. He is a master when it comes to watches and clocks; repairing and selling. He achieved his third-degree black belt and taught Jiu Jitsu for over twenty years.

Peter and Pattimari allow the creative process to develop by always knowing they are still in the learning process and with each book see improvement. They believe we all have a book inside of us, and to always cultivate new ideas, new settings, and new characters, while growing and feeling the creative part of the inward self is to move into the world of writing a story - a book.

Interview:

What, or who, inspired you to become a writer?

Pattimari’s father was a great story teller who made up stories and told them to her most of her life so when she grew up those childhood memories inspired her to write her own stories in adulthood. The first book she wrote was Time Heals, Forgiveness Mends, and during the creation of it, she felt her fingers magically racing across the computer keyboard, and later claimed she had never experienced such magical creativity in her life. She claimed her characters came to her in dreams and directed the way in the storyline. From that first book she went on to experience that creativity and still today it carries her off into stories and fantasies like nothing else in her life has done. She met her husband, Peter, who became a gifted writer by also experiencing the creative magic in developing a story. He claims he sits down at the computer and begins to write and before he realizes it, he has written several pages and when he stops to read it, he is amazed by what he has written. He too claims writing is magical.
When did you begin writing with the intention of being published?

Pattimari began writing her first book without any intentions of publication until she was into the storyline by the 200th page, and then when she realized what she had written was good and although needed improvement she became serious and had intentions of having it published. Since it has become an addiction for her to write and before one book is finished, she is creating the next one in her dreams and mind. She met her husband online and before meeting him almost 4 months later, they had written a whole fantasy story together and late, after meeting, they worked on it for publication and did indeed have it published. A year later, they married and have been writing together ever since. They have since competed and published their thirty-second book and anticipating book 33. They claim they will always write.

Do you come up with your title(s) before or after you write the manuscript(s)?

Pattimari & Peter have a title before writing and by the time the book is finished the title is changed; mainly because the storyline always changes during its creative formation.

Why do you write in the genre(s) that you’ve chosen?

Our story ideas are fluid and never stay in one aspect of writing. For example, we write mystery/crime, fantasy, outer space, children’s books, and on and on.

What has been your most rewarding experience while in the writing process?

A most rewarding experience for Peter & Patter is watching the storyline develop to a satisfactory conclusion.

What has been your most negative experience while in the writing process?

Peter & Pattimari had a negative experience with a book they started and still today have not finished because it became too emotional and negative since it was a true event and depressing at that.

What has been your most rewarding experience in your publishing journey?

To have been acknowledged with a radio show in UK claiming our children’s books were as good as the Harry Potter books.

What has been your most negative experience in your publishing journey?

Trying to fit the illustrations with the writing so as to be accepted for publication was traumatic

What one positive piece of advice would you give to other authors?

To not worry about spelling during the writing of a story, or storyline, but to simply allow the juices of creativity to take over.

What special projects are you working on now and what books do we have to look forward to in the future?

Presently we are working on fun stories for children, and fantasy stories of value.

Is there anything else that you would like to share with us?

Peter and Pattimari feel they are continuously in the learning process with their writing and with each story they become more creative.

The Man In Black In Space - by Pattimari Sheets & Peter Cacciolfi Will Be Featured In The Spring April 2013 Of Cold Coffee Writer's Magazine.

Have you ever dreamed that one day you'd awaken and find yourself traveling in a time machine surfing the solar system, and find that your dream was real? Dakota and Destiny had that very dream and with the help of their friend Wells, they used his time machine and traveled to Venus, Mercury, and Mars. The man in black will captivate and thrill you throughout all the solar adventures.

Genre: Fantasy

LuLu Purchase Link: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/pattimaris1675?searchTerms=The+Man+in+Black+In+Space+-+by+Pattimari+Sheets

Book List:

Adventure And Values In Children's Stories - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond and Charlotte Huston-Johnson

Dancing With Our Love - by Pattimari Sheets & Peter Cacciolifi

Desirea - by Pattimari Sheets, Jeanne Trachman

Different Styles Of Poetry - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond

Children's Book By Children - by Charlotte Johnson, Pattimari Sheets

Children's Stories For All Ages - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond, Charlotte Huston-Johnson

History Of The Old Classic Children's Stories - by Pattimari Sheets Cacciolfi & Peter Cacciolfi

Intriguing Women Of The Middle Ages - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond, Charlotte Huston-Johnson

Lunchbox Of Memories - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond, Charlotte Huston-Johnson

Lydia Between Two Worlds - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond, Charlotte Huston-Johnson

The Influence - by Peter Cacciolfi

The Man In Black In Space - by Pattimari Sheets & Peter Cacciolfi

The Mysterious Mystery - by Peter Cacciolfi & Pattimari Sheets

The White Light - by Pattimari Sheets & Peter Cacciolfi

Time Heals, Forgiveness Mends - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond

Time Heals, Forgiveness Mends, II - by Pattimari Sheets (Diamond) Cacciolfi

Rhyming Children's Stories - by Pattimari & Peter Cacciolfi

Rhyming Children's Stories, Poems and more - by Peter & Pattimari Sheets Cacciolfi

Secrets Revealed In Lunchbox Of Memories - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond, Charlotte Huston-Johnson

Sometimes Your Greatest Misery Can Be Your Greatest Happiness - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond, Charlotte Huston-Johnson, JoAnn Kite

Stolen Identity - by Peter Cacciolfi & Pattimari Sheets Cacciolfi

Traveling Investigators - Pattimari Sheets-Diamond, Charlotte Huston-Johnson, Jeanne Trachman

Traveling Investigators And Traveling Investigators Do It Again - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond. Jeanne Trachman

Valley Of The Yellow Stones - by Pattimari Sheets-Diamond, Charlotte Huston-Johnson

Within The Winds Of Hope - by Pattimari Sheets Cacciolfi & Peter Cacciolfi


Website Links:


Blog Links:

Twitter Link:
https://twitter.com/settings/applications....PATTIMARI SHEETS

Cold Coffee Press And Cold Coffee Writer’s Magazine were created for the purpose of bringing exposure to authors and their books. http://www.coldcoffeepress.com





GO TO RECIPES by clicking on the below address