Thirteen things better than the Tropics

I was sitting here, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, the curtains drawn, while frozen rain pattered on the windows thinking to myself, 'Why did I ever leave the tropics?'
When I lived in the tropics, I didn't even own a sweater. Even the rainy season was hot. I never had to turn the heat on (we didn't have heat anyway in the house) and once we lived in a house with a fireplace, and we never lit it; it held a huge potted fern.
Now I live in an old house with such drafts in front of the doors and windows that the curtains move as if in a breeze. Sleet is the most common form of precipitation. What can be better about France than the tropics?



1) I don't have to shake my shoes out every morning. It used to be a habit. I don't do it anymore. It was to dislodge the scorpions that liked to take up residence there. I shook my shoes for about ten years after leaving the islands. It's a hard habit to - er, shake.

2) I can open the cereal and pour myself a bowl, then add milk and eat it without first examining it for sugar ants. Sugar ants are tiny, almost invisible ants that get into Everything. To check for sugar ants you:
pour the cereal in a bowl. Hold it very still while peering at it closely. If the cereal starts to move, you toss everything in the garbage.

3) I can go to the bathroom at night without turning the light on.
In St. Thomas, the bathroom was the nighttime gathering place for the tarantula. They would go to the bathroom to drink from the shower, and you did not want to surprise one - they move incredibly fast and in the opposite direction of where you think they're pointing.
Usually they try for high ground when they're terrified. Your legs look like tree trunks to them.
Terror spreads from the spider to you as it sprints up your leg. Some nights, no one gets any sleep.


4) When it rains here, it's a pretty regular rain. In St. Thomas, we got hurricanes. Three times, when I lived there, the island was declared a national disaster area. Our road was washed out, the school was washed out, the house was full of mud, and that's if the house managed to keep its roof.


5) I can get fresh vegetables and fruit. No, there are no fresh veggies on St. Thomas - or very few. Everything is shipped in. There are home-grown mangoes and g'nips, tamarands and some coconuts. Everything else comes from 'the mainland'. Here in France, the market is full of fresh veggies and fruit. I love it.


6) Cuts don't go sceptic in two seconds flat. (that sort of speaks for itself. In the tropics, cuts and scratches got infected. Period.)


7) I can control the ticks and fleas here. In St. Thomas, it's very hard to keep your dogs and cats tick and flea free. I'm allergic to fleas. They give me huge red welts. Guess who had huge red welts all over her legs and arms for the senior prom?


8) You don't feel caged in. I used to look out to sea. Endless ocean on all sides. (We lived on a mountaintop - the view was spectacular) and I'd think...'I'm trapped.' Now I can get in my car and drive. I can take a train. I can walk. I can 'get away from it all'.


9) There are no people who have come here to 'get away from it all'. In St. Thomas, most of the people who arrived to live there wanted to 'get away from it all'. They usually lasted about 6 months. Then they either packed up and left (usually owing 6 months rent) or they landed in the local loony bin and had a nice rest for a while, before leaving for good.

10) There are four seasons here, and I love summer and fall. In the tropics there is hurricane season and the rest of the time.

11) Huge, fifteen inch centipedes. Need I say more?

12) A huge, and I mean huge, difference in class and race - the rich and the poor in the extremes. It's depressing any way you look at it, and from any angle. I rarely saw such poverty as in the tropics.

13) The crime rate is staggeringly high - drugs, murder and mayhem. True, the mafia did move in and clean things up a bit - but overall, the crime there is scary. Here, I don't have dogs for protection.

And next Thursday - what I miss. (you can resume dreaming of clear, turquoise water and warm beaches now...)

Zombies and Such

I had to post this, because a reviewer just contacted me to talk about Jack. She said she had No idea what to expect when she picked up my book, and it surprised her. (Good surprise, not bad, lol!)
But it got me thinking. When I started writing Zombie Jack, I wanted to jettison all my preconcieved ideas about zombies. After all...preconcieved ideas are made to be junked, right?

There was Vlad the Impaller, who became, through literary manipulation, the sexy vampire hero we know today. A hundred years ago, no one would have thought there was a chance in a billion a vampire would be a romance hero.Then there was the werewolf. In legends, there is nothing appealing about the werewolf. Doomed to change into a bloodthirsty beast on the full moon, he's evolved into the thinking wolf - dangerous, yes - but sexy.So - what's a zombie? Well, let's let Dr. Ling-Li, necromancer and zombie expert, tell us:

(Excerpt from Zombie Jack by yours truly!)

How to Make a Zombie in Three Hundred Easy Steps

Mr. Ling-Li paused and cupped his hands beneath his chin. He looked infinitely old, wise, and sorrowful. He caught Brianna’s glance and smiled.

“Necromancy is one of the oldest arts. It was present in ancient Egypt, where the most extensive writings about it exist. But, it was also present in Ur and Sumeria, and in Africa and China, where it was practiced by priests and witch doctors, scholars and laymen alike. You know it best by its connection to voodoo, which is the African branch of this art. I come from China, where my family practiced necromancy for fifty generations. Since we all live more than five hundred years, you can see that it is very much part of my existence, present in the very matrix of my being.

“A necromancer, in the simplest form, is simply a mortician. Someone who prepares the dead for the funeral, makes the dead look presentable, and changes the body using chemicals or herbs. But that is not what I am, although traditionally we work as morticians.

“In a more complex form, a necromancer is a like a priest. One who accompanies the dead to the underworld and shows their souls the way. The ancient Egyptians preserved the mummies. That also is a form of necromancy. And much of necromancy involves herbs and poisons.”

“Is that how to make zombies? With herbs?”

“Oh, much more than just herbs. In the beginning, someone lost a beloved and wanted to bring them back to life. The Greeks have a legend about Orpheus. He went to the underworld to beg Hades for his wife’s soul. Hades gave it to him, but Orpheus looked back, his beloved wife faded back into the underworld, and Orpheus went mad with grief. The longing to bring back someone from the dead is an old one, certainly far older than the legend of Orpheus, but the story illustrates both the longing and the dangers of such a dream.”

Brianna curled her hands around her hot teacup. “I thought that it was just a voodoo thing,” she admitted.

“Oh, no, zombies have different names in different places. Zombi is also the name of the voodoo snake god of Niger-Congo origin; it is akin to the Bantu word nzambi, which means god. But the word ‘god’ here is closer to ‘spirit,’ or one who talks to spirits, than your definition. And to tell you the truth, what you call zombies have nothing to do with Jack or May.”

May again. Brianna pasted a bright smile on her face and said, “Mostly we think of zombies as being mindless slaves in decaying bodies.”

“That’s because there are many different ways to make a zombie, and the easiest way is for a bokor, or zombie maker, to poison his victim, steal his soul, put it in a clay pot, and use the zombie’s body as his slave. Some people claim zombies are caused by a virus, and again, it’s true up to a point. There have been zombies made after contracting a certain virus, but they are not the same as what I do. You see, a bokor, or someone who makes zombies like the Heart Taker has, is not a necromancer. No, that involves something completely different.

“Some believe that necromancy is the most powerful of all magic, because it defeats even death itself. Jack is technically what you call an undead, but still has his soul. And for that, he is different from the other undead, such as vampires or bokor-made zombies.”


SO.........
What do you think about Zombies? Are you willing to suspend your disbelief for a while and meet a sexy zombie - Jack the Stripper?

absent minded...

At the golf club, there was a sign posted on the bulletin board:

Lost Keys!
I lost my keys between the parking lot, the retaurant, and the pro shop. I may have put them in someone else's bag by accident.
If you find them, please drop them off at the pro shop.
I'll buy the finder lunch or dinner at the restaurant!

I loved the part about him maybe putting the keys in someone else's bag.
I don't feel quite so absent-minded now.

:-)

Oracle Day

Wynn Bexton has posted an excerpt featuring an oracle. I have always been fascinated by them. The Delphic oracle, Cassandra, Macbeth's three witches...and they continue to fascinate as millions of people consult their astrologists, read advice columns, and scan their palms and tarot cards for answers.

In this excerpt, Ashley, a modern woman trapped in the past with Alexander the Great, is fed up with the soldiers infatuation with sooth-saying. The soldiers think she's an oracle, being a goddess (she's mistaken for Persephone) and keep asking her to tell their fortunes. When she hears about a real oracle in a nearby village, she decides to go along and stop the fortune-telling nonsense in its tracks.

"Lysimachus, I don't tell fortunes. You can't look into the future. There's no such thing as fate!" I tried to talk common sense to him, but it was hopeless.

"Please, we'll pay you! Look, my friends and I have sixteen oboles, and we'll throw in a white chicken. You can sacrifice the chicken and tell us our fortunes with the entrails. Please?"
"Aren't you afraid of what I might say?"

"Of course, who wouldn't be? We know you're a real oracle. Please? The one in the village is so old, we can't understand a thing she says."

I pursed my lips. This oracle business was starting to get on my nerves, yet it intrigued me at the same time. "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"First, you take me to see the oracle in the village." I wanted to see the old lady and find out what all the fuss was about.

Barsine insisted on coming with us. Even she believed in oracles. Alexander was in Persepolis with Nearchus. Otherwise, I don't know what he would have thought about this outing. Plexis joined our troop. He said he wouldn't miss it for the world. Usse watched us leave with a faint line of worry between his brows.

I rode my white donkey, but everyone else walked. We sang and joked as we went toward the town. For me, the whole thing was a lark; a sightseeing trip for a tourist from the future. I didn't believe in gods, oracles or fortune-tellers, but for the people walking along beside me, the gods were real. For the Greeks, the only difference between the gods and men, was that the gods were immortal and could change form. The gods had the same emotions and frailties as men, and loved to meddle in human affairs – they would often come to earth from their home on Mount Olympus and walk among the unsuspecting humans.

The oracle, or pythia as she was sometimes called, was an old woman living on the outskirts of the village. Her cottage was surrounded by a hedge of fragrant thyme and lavender. Several white goats and chickens were in a small paddock in the back.

Her house was actually a temple. It had an open courtyard with a large stone altar under an olive tree. When we arrived, the old woman was outside sitting in the sun, her face hidden in the shadow of a large-brimmed straw hat. She wore a white robe, Greek style. When she stood to greet us, I saw she was almost as tall as I.

She might have looked old but her voice was authoritative. "Bring the donkey to the altar," she ordered.

"Why?" I asked, getting off White Beauty's back and patting her affectionately.

"For the sacrifice. You've brought her for the oracle, have you not? Do you want to consult Apollo? Have you the pelanos?" This was the fee paid to the oracle.

"The donkey is mine," I cried. "She's not to be killed!" I got back on, intending to ride away.
One of the soldiers caught her bridle. "The oracle has spoken," he said. "The donkey will be sacrificed."

"No!" I kicked at him with my foot, trying to wrench the donkey's head away. But she was too docile and just stood calmly while the soldiers pulled me off the poor creature and led her to the altar. I screamed, "Barsine! Plexis! Lysimachus! Do something!"

But Barsine wore an expression of pity and disgust, as if I were committing a heinous crime.

Plexis grabbed my arm and squeezed it so hard he bruised it. "Don't say another word!" he hissed. "What do you think you're doing? It's an honor for your donkey."

"You're just mad because I named her Penelope," I sobbed. "Lysimachus, don't let her do that!"
Lysimachus's face was twisted with pity, and he tried to calm me with gentle words. "Why do you protest? You wanted to see the oracle. Don't worry, we'll let you go first, and Apollo will speak directly to you."

While he spoke, the old woman took off her hat and washed her hands in a small spring next to the altar. Then she reached up into the branches of the olive tree and took down a sharp knife. White Beauty didn't even blink when the woman seized her under the chin and lifted her head up. With a deft movement, she cut the donkey's throat. I saw a red line bloom in her snowy coat, and then I fainted.

Barsine shook me awake. She was holding me up, and my head lolled against her arm. "Wake up! Wake up! It's done."

I opened my eyes and saw the old woman take a pitcher and fill it in the spring. Then she dashed cold water onto the body of my poor donkey, whose nerves were still twitching, making her look as if she were trying to get up. I gave a sharp cry, and then my nose bled all over Barsine and my tunic.

Blood splattered everywhere. The soldiers were most impressed. They leapt backwards and stared at me and at the dead donkey. The old woman had disemboweled the carcass and was busy spreading the intestines and liver onto the altar. She looked up and saw me, and her eyes widened.

"A good omen!" she cried, pointing at me with the bloody knife. "A good omen indeed!"
The soldiers cheered and Barsine beamed, and then Plexis took off his skirt and held it to my nose, begging me in a low voice to control myself, or I'd ruin everything.

I was not used to having a naked stranger standing so close to me, especially one as good looking as Plexis. His thighs brushed against mine and I could feel the heat of his body. My nose bled even more. I closed my eyes and said in a strangled voice, "Plexis, will you please get away from me? And put some clothes on, you're making it worse!" He stopped touching me and jumped back as if he'd been scalded. "I don't believe this," I said, my eyes still closed. I sat down and used my tunic to staunch the blood.

The old woman's yard looked like a battlefield. Most of us were covered with blood, either White Beauty's or mine. The intestines and liver were examined and pronounced "most auspicious". Apparently, all our dreams would come true. I kept my eyes closed as much as possible. For me this day was rapidly turning into a nightmare.

It wasn't over. The woman washed in the spring and bade us wash too. Then she led us into the temple where a fire smoldered in a bronze brazier. She threw handfuls of leaves and herbs on the fire, and stinging smoke filled the room. I choked and my eyes started watering. Strangely enough, no one else seemed affected. The woman sat with her head right in the smoke for a while, and then she disappeared down a staircase that led to a cellar. We followed her, and found ourselves in a small square room hewn out of the bedrock. The room was lit by a single torch, and there were benches all around the walls.

Everyone sat as if they were in a doctor's waiting room. Barsine pulled me down beside her and held my hand. I was still crying. Plexis wouldn't look at me, Lysimachus looked apprehensive, and the soldiers all seemed in high spirits.

The woman went into another room and drew a heavy curtain behind her. After a few moments she called out in a strange voice muffled by the curtain, "Who asks Apollo first?"

Barsine dug her elbow into my ribs, but I shook my head. "You go first," I sobbed.

She stood up and with a shy smile asked, "Will I have Iskander's son, oh Mighty One?"

The old woman answered, still in her weird voice, "Yes. You will have a son in nine moons' time."
Barsine gave me a radiant smile and sat down.

After looking at me for a minute, Lysimachus stood up. "Is my fortune to be made?" he asked.

"Your fortune will be made at the end of the king's reign. But beware, in the end a new acquaintance will be stronger than you." The voice was sly.

Plexis was next. He cleared his throat. "Will I find the answers I seek?"

The woman cackled. "Most handsome one, listen well. You shall go east and east again. You will see the twelve pillars and the sacred river. However, the answers you look for will only be revealed on your deathbed. Don't seek them too soon."

Plexis turned white and sat down rather suddenly.

The three soldiers looked at me uncertainly; then they stood up and asked their questions, one after another. The voice told them they would go further than they'd ever dreamed, and that they would all found large, prosperous families. This seemed to satisfy them. They sat down, and then everyone looked at me. I didn't move, tears running down my face. For this nonsense, my beloved donkey had been killed?

"I see a stranger in our midst," the voice came from behind the curtain. "Stand! So that I may see you."

Barsine pushed me roughly to my feet.

"Will you not ask a question of me?" asked the mocking voice.

"No. I don't believe in you."

There was a collective gasp from my companions, and Plexis drew in his breath with a hiss.

"To believe or not to believe, that is not the question." The voice was sly again, and teasing. "You have come from farther than anyone here can imagine, and you will have the chance to return. However, to return you must sacrifice a human life: one living man. A donkey is just an animal with no soul, but you must kill a man with a soul. I see past the ice in your heart. Didn't you know?" There was a dry chuckle. "Here is a riddle for the Ice Queen. The king is dead, long live the king." A silence greeted these words. We all looked at each other, perplexed.

"I don't like riddles," I snapped, more angry and miserable than confused.

"I'd love to stay and chat," said the voice, with something very like regret in it. "I too have questions to ask that only you may answer. Grant me one, just one, and I will tell you about your son."

The blood drained from my face and my heart thumped painfully. "What do you want to know?"
"Will my name be remembered? Is my name still on people's lips?"

"What do you mean?" I was confused. What was the old woman's name anyway? "What name?"

"Apollo. I am here, and I want to know. Answer me, child of the future. Answer me now, for soon I will vanish and the centuries will bury me in their dust."

At first I thought the woman was talking about herself, but a shiver run down my spine. My head tingled. "It can't be..."

"There are things you will never be able to explain. Just answer me, if you will. Do you know the name Apollo? Have you heard of me once before, perhaps as a whisper? Perhaps in some long, lost song? Do they still sing about me? Answer me... please."

The voice was plaintive, and for some reason I saw Darius's tragic face in my mind. The deposed king, a fallen angel. I thought of the Apollo space program. Tears pricked my eyes. "Yes," I whispered. "Your name is spoken all the way to the moon, but it has nothing to do with you any more."

There was a deep silence while my words were considered, and then the voice came again, calm and oddly quiet. "Well. I suppose I had to ask. Do you see how similar we are? The gods and men."

"My baby," I breathed. "You promised."

"You shall find him in the Sacred Valley. Guard him well. He will find the lost soul."

After that, there was no more sound, except for harsh breathing coming from behind the curtain. I was shaking uncontrollably, but no one would look at me or touch me.

"Apollo asked you a question!" Lysimachus shook his head in awe.

"Don't ever speak to me about it again," I said fiercely.

golfing at the end of the world

While the world goes to hell in a handbasket (where did that expression come from?) with war looming, the price of oil sky-rocketing, the markets collapsing, extremists from all religions suddenly getting shriller and louder, and global warming causing storms and flooding...
Global warming is causing sunny days here, so I went off to play golf.
November 5th, and I played 18 holes with just a cotton turtleneck and a light sleeveless sweater. (Oh, and jeans, yes, and shoes and socks, if you really want to know.)
And the sun shined. The trees were gold, scarlet, peach colored, and the grass was green and soft, and the ground was dry (we've had a drought, and it's far too hot, but who's complaining? The golf was terrific.)
My elbow is not hurting thanks to the wonders of modern medicine - but after next week's golf tournament (the last of the year for me) I'm putting it in a sling and stopping the pills. The wonder pills, as I call them now, are so amazing that ALL aches and pains vanish, but it's a fake relief, becuase as the medicine wears off, the aches and pains return threefold to remind you (me) that you (I) are (am) a simply feeble human & the best medicine is complete rest.
Sooooooo...
Today was a gorgeous fall day. I made wild duck for dinner. The leaves on the wild cherry trees look like orange silk.

The world is going to hell in a handbasket (I really have to stop reading the news.) Or at least only read the weather report...it's sunny and warm, and will be sunny and warm all winter, as far as I can see.

Global warming is great for my golf game, so I'll keep playing. Besides, our house is heated with natural gas. The price of bread has gone up, the price of eggs, milk, and butter has jumped, and let's not even talk about the cost of filling my gas tank - Oh, what the hell, it's 50$.
But at least we have socialized medicine, and my daughter's braces are not costing me a cent, my elbow is treated for less than five bucks, and the flu shot will set me back another five. So that way, I won't get sick and I'll be able to play golf (probably at Christmas wearing just a teeshirt and shorts...)
As long as the price of a golf game doesn't go through the roof - I'm happy.

Baby Talk

Baby Talk

You'd think that an author, someone who uses words to work with, would take care that her children spoke perfectly. The truth is, I believe words are for communication, and that can take many forms. One thing that bothers me about the system of teaching kids a foreign language is the sheer lack of fun in it. It's boring, exacting, and forgettable - whereas language should be fun, forgiving, and most of all - for communicating.

So, my kids learned to talk, but when they made mistakes - if they were cute and made me laugh - I didn't correct them. They'd learn soon enough a grasshopper wasn't really called a Hopper Grass.
Here are some of their best words:

Blankety. (Blanket. But blankety is more fun, has more syllables, and can go on like blankety-blankety-blank.)

Splastic. (Who can resist this word? It's far better than plastic. So we had splastic bags for ages.)

Hopper Grass. (When they found out it was grasshopper, I tried to tell them no, it was really hopper grass. But real words will prevail.)

Tuc-Tuc-peller. (Propeller. The hovercraft we took to go to England and back every summer had huge propellers on the back. They started up with a loud 'Tuc-tuc-tuc!' The boys called propellers tuc-tuc-pellers for ages. Well, I never wanted to correct them! lol)

N'guh-guh - this African sounding word was my daughter's word for 'bread', and she would only use it, completely ignoring any attempts to get her to say 'bread'. Bread was 'N'guh-guh.'

Ada and Ada - my daughter's names for her twin brothers. She called them Ada and Ada. The neighbor boy, Arnaud, was 'Arnaud', painstakingly sounded out, and she would call Carol 'Carol', and Marielle was 'Marielle', so she knew people had names. But for a long time, the twins were Ada and Ada.

Kate's Contest

Kate's having a Writing Contest!
So go HERE
and have FUN! (the point is to have fun, yanno.)
And enter the contest.
You can win some cool PRIZES.
And check out Kate's Books (Or Summer Devon's)
'Cause they Rock.

Happy Halloween!

As usual, Halloween is not happening here.

My sons took care of it one year, and it never came back. Like a beaten monster, it slunk into the woods and melted away. (Much to the villagers' relief).

What happened was this.

Television and magazinzes suddenly started a 'Halloween' campagne, to encourage the French to get out, get disguised, and get candy (and pumpkins while they were at it...) and get Halloween.

In the face of mostly massive indifference, the commercial gods of the holidays tried to wedge Halloween into the French psyche.

"Halloween is not an American holiday!" the newscasters intoned. "It originated with the Celtes, who were, as everyone knows, French. So, Q.E.D. Halloween is French."

No one believed that, but the French, willing to be modern and forward thinking, not to mention commercially inclined, decided to give it a try. Mayors and village fête commitees got together and drafted notes to the villagers (that were stuck in mailboxes all over town).

"Dear French Villager,

This is your chance to celebrate Halloween! Tonight, at 7 pm, children are invited to present themselves at the village square. Wear disguises! Carry bags for candy! After a parade around the square, the children will go around the village for trick or treating! Villagers - stock up on candy and be prepared to open your doors and give out candy!

Thank you,

The village fête commitee."

This is what my sons understood:

Dear French Halloween neophyte - while you gather in a huge group at the village square and troop around in a crowd - (Impossible to trick or treat in these conditions...the kids in the back won't get anything!) We'll be charging around the village - cleaning up the loot before you.

This is what my sons did. They galloped through the village dressed like terrorists, shooting plastic bee-bees at the villagers who wouldn't play along with Halloween. "What? You don't open your door? You have no candy? Take that!" And the next day, there were bright yellow bee bees scattered in the gutter, and the villagers, bemused and perplexed, explained that they gave all their candy to the first group of trick or treaters...(My sons had bags of candy, the beasts.) My daughter, who had gone with the crowd, had three or founr leftover pieces of candy in the bottom of her bag.

More notes followed. My sons were grounded. The mayor decided, after fielding complaints left and right, that Halloween was more trouble than it was worth.

The next year, no notes. No Halloween.

My sons dressed up in suits and ties and ridiculous hats, grabbed my daughter (where was I? I think I was at a parent /teacher meeting...) and dressed her as a little witch, and marched her through town, trick or treating as if nothing had happened. And came home with LOOT.

The next year (I'm probably skipping years here, but that's getting old - your memory fails you.) My daughter went out with Auguste, having first disguised the dog as a centapede. She got so much for her efforts she's decided to go out again this year.

The villagers make an effort to please her. Last year, they gave her candy, bottles of water, nuts, cookies, apples, and oranges. Because she's half American, they are indulgant.

Because they are French, and don't understand Halloween, they don't just give one or two candies, but the whole box. That's why my kids love Halloween here in the village.

Winter Soup

Today, while the rain fell in sheets outdoors, I made winter soup.

2 cups chopped onions
1 large winter squash - peeled, seeded, cut in cubes
2 apples, peeled, cored, chopped
4 cups chicken broth
3 tablespoons sweet curry
3 tablespoons butter

Melt butter in soup pot, add onions and curry, stir, cook over low heat until soft (about 20 min.)
Add the stock, squash, & apples bring to a boil then lower heat and simmer until squash is cooked (mine was very tough - took about 2 hours. Acorn squash will take about 30 min. & is good to use.)
Add cream to taste (I used Madras curry, which smells divine but it very hot. I turned the heat down with a big dollop of 'creme fraiche' - you can use sour cream or plain yoghurt.
Serve with grated apple sprinkled over top.

Tonight, we're having winter soup with fresh bread, salad, and cold chicken.

Bon appetit!

Vacation!

Yes, it's Vacation! The kids are home from school, and it's gray and rainy out.

College boy #1 is on vacation, but he's a fireman, so he's spending most of his time at the firehouse. In France, the volontary firemen are paid for taking 12 hour shifts, so my son, in order to pay for his miniscule studio in Paris, comes home on weekends to stay at the firehouse. Now that it's vacation, he'll probably be there a lot.

College boy #2 is in the states - in SUNY Potsdam - and I suppose he's getting ready to take his mid-term exams. Vacation will be at Thanksgiving for him.

Daughter in middle school is thrilled that it's vacation, and has already lined up a job at the pony club sorting out a new pony. She will be paid in hours riding, and believe me, she's more than happy! The new pony is a Dartmoor, very cute, but tends to run away with the younger riders.
Right now she's watching an animated film by Hayao Miyazaki (our favorite film-maker). If you don't know his work, or the studio Ghibli films, you're missing out on something wonderful.

I have lots of tutoring jobs lined up. First report cards have arrived, and parents don't want their kids to get left behind, so English, French, and math tutors usually get lots of work during vacation. :-) I'm not complaining - I want to buy new chairs for my dining room!
I'm starting a new project - one my cousin Tony suggested (and even outlined for me!) It's going to take a LOT of work, but it's quite fun. I may need help though. We'll see.

My stupid elbow (can elbows be stupid?) still hurts, and I stopped the medicine, (or wedicin, as my daughter used to say when she was little) because I didn't tolerate it very well. It gave me an upset stomach - ugh!

That's the news for now. It's pretty quiet here. Fall is just starting, and the leaves haven't really turned color yet. I'm waiting until they do to go out for a hike and take photos. I'll post some when I do!

Thursday THIRTEEN

THIRTEEN THINGS AN AUTHOR IS MOST AFRAID OF

1) Rejection letters from agents.
Even if the note is just a simple "No thank you," we see this:
"Dear Author,
Please stop sending me your hackneyed prose. Your stories suck. I hope you have another job, because writing just ain't it. If I sold writing like yours, I'd be the laughing stock of my profession. Please, for my sake and yours, stop querying me. "

2) Rejection letters from publishers.
Again, our imagination tends to see things in a darker light...
"Dear Author,
Just because we publish several of your online writing buddies, and just because your favorite author in the whole world is in our stable of authors, that doesn't mean you are welcome. As a matter of fact, if it were Christmas eve and ours was the only stables in town, and you were pregnant and riding on a donkey - we still wouldn't take you. Do us and the publishing world a big favor - take up bird watching."

3) Typos in submission letters.
Dear Agnet,
Dare Agent,
Dear Ms. Snork,
I'd like to submit my story, "Angles on Crusade..."
I'd like to sumbit by story,
Sincely yours,
Sincerey yours,
Jenfiner
Jennifre

4) Typos in our finished and FINALLY published books:
Page 34: Instead of the Gulf of Mexico, it reads the Golf of Mexico...

5) Readers picking up on our little typos.
"Dear ex-favorite author. I read your latest story. Where the f%*@! is the Golf of Mexico? Do you mean the one in Tijuana, the Golf del Sur? Or did you mean the one in Cancun - the Country club and Golf Verdez? In any case, it makes no sense. I'm through reading your books. An ex-fan.

6) Having nobody read our books.
"Dear Author - here is your royalty statement for the year 2006 / 2007:
You sold 0 copies
Your royalties are 0.00$

7) The Advance that Just Won't Go Away.
"Dear Author. Your advance was 1000$. You sold 0.00$ this year. You still owe us 1000$ on your advance against royalties. It will be a cold day in Hell before we sign another contract with you.

8) A Negative Review
(I can dig up a real one for this, but I'm having too much fun...)
"The Tell Tale Tart by Samantha Winston - ZERO STARS
Where to begin? Well, it was hard enough to begin when I started reading, and I barely got to the end - I only threw the book against the wall 86 times, and it's a novella, folks. The Tell Tale Tart starts off with a whimper and ends with a whine. The heroine, Janice, makes having PMS and the stomach flu, along with a raging fever seem fun, and the hero, Mike, really should be locked up somewhere in a maximum security prison for eternity. The good news is, it's practically a short story. The bad news is it cost me 4.95$ as a used book on Amazon. This was the worst piece of trash I've ever read. Don't even bother taking it out of the library.
Nancy the usually really Nice reviewer for Rarin' to Read Reviews"

9) Trying to find a quote to use from a negative review.
"The Tell Tale Tart...The heroine Janice...fun...the hero Mike...eternity. Good News."

10) Plagiarism
Finding out that witty expression your hero spouts throughout your book came from somewhere else. Your subconscious has betrayed you!
"The force be with you," said Mike.
Janice giggled and batted her eyelashes. "You're such a character, Mike."

11) Plagiarism 2
Finding out someone has plagiarised your book - taken your characters and given them slightly different names but kept the plot!
"Keep the force," said Mark.
Jane laughed hysterically and waved her eyelashes in the air. "You're my romance hero, Mark!"

12) Finding out the 'OTHER' book gets a five star review and lands on the NYT best seller list.
"...I can't say enough good things about Ms. Desforges new book. Her fresh new writing makes the wonderful characters come to life. I want to spend my entire life reading more books about Mark and Jane. Fabulous. Highly recommended.
Nancy the really Nice reviewer for Rarin' to Read Reviews"

13) Success.
Because then you have to write another book just as good.

Um....14) Finding out that it's Wednesday.
Just ignore this post until Tomorrow folks.
:-)

Sunny Sunday

Zombie Jack is due out Tuesday!

“Ladies and gentlemen and creatures of the night, welcome to my Halloween show!” Applause. Dee waited until it died down. “Tonight we have a special show for you. Without further ado -- Jack the Stripper!”

The music started, the curtains parted, and Dee stepped off the stage, moving to the side of the dance floor to watch the show. Brianna saw him sandwiched between a wood sprite wearing a leafy, green minidress and a crown of ivy, and a woman wearing what looked like an antique wedding dress of ivory silk and a top hat.

All of Brianna’s attention suddenly became fixed on Jack as he appeared onstage. He wore a pumpkin mask, and his tattered monster outfit drew a collective gasp from the audience. He started to dance. Whipping off the mask, he stood for a minute, gazing out over the audience. His eyes were supernaturally bright, his hair tousled, his skin glowing. He looked like a movie star, and the women went wild.

Brianna could hardly breathe. Jack was more than hot. He was scorching. The women were crazy about him; they screamed his name and applauded madly. Jack strutted to the center of the stage in time to the music and bared his chest. The scar drew shrill screams and more applause. When Jack danced, Brianna could swear she heard women swooning all around him. A woman dressed as a vampire stood next to her table. She sank down into the chair by Brianna and gave a low moan.

“He is sooooo amazing,” she breathed. “I want him.”

Brianna was torn between pride, jealousy, and worry. Would his arm stay put? Had he taken the aspirin? Would he be all right? “Careful, Jack,” she muttered.

Jack’s shirt came off, and his arm stayed on. Brianna sagged in relief. More screams and swoons. He danced, and even the men stopped playing billiards and came to watch, cue sticks in hands. Jack’s pants slithered down his hips. He lowered his chin and stared at the audience. They stared back, mouths open, eyes wide, pupils dilated. He stepped out of his pants, and the music stopped. The lights were killed, and the curtain fell.

The crowd went crazy. The applause nearly cracked the plaster on the ceiling. Brianna could feel the floor shaking beneath her feet. Whoa. She turned to the vampire lady sitting next to her. “How’d you like that?”

She looked at Brianna. “Please tell me he’s coming back,” vampire lady whimpered.

“If not, I’ll go drag him back myself,” said another spectator standing nearby, her hands on her throat.

The music started again, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight appeared as the curtain lifted again. Jack stood in the middle of the spotlight, dressed in his second outfit.

The music, “Superstition,” pounded through the speakers. Jack opened his vampire cape and swirled it around. Grinning at the audience, he bared fake fangs. More screams and applause from the women. He tossed the cloak to the ground and took off his shirt.

“Slower, Jack, slow down,” murmured Brianna.

Jack looked like he was enjoying himself immensely. He danced, he peeled off his clothes, and strutted about in his G-string as the women shrieked and squealed and tossed money onto the stage.

Teasingly, Jack slowly took off his G-string. Brianna groaned and tried not to stare. A flood of heat dampened her panties. She hated that everyone else was staring at Jack. The women uttered a collective gasp of appreciation, ending in a thunder of applause, whistles, and more screams. The music stopped, but Marty was on the ball and put on another song. “Black Velvet” started, and Jack began to dance slowly. A flurry of applause and high-pitched sighs and cries sounded from the audience.

Jack seemed to have no qualms at all about exhibiting his body -- and why should he? From his well-shaped head down to his perfect Greek-statue feet, he was gorgeous. Brianna felt a pang of jealousy. She watched Jack’s show with growing dismay and had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming, “He’s mine!” It was ridiculous, but that’s what she wanted to do. He was incredible. Every woman in the place was mesmerized. Jack’s muscles looked sculpted beneath his smooth, white skin. Except for the scar, he was flawless. And his eyes. No one should have such electric blue eyes. But there was something odd about those eyes.

Brianna froze. Something very odd.

Jack came to the front of the stage and winked at a woman sitting in the front row. She gazed up at him, entranced.

Jack leaned over and said in a husky voice, “Can I dangle my dingle in your daiquiri?”

“What?” the woman squawked.

“I said, can I dangle my dingle in your daiquiri, darling?” Jack swayed his hips forward suggestively.

Brianna cringed. This could not be in the script. She turned to look at Mémé Hoya. She had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “What is he doing?” Brianna hissed.

“He took an aspirin.” Mémé Hoya shook her head, her expression tragic.

Painting

I've been Painting.

Not art - my walls.

They needed freshening up. They were off white, but getting dirty and old. So I grabbed some gray and some pale yellow and painted!

Then I looked in the attic and fuond some old curtains that I'd put away a few years ago and hung them.

Here's the new color scheme!

Critiques

I read 'The Lottery' the other day, and I really loved it. One thing Pat Wood did that rang true for me was to describe how devestating the effects of criticism were on her hero, Perry. The effects of harsh criticism on a child are devestating. And the opposite it true also - praise and encouragement bring out the best in them. (In everyone.)

Writing is the same.

I was a member of several critique groups, and the advice was 'No negative feedback - only constructive feedback!' That is essential. Not negative - constructive.
I know that many writers hesitate to send their work out because they are afraid of rejection. But that's only part of it. They're also afraid of criticism. Don't be afraid. The only way to learn is to send your work out and have it looked at by people who have no emotional connection to you or your work. An honest critique group can be amazingly helpful. If you're a new writer who is afraid to join a critique group, remember this. We all started this way: palms sweaty, heart pounding, brand new manuscript clutched in our hands - terrified that the book will be ripped apart. A good critique group will not rip anything. If it's a good group, the criticsm will be contructive and help you learn. Your writing will get stronger, and you will feel more secure about it.
But a bad group can do harm. If you feel your group is too harsh, don't hesitate to change.
So if you are a member of a critique group, remember to temper your criticism. Try to find out if the person you're critiquing has a lot of experience or not. New writers are more sensitive. (Believe me, the first time I was critiqued, it nearly destroyed me. I felt flayed. Horrified. It HURT! ) Imagine telling the mother of a new baby that her baby is ugly. Well, that's how it is at first.
After a while, the skin gets thicker, and it's easier to deal with citiques. But in the beginning, remember how much it hurts, and critique accordingly.

Plagiarism and tendonitis

Tendonitis sucks.
I have it in my right elbow. And I was doing so well in golf, lol.
Well, a few weeks rest and it should be fine. (And pills and an elbow sleeve...)
What does that have to do with plagiarism? (Well - it sucks...)
When I was at my doctor's office, he said, "You write, don't you?"
I said I did; He said, "I have another patient who is a writer - Regine Desforges."
I may have to change doctors.
You have no idea how livid I was when I read one of that woman's books. She copied the first 70 pages of Gone with the Wind nearly workd for word, substituting her own characters' names and transposing the action to WWII. The estate for Margaret Mitchell sued - and lost the case. Now, how in the HELL could they lose that case? Well, after the first 70 pages the book takes a slightly different turn and becomes a sprawling, uncorodinated saga about as interesting as watching slime grow. So the argument went that although Ms. Desforges did use Gone with the Wind as her inspiration - the fact that she changed the story after the first 70 pages made her Not a plagiarist.
I can just see someone writing a story about a young boy who lives under the stairs in a closet, who finds out his parents were killed by he who shall not be named, and who turns out to be a wizard and goes off to a special school - Oh, but then the story changes so that the young boy and his two friends (a red haired boy and a girl with brains) do something different than Harry Potter (Well, who did you think I was talking about?) Only he's called Jeffrey Nobbs and he lives in some Other magic world and...
I think if that happened Ms. Rowlings lawyers would have that author strung up by his typewriter ribbon.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) Ms. Mitchell wasn't around to go balistic and have Ms. Desforges
drawn and quartered by her literary lawyers.
But I honestly can't stand the woman.
She lives nearby me. (Well, a few villages away)
The movie they made out of her book was a flop. (OK, that makes me happy, I'll admit.)
But she is what I consider a plagiarist, and I think I'm going to have to change doctors.
As it is, I simply looked blank when he mentioned her name.
"Never heard of her," I said. Huh. Don't I wish.

Congratulations, Al Gore!

To the best president America never had - Congratulations.
You fought long and hard to bring global warming to the public attention.
You faced ridicule (didn't Bush the Lesser call you 'Ozone Man', in tones of ringing contempt?)
But you stuck to your convictions.
You want to leave your children a better world than the one you live in. That's laudible. Unlike the actual president, who seems bent on ruining the chances of America's children, you want to set them on a new path - one that will be kinder to our planet.
I can't help feeling deep frustration that you didn't become our president and led the country. You would have led it in a different direction. Under your care, I think I can be sure that there would be no made-up war today in order to fill the coffers of weapon and oil dealers. You would not have invented this ruinous war. Instead, you would have used the élan of compassion the world showed America after 9-11 in order to build a new world peace, instead of lashing out at an old enemy - whose oil deposits are now being plundered by an international cartel unimpeded by any laws. You would have signed the bill enabling thousands of American children to have access to good health care. Two little children would not have died last week because the needed dental care. You would not have made America a poorer nation.
Mr. Gore - I know it's too late. I voted for you. I would vote for you again. But I feel it's too late to repair the damage the right wing nuts have done to the US. But congratulations on winning the Nobel Peace prize. It's a wonderful recognization for all the work you've done, and all the good you've done. It's also proof that you don't have to be a president in order to make a difference.
Thank you, Al Gore.

print books

We're looking into getting the books at Calderwood in print. There is a program at Lulu that seems to be the best deal for small publishing houses like us.
So soon there will be print books (POD) available for some titles.

'Time for Alexander' and 'A Charm for a Unicorn' Are available in print as a trial run for the Lulu site. If you want a print book for one of these titles, you can go to http://stores.lulu.com/calderwoodbooks
The prices will probably go up by about a dollar when things are official, but for now, I'm cutting the profits so take advantage of the deal!

Other news - I played in a golf tournament yesterday just for fun (my licence hasn't been renewed yet, so I have to wait for that to get official results). The weather was nice but it was wet out, and my shoes are sitting on the radiator trying to get dry.

I haven't heard any news from the various publishers / agents I've sent books to. In some cases, it's been over 6 months, so I guess that's a no.

Zombie Jack is due out any day!!!

A World of Immigrants

Yesterday, live on French radio, Fadela Amara, a minister in Sarkozy's new government, called the DNA tests (to verify that a family of immigrants demanding French citizenship are all one family) 'disgusting'. It's a strong word, not normally used in 'polite' circles. And of course it's started a 'polemique' here in France about what a minister should say, how to say it, and why it's disgusting (or why it's not...)
I looked up the project of the law and checked it against the other European countries that have adopted it. So far, only Britan can make immigrants to take the test. It's voluntary for all the other countries. However, in France, it will be obligatory for a trial period of about 18 months.
The cost will be picked up by the government. (About 500 euroes per test. It varies between 300 and 1500 - don't ask me why.)
My reaction is that it's discgusting too.
The other countries (Germany, Finland, Sweden, Denmark and Norway) will test either parent (Finland tests both, I read) and I prefer seeing the mother tested than the father. Think of the poor woman who was raped, for example, and can't admit it to her family. At least the DNA tested on the mother will prove it's her child and take the burden of proof of fatherhood away.
However, I think the French test will require both parents to take the DNA test.

Now, I'm an immigrant. I come from a family of immigrants. (Like most Americans.)
I think immigration is a big plus for a country. I think that all countries should have open borders, (and that the everyone in the World Bank should be lined up along a cement wall and shot).
Let's play pretend...
That the minimum daily wages around the planet were fixed at the same amount.
That the rich countries ceased to exploit the poorer nations.
That the sale of arms from one country to another be totally illegal.
That education was free.
That healthcare was free.
That alternate energy sources such as wind, solar, and ocean power were used to their utmost.
And while we're dreaming...

So I asked my husband what he thought, and he said I was crazy.
But in my next life, I want to live in a world where the borders are all open, and people aren't afraid of each other.

A Tale of Two Books

I was lucky and received two books last week.
One was 'Coven of One', a witch story by Kate Bousfield.
The other was 'The Lottery' by Patricia Wood.
Both books were wonderful.

I started reading 'Coven of One' in bed, and didn't get to sleep until the wee hours. It was a fun romp set in a world where witches were sort of like doctors, and were sent to different towns to ply their craft. In this world, the south had gone very religious and the poeple there persecuted the witches, so it was a shock when one of the best and brightest students was sent there.
The heroine, Dorcas, is a no-nonsense, easy to like character. She's not flighty, she's got loads of common sense, and that's a plus for me in the heroine department. She is up against huge evil, and yet she handles it with aplomb. The book could have done with a small bit of editing, but other than that, I enjoyed it - and like I said, I couldn't put it down. I learned a bit about witchraft. I'll be passing this book on, so anyone who wants it can write to me and I'll send it to them by post.

The Lottery was a wonderful book. I started reading it on the train, and was cross when my station came up. Then I kept thinking about it, and was in a hurry to get back to it. So I read it last night until my eyes were too tired to see straight, and then I finished it this morning while I had my coffee. (A great start to my day!)
I loved this book. The story is about a man with learning disabilities. He's not retarded, but he's slow. Sort of like Forest Gump. I LOVED Forest Gump, so this book was a pleasure for me to read. I laughed, cried, and thought the ending was perfect. I won't spoil it, but if you haven't read this book, you should definitely plan to. It's a gorgeous story - and makes you feel lucky.
(I know I'm lucky, lol!)

Yes, sword swallowing can be harmful to your health

Finally, the scientific evidence is in - sword swallowing can be harmful to your health.
The scientific evidence is real - but the Ig-Nobel spoof awards for the strangest research are, well, real too. Here is an article in the Guardian:

"For the world's sword swallowers, it must have been an important study: a medical analysis of the dangers and side-effects of their profession. Fortunately, doctors concluded that the most likely injury from inserting a long piece of sharp steel down your food pipe was just a humble sore throat.

As well as adding to crucial knowledge about work-related injuries, the unique study last night earned its author, radiologist Brian Witcombe at Gloucestershire Royal NHS foundation trust, this year's Ig Nobel prize for medicine. A spoof of the Nobel prizes, which will be announced next week, the Ig Nobels celebrate the quirkier side of science. In previous years the prizes have honoured a centrifugal-force birthing machine that spins pregnant women at high speed and Britain's official six-page specification for how to make a cup of tea...

...Ten winners received awards at last night's ceremony at Harvard University. The 2007 Ig Nobel for peace went to the Air Force Wright Laboratory in Dayton, Ohio. In 1994, researchers there submitted a three-page proposal to develop a chemical weapon that could make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other. (I love this one!!)

Documents detailing the idea were unearthed through a freedom of information request by the Sunshine Project, a lobby group that opposes biological weapons.

"We don't know if this document was the start and end of it or whether, in fact, this project continued and perhaps continues to this day," said Marc Abrahams, editor of the Annals of Improbable Research and the man behind the Ig Nobel awards...

...Genuine Nobel laureates presented the prizes to winners. Rich Roberts (medicine 1993), William Lipscomb (chemistry 1976), Craig Mello (medicine 2005), Robert Laughlin (physics 1998), Roy Glauber (physics 2005), Dudley Herschbach (chemistry 1986) and Sheldon Glashow (physics 1979) handed over the gongs...

...Dr Abrahams said of this year's winners: "They make you laugh when you first hear about them. You almost have no choice, then you can't quite get them out of your head afterwards. It's slightly difficult to accept that these things are real - but they are."

The winners:

Medicine Brian Witcombe of Gloucester and Dan Meyer of Antioch, Tennessee, for their report in the British Medical Journal, Sword Swallowing and its Side-Effects

Physics L Mahadevan of Harvard and Enrique Cerda Villablanca of Santiago University, Chile, for studying how sheets become wrinkled

Biology Johanna van Bronswijk of Eindhoven University of Technology, Netherlands, for a census of the mites, insects, spiders, pseudoscorpions, crustaceans, bacteria, algae, ferns and fungi with whom we share our beds

Chemistry Mayu Yamamoto of the International Medical Centre of Japan, for developing a way to extract vanilla essence from cow dung

Linguistics Juant Manuel Toro, Josep Trobalon and Núria Sebastián-Gallés, of Barcelona University, for showing that rats cannot tell the difference between a person speaking Japanese backwards and a person speaking Dutch backwards

Literature Glenda Browne of Australia, for her study of the word "the" and the problems it causes when indexing

Peace The Air Force Wright Laboratory, Dayton, Ohio, for instigating research on a chemical weapon to make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other

Nutrition Brian Wansink of Cornell University, for exploring the seemingly boundless appetites of human beings by feeding them with a self-refilling, bottomless bowl of soup

Economics Kuo Cheng Hsieh, of Taiwan, for patenting a device that catches bank robbers by dropping a net over them

Aviation Patricia V Agostino, Santiago A Plano and Diego A Golombek of Argentina, for the discovery that Viagra aids jetlag recovery in hamsters

(sound of applause!)

Naughty Snippet day!

Gabriele has informed me that this week's snippets are to be naughty.
'R' rated, she specifies.
So, all underage readers please stop reading now.


Here is my naughty snippet from Time for Alexander (which I'm sure you all know is available for the modest sum of 5$ over at Calderwood Books...Enjoy!)

****

Alexander paced aimlessly, picking things up and putting them down. He took his ceremonial helmet and looked at it, smoothing the tassels in the back. Then he unfolded his tunic and fingered the stiff pleats. He touched the blue glass lamp, making it swing. Finally he sat down next to me on the bed and said, "You know, I really should have had her killed."

I laughed nervously. "No, you were right to let your mother go. She's just trying to help, I'm sure. From what I understand she went to see an oracle and this person put some wild ideas in her head. It's not your mother's fault."

"But Barsine! Why?"

"She's a woman, she wants a baby. It would make her happy." I shuddered, though. If the history books were correct, Olympias would kidnap one of Alexander's wives and her child. They would all be killed by Cassander. Was it Barsine? Stateira? I wished I could remember more details. What would happen if I told Alexander? If I warned him, what would happen then? I put my face in my hands. What could I do? When Alexander died I would be alone here, and I would have a hard enough time keeping out of the murderous fray that followed his death. If I had my own baby back, my Paul, I would have to find a way to care for him. I bit my fingernails, distressed. I couldn't risk being erased; no one would take care of Paul. Or would he disappear too? I got up and paced back and forth.

"What are you doing?" Alexander was staring at me.

"I'm thinking."

"I see that. If you're so upset about Barsine I can intercept her cortège and send her back."
"No, don't do that. I'd like to meet her. Really, I would," I insisted, seeing the doubt in his eyes.

"Why do you look so, so..."

"Upset?" I tried to smile, failed, and sat down again. "Oh Alex, it's nothing. You know how pregnant women get, all emotional and silly. I'm sure Aristotle must have said something about that."

"Some women, maybe, but not you. You don't ever let your emotions show. You keep everything hidden behind that icy gaze. Do you know what they say about you?"

"You mean besides saying I'm a goddess and an oracle?"

"They say you spent too much time in the kingdom of the dead, and that your heart is frozen."

I was startled. "But why?"

"When the wounded soldiers came in you would smile at them, as if you didn't care."

I gasped. "But I thought that it would comfort them! I didn't want them to see how worried I was!"

"But they knew how grievous their wounds were. My soldiers are all professionals. They don't need you to hide your feelings from them. They want honesty. It's a sign of respect in this world. To them you were making light of their wounds."

"Do you believe that?" I asked, hurt.

"No, of course not, nor does Usse. But you have to stop hiding your feelings and saying things with two meanings. Perhaps in the world of the gods it is different, although you claim to be a mortal. For a mortal you act remarkably like a god. We're used to their duplicity, but not yours."

I couldn't meet his eyes. He was too earnest and each word was painful. "I didn't realize that," I whispered.

"I think that if you cannot tell the truth, perhaps it would be better to say nothing." Alexander's voice was gentle, as if talking to a small child. I felt my cheeks get hot and I knew that my nose would start bleeding. I pinched the bridge of my nose hard to try and stop it, but it was too late. Blood spattered on my lap, staining my robe.

"Oh no," I moaned, grabbing a towel. I pressed it to my face and used it to hide my angry tears. Did he think it was easy for me? I lowered the towel and narrowed my eyes. No one understood me. I was stuck here. There was nowhere I could go. I could never return to my own time. I was pregnant, and the only man I'd ever loved was criticizing me – and his first wife was arriving in a matter of days. A shudder ran through me.

Alexander took the towel from my numb hands and gently wiped my face, pausing now and then to kiss me. I pushed him away, but he persisted. I turned my back to him, and he ran his hands down my spine, rubbing his thumbs into my muscles, kneading my back and ending up with his hands encircling my shoulders. Then he started to massage my neck, tickling my cheeks, and leaning down to nibble on my earlobe and lips.

I ended up kissing him back. I put my arms around his neck and pulled him down on the bed. When he was near me, touching me, his mouth on mine, his hands roaming over my body, I simply couldn't imagine life without him.

His eyes, so large, long, and fierce, saw right through me. His body was an electric charge. His personality was a drug. I was completely addicted to him. I fastened my mouth on his neck like a vampire, and gave him a love bite. He growled and bit my shoulder. Our lovemaking degenerated into a wrestling match. He was a pro at wrestling; I suppose he learned at school in Greece.

I had been on a wrestling team in my all-girls school. It was one way of getting our frustrations to a manageable level. I had some terrific memories of those games, legs sliding against legs, backs arching, bellies and hips touching. In a moment I would dissolve into a boneless shiver of desire. I threw myself sideways and then twisted around, straddling his back. I flung my arm around his neck in a half-nelson and tried to throw him. He just gave a deep chuckle and slid out from beneath me with a movement like silk. I gasped and then moaned as he pulled me to him from behind. I don't think I had ever been as excited.

However, I was strong and lithe, and he hadn't won quite yet. I scissored my legs and grabbed him around the torso. Using my body as a lever, I managed to throw him down. He was a bit hampered by his erection, but he easily avoided being pinned and slipped away again, his eyes dancing.
My breath was coming in short gasps, and I decided that the best way to finish this game would be to surrender. So I did by grabbing him around the neck and dragging him down on top of me. I arched my back and met him halfway.

In the end, I'm not sure who won. I woke up on the floor. Alexander's body seemed to be braided with mine and with all the covers on the bed that we'd dragged down on the floor with us. He had fallen soundly asleep, as he usually did after a bout of lovemaking. I had slept too. I wondered what had woken me and then I heard a small cough.

I turned my head, not an easy feat with all the covers and one of Alexander's arms around me, and looked.

Axiom was standing in the tent's entrance. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. I tried to help him. "Yes Axiom, what can I do for you?"

"It's just that someone has arrived, my Lady, someone for Iskander."

Alexander stirred and raised his head. His hair fell into his eyes, making him look like a dissolute lion. "What is it?" he groaned, getting to his knees and pushing his hair back.

"It's your first wife, sir. It's Barsine. She's come early."

Everything is soggy

It's been raining hard for days now. Mist rises off the ploughed fields like smoke, and the gutters chatter and slosh, water patters on the roof and pushes the leaves on the trees down, so that everything looks sullen.
The sky is only shades of gray. Pale gray where the rain slackens, then dark as pewter and trembling with thunder above the storm.
When the rain stops, deer come out of the thickets and stand in clearings, their coats dark and wet. In the field, cows lie low, hugging the ground, stubbornly keeping their patch of grass dry. Pheasants stand beneath the ferns, lifting one foot after another out of the puddles.
The road to Paris was flooded last night. My husband left for work and returned - turned back by the police.
Today I lined my English students up in front of the window and taught them to sing "Rain, rain, go away, come again another day!" They thought it was great incantations, and sang loudly as the rain poured down, nearly drowning out their frail voices.
The children were rewarded by a brief respite from the rain, and we rushed out to take the dogs for a walk around the village square, singing loudly all the time - "Rain, rain - Go away!"
I wonder what the neighbors thought?

Prudes?

I found an hysterically funny article in SLATE magazine.
It's all about our friend the vibrator.
From its invention to today the article, in the form of a slide show, gives some interesting information. Did you know that the vibrator was the fifth electrical appliance to be introduced into the American household - before the electric iron even?
"...Hamilton Beach of Racine, Wis., patented its first take-home vibrator in 1902, making the vibrator the fifth electrical appliance to be introduced into the home, after the sewing machine and long before the electric iron."
And this gem of information...
"By 1917, there were more vibrators than toasters in American homes."

Ahh - the good old days.
So I'm wondering - are we turning into prudes? Prudes who'd rather toast and iron than vibrate?

A Charm for a Unicorn

A Charm for a Unicorn



Is now available at Calderwood Books!

http://www.calderwoodbooks.com/Charm

Saturday Snippet

Saturday - because I missed Friday. I only remembered after I read Gabriele's.
And Saturday because this books Just Came Out at Calderwood Books and is Available right Now!

Here Ashley has just been kidnapped by Alexander....


"...Alexander and I went for our evening swim. We washed each other's hair, and I plucked a willow branch and proceeded to clean my teeth. I had been cleaning them this way since I'd arrived, although I would have liked some fresh mint toothpaste to go along with it. I was just starting to nibble at the wood, to make it softer, when Alexander asked me what I was doing.

"I'm cleaning my teeth," I explained. I showed him how it was done, and told him I did it three times a day.

Alexander raised his eyebrows. "We use little brushes and put paste made of chalk and lemon juice on them. The Egyptians use urine, white wood ashes and ass's milk," he added. "What does your mother use? What do you use in the underworld? Are there trees there? It must be dreadfully cold." He stopped talking and waited for me to answer all of his questions in the order he'd asked them.

I hadn't known about their toothbrushes. I was put off by the description of the Egyptian's toothpaste, though. "My mother had little brushes that we used, the ones she liked had hog's bristles. And as for the underworld," I stopped and groped for something to say about that, "well, it's cold in the wintertime and hot in the summer." I left it at that and he seemed content.

Except for one thing.

"What about the trees?"

"Oh. Well, no, there are no trees underground." I frowned. This was getting tricky. "You know, I can't talk about any of that, I hope you'll understand."

He nodded. "I should have known. I won't ask you any more about it. It must have been dreadful and you want to forget it, is that it?"

"Exactly." I smiled and then swam against the current. "Shall we get dressed for the theater? I don't want to be late."

"No, I don't want to get dressed just yet." He drifted alongside me and rolled over in the water like a playful dolphin. I noticed his erection and grinned; he was about as subtle as a tank. We splashed about in the water together. It was fun swimming against the current and making love at the same time. I started giggling and nearly choked and he found that hilarious. He held me up and then moaned, putting his face in the crook of my neck. The current took us downstream, and we had to wade back to our beach.

He caught me watching him, and his face shifted. He smiled and shook his head. "You mustn't look at me like that," he said gravely. "The gods will be jealous and they'll take you away again." He caught me by the arm and pulled me to him, holding me tightly. "I don't want to lose you," he whispered in my ear. "So don't tempt the gods, please."

For once, I thought I knew what he was feeling, so I nodded, my face against his broad chest.
We dressed for the theater. I wrapped linen around myself like a sari, tied a yellow sash around my waist, and then wincing, put my sandals on again. My feet were not getting used to them.
Alexander looked imposing with a white, pleated dress skirt and his military tunic. He slipped his breastplate on, then shook his head and took it off. "A bit ostentatious," he said. Instead, he took a deep purple cape.

"Very handsome," I told him.

He asked me to plait his hair into one long braid. His shoulder-length hair was naturally wavy and thick, and I wished mine would grow in faster. My stubble looked like hoarfrost on my head. I put my turban on.

He kissed me before we left. He grinned at me, our foreheads touching. His was warm, mine cool.

"Shall we go, my snow queen?"

"We go, my sun prince," I answered, and our hands entwined as we walked down the road towards the setting sun. There was a marvelous feeling growing in my chest making it hard to breathe, but even harder to stop grinning.

The theater was crowded, but we had the best seats. First, one of the actors read a discourse from Plato's Republic, in Phoenician, so I didn't get a word of it. Then Alexander went to the stage and took a bow. He gave a long speech, also in Phoenician, and I had no idea what it was about, but I guessed it was a harangue on Greek culture. The people raised their arms into the air and snapped their fingers, which was their way of applauding.

Afterwards there was a tragedy, and then a comedy.

The tragedy was Oedipus Rex.

Unwittingly, Oedipus killed his father and married his mother. Then he tried to find out why the gods were forsaking the city. No one would tell him. When he discovered the truth, he put out his own eyes and became a beggar.

Everyone cried; some even sobbed aloud. I was embarrassed by the noisy outburst of emotion, and shrank into my seat. Alexander turned to me with tears on his face. When he saw my frozen expression he looked startled for an instant, then shutters seemed to come down over his eyes. He turned back to the play, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Afterwards, there was an intermission, and venders swarmed over the amphitheater offering food and drinks. Alexander bought me some honeyed nuts, and we drank watered wine that one of the soldiers carried in a goatskin. A section of the theater was reserved for slaves, and I caught sight of Brazza, the mute, happily munching on nuts.

Nassar was near the stage translating for some merchants who looked like Egyptians. He saw me, his face brightened, and he waved.

Then the actors came back on the stage, and the second half of the evening began. It was the comedy. Some women and children left, and I remembered that comedies could sometimes turn lascivious or impious. People with high moral standards departed after the tragedies.

Most people stayed.

It was "Plato's Banquet", which I'd never seen. I recognized the famous harangue "in vino veritas," and the crowd was helpless with laughter at the actors' drunken antics. The play was not a straight comedy, it seemed to have more to do with love than wine, and I was nearly moved to tears in the end. Everyone else did cry. I sat there feeling out of place, but I was used to that.

Afterwards the actors took their masks off and came to meet Alexander. He praised their interpretation, even reciting several speeches by heart. More people came up to him, and he smiled and answered questions. His magnetism drew them. They crowded around him. He didn't seem to notice. He was the same with everyone, be they slave, infant, or Queen of Egypt. He treated everyone with the same grave consideration. The people adored him.

When the crowd thinned, we strolled back to the camp, the soldiers walking behind us. Alexander had his arm linked through mine, and every now and then we'd stop and he'd point out a constellation.

The soldiers stopped when we did and walked when we walked. Alexander spoke to them as if they were all equals, and they looked at him in open admiration. He didn't notice.
He did notice when I started limping, though.

"What happened to you? Let me see your feet." He motioned for a torch and looked at my sore feet, making clucking sounds as he did. "What awful sandals, where did you get them? I've never seen worse. Why don't you get some leather ones? Lysimachus!"

The captain of the guard came over. "Yes sir!"

"Captain, you will get some sandals for this woman tomorrow."

"Yes sir!" He saluted.

Alexander had two soldiers make a hand-chair for me, and they carried me back to the tent.
"I can't believe you wore these!" he kept exclaiming.

"They were given to me," I explained.

Alexander couldn't get over it. My itchy linen robe had been the very finest quality, thanks to the machine that wove it, but my shoes had been a dismal failure and he was disappointed in the god's choice of footwear.

I tried to explain that the gods had nothing to do with my sandals but fell asleep in the middle of my sentence. It wasn't that important anyway, I thought.

There was a new pair of sandals on the rug the next morning. They fitted perfectly. My old ones had disappeared, and I didn't find out where they'd gone until I went into the village and passed by the temple. There, on the altar, were my sandals.

Fresh flowers, a bowl of warm milk, and a small snail made of clay surrounded them. A young girl in temple robes sat next to them murmuring a prayer. I tried to speak to her in Greek, but she didn't understand me.

I pursed my lips and went to find Nassar. Maybe he could explain.

Nassar was writing a letter for a tough-looking soldier. They were both sitting on a mat made of reeds, and every once in a while Nassar would throw his pen away and break off a reed. He would sharpen it quickly with his teeth and I realized with a small start that his front teeth had been carefully cut at a bias to trim reeds into pens.

It was interesting and I resolved to have him explain how it was done. He dipped the reed into a little clay pot of ink and wrote on a rather cheap piece of papyrus. A dozen rolled-up letters were lying beside him, each one flattened and sealed with a blob of wax. He'd been busy all morning.

When he finished the letter he rolled it up, tied it with a piece of grass and sealed it with hard wax. Then he flattened the whole thing with his fist, wrote the address on the outside, and placed it on top of the pile.

"Next?" he called out in his nasal voice.

"Good morning, Nassar," I said as I approached.

He held his arms up in a stiff salute and then bowed, touching his forehead to the mat. "Hail Demeter's daughter," he intoned.

"Don't do that!" I was upset. "Who told you that, anyway?"

"Oh, everyone knows," he said smugly.

"Well, I'd like you to come to the temple with me to see about a pair of shoes," I said.

"Oh! The Sacred Sandals! I should be honored! May I touch them, oh daughter of Demeter?"

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "They aren't sacred sandals," I said. "And of course you can touch them. There's been a mistake."

"They weren't your sandals? The captain of the guards took them to the shoemaker early this morning to have a copy made in leather and gave the originals to the temple. It is not a coincidence that the goddess of the harvest, Demeter, guards this town. It was why you were sent here. Now that Iskander has rescued you, the harvest is sure to be fantastic this year."

"But isn't the village protected by Ishtar?"

"It was, but it's becoming Hellenicised. Now it has adopted Demeter, goddess of the harvest, because of what Iskander said last night in his speech."

"His speech? What did he say?"

"You should have asked me to translate," he said, reproach in his voice. "He said he was glad to be there and that he hoped the play would be entertaining, that he and his soldiers were very happy in the village, and he was honored everyone had made them feel so welcome, and how the two cultures would complement each other."

Nassar took a deep breath, like a swimmer, and plunged in again. "He said that the gods of Greece were stronger than our gods so we'd do well to adopt theirs. He said you had been sent as a sign and that he'd saved you from Hades himself, so Demeter would forever be grateful. He said that as a goddess you would personally see to the welfare of the village." He finished in a rush and smiled at me. "I'm no longer an atheist," he said proudly. "I believe in you. Why, if I want, I can actually touch your sandals."

I closed my eyes again and waited for the wave of pain that was sure to come. Pretending to be a goddess must rate among the three top reasons for erasing a Time-traveling journalist. After a few seconds I opened one eye, then the other.

Nothing had happened. I was still sitting in front of Nassar, and he was watching me with a rapt expression on his narrow, rat-like face.

"Did your mother speak to you?" he whispered, his eyes wide.

"No. No, she didn't. Excuse me, Nassar, but I think I'll just go lie down. I have to think about all this."

I stood up, shivering with disquiet, and walked back to the tent where Alexander was having a game of dice with a tall man I recognized as the village priest. I wondered if I could sneak away, but they turned and saw me.

"Oh! There you are!" cried Alexander, standing up and holding out his arms. "I was worried. Did you find your new shoes? Yes, I see you did. The village priest has come to thank you for your sandals. In exchange, he has agreed to forsake all virgin sacrifices. Isn't that wonderful? Your mother will be thrilled."

"I'm sure she will be," I said with the utmost truthfulness. Then I went into the tent and collapsed.

Sebi moves out!

He's moving out Sunday!!! My baby!
Well, not such a baby anymore.

Here's my favorite picture of him

- He's such a goof.

So today I went through my 'stuff' and made up boxes with sheets, towels, dishes, and everything he needs for his tiny studio in Paris. We went to Ikea and got a few things - I didn't have a spare frying pan or cutting board for him. Plus he just likes to go to Ikea.

The news is on, and they just announced the flu shot is available - I'm going to get one for me and for my hubby, and for Sebi too; last year the flu hit right during exam week and a lot of the students were sick. I've been getting the flu shot for the past five years.
Tomorrow I'll be sorting things for Sebi and gettting the car all packed, and Sunday morning he's off to his new apartment!

And yes I'll miss him.

But he's coming back weekends for his fireman duty.

:-)

Thursday Thirteen

Thursday Thirteen



Since I'm being Pollyanna today, I thought I'd count my blessing.
Here are Thirteen Nice things that happened to me this week.



1) We opened Calderwood Books! Hurrah!



2) My high school chums from St. Thomas, Lucy and Harrie, contacted me, and we have been reminiscing.



3) I got a terrific cake recipe, made it, and everyone loved it. I think it was the raisins soaked in the rum that did it.



4) My son Alex got a meal program at college. Yes, I know, it's a trifle, but now I don't worry about my dakhla dakhla not getting enough to eat.



5) My husband shot a wild boar and brought the meat home. Wild boar is delicious, and tonight I'm making a roasted leg of wild boar with a really nice fig and wine sauce, served with sweet potatoes and green beans.



6) I got news that 'Les Grands Ecoles' de Paris are holding an art auction, and they want my drawings and paintings. I got to work listing what I had, and decided to make a website to showcase my equestrian art.



7) I finished the website. Well, almost done. I still have to scan some more drawings and load them in. http://www.theperfectpolopony.moonfruit.com/



8) I have been playing lots of golf, and I'm taking some lessons to help get back into the 'swing'.



9) My friend Pat (Orion) is sending me an autographed copy of The Lottery!!!!!!!!!



10) I got news today that Daisy is in the October issue of Carmel Magazine for her Cook book, 'Cooking With Friends'. It's a Great cookbook, and I'm not just saying that because I have a recipe in it, lol.

11) The weather man has been predicting rain since Sunday - and it's been sunny and crisp every day.

12) I've been taking advantage of the nice weather and have been playing a lot of golf. I love golf!

13) I went to the gym twice this week, and I'm not sore! Either I'm getting in shape, or our teacher is slacking off.
:-)

Strengths in Writing

Verilian tagged me! She's asked me to divulge 5 strengths I have as Writer.
It's not easy being objective about your own writing. I mean - only 5? LOL. If you really know me, you'll know I'm horribly critical of my own writing, love to tear it apart, will agonize over it, and I have many more weaknesses than strengths. (Especially spelling...) But I'll try to find what I consider my 5 best strengths:

1. My vocabulary. I hardly ever need to search for the right word to describe something. I think this comes from having, as a toddler, an old encyclopedia that I carried around with me. I literally cut my teeth on words.

2. Dialogue. I have a good ear for dialogue, and for what sounds authentic. I'm not bragging when I say I've never had an editor tell me to redo or rework part of my dialogue. The characters speak in their own voices - I hear them - and write down what they say. Proof of insanity, but a certain strength when it comes to writing.

3. Imagination. I think, "What if..." and a whole new whole opens up to me. A myriad of paths fan out from a single idea, and I can make horses travel through space, a meteorite wipe out only the adults on earth, or a woman can time travel back to interview Alexander the Great and get kidnapped by him.

4. I'm a nit picker. I will write and rewrite and re-rewrite in order to get it perfect. I'm not afraid to take a book apart and put it back together. I'm not afraid of chopping text, pruning uneeded prose, or getting rid of useless information or even characters. I'm ruthless when it comes to editing - subscribing to the 'slash and burn' method. I'm a careful writer, and I turn in a clean copy.

5. I love to do research and I love to read. Science, history, space, crime, sports, religion...anything is fair game to be included in my books, and I love to research. Recently I researched the FBI. I spent over a year researching Alexander the Great before I started writing. When I wrote Angels on Crusade, I researched the Middle Ages. I contact people over the internet, I go to public libraries, and I read, read, read....I think reading is a strength when it comes to writing.

I tag everyone who wants to play, and I hope you will!!

Calderwood Books is Open!!

We're open!

Please stop by and have a look around!

Thank you!!

CALDERWOOD BOOKS

Tomorrow, tomorrow!

Tomorrow is the big day.

I've been working hard on the website.

It looks wonderful.

The books are all ready - waiting - hopeful.

They want to be read.

They need to be read.

It's the philosophical question, 'If a tree falls in a forest and no one sees it, did it really fall?'

If a book is written and no one reads it, does it really exist?

So get ready to make books real -

Tomorrow!

One man's junk...

It's junk day, and we cleaned out our garage and put the junk outside. Half of it is gone. I came back from my walk to see a man putting the chair with the broken seat in the back of his car. There are junk trunks driving through the village scouring the sides of the road and piles of junk for treasure to sell, keep, fix, or whatever.

We watched Gettysburg again. My daughter loves that DVD and keeps putting it on. My husband saw it for the first time and is hooked. He wants to get a copy of the music. Here's a photo of the cemetery in Gettysburg. A haunting place. If you get a chance to read 'Killer Angels', don't hesitate. It's a wonderful book. And the movie is very well done also.

Can we slow down here?

I need a few more hours each day please.

I was happily getting the Calderwood site finished up, putting the last touches on our Siren newsletter, and thinking I'd gotten a Lot done, when edits arrived for Zombie Jack!!!!

My new editor apologised, but there had been some mix-ups. The story had started out as Jack's Back, a zombie tale, by Jennifer Macaire. And Loose Id asked me to change the title as they Already had a Jack's Back (the titles were the same, *sniff*) So I sent in a list of titles. They chose Zombie Jack (detective extraordinaire) and put it in their list under my pen name, Samantha Winston.

So my editor glances at the list now and then, waiting to see her book come up, and notices there's another book about a zombie (Hmmm, that's odd, she thinks) But she doesn't make any connection because she thinks my name is Jennifer Macaire, and she's waiting for my book to get on the list...and the day before yesterday the powers that be at Loose contact her and say 'Why is Zombie Jack still on the list??? We're publishing it next month!!"

Well, she spent 48 hours with it and did a TERRIFIC job, I can tell you. This girl is Gold. I have a new favorite editor!

She sent me the manuscript and said 'It's a RUSH job', so I sat up all night and finished it. And now I'll quick go over it again because I bet I started goofing up after a few nonstop hours of looking for red ink, lol.

INACOC though. Off to get more coffee.

Odo and the Time Children

We have several children's books. Here is a fantasy time travel, one of the most original books I've come across if ages.

ODO AND THE TIME CHILDREN, Che Dee, 45 pp.

Children’s fantasy. Two Saxon children meet Odo the talking cat, and find themselves careening through time with him in search of an ancient gold coin.

Excerpt:

Chapter One
"When the boats came back after the long summer all the people came down to the shore to meet them. Your great, great grandfather was there, tall and with an armful of presents for the family. He was the first to step out of the boat and wade ashore."

Turnip and Meadowsweet smiled politely. They had heard the story so many times. Uncle Rolf stroked his beard and stared out into the waters of the estuary. He was telling the two children the saga of when their ancestors returned from the first visit to the land they would call England.

Then he would retell the story of how the whole Saxon tribe left their home and went to live in England, leaving out what he thought were the battle scenes unsuitable for the children.

In truth, Turnip, his nephew wanted to know every detail about the fights. Turnip's sister Meadowsweet was more interested in what the people wore for the journey across the great ocean.

"Why was my grandfather a two greats?" Turnip interrupted.

"What?" Uncle Rolf asked.

"You said he was a great, great grandfather. Did he do something special to get called great twice?"

"It doesn't mean that," Uncle Rolf answered, looking flustered that his story had been brought to a halt just when he was in full flow."It means…" Uncle Rolf stammered… "It means he was born a long time ago."

"How long?" Turnip persisted mischievously.

"About as long as…" Uncle Rolf tugged at his beard, searching for an explanation.

"As long as a donkey's tail," Turnip called out, desperately trying to hide a giggle behind his little hand.

Uncle Rolf considered this, looked thoughtful, then suddenly realized he was being teased. He tried to regain his adult dignity as best he could, coughed a few times and said pompously, "I think it would be better to continue the story another day. Why don't you two go down and play by the river."

"Oh, please, Uncle Rolf, do go on with the story," Meadowsweet protested politely.

"Don't push your luck," Turnip muttered very quietly so the slightly deaf Uncle Rolf did not hear him, at the same time digging his sister in the ribs with a small but sharp elbow.

"Stop it!" Meadowsweet squealed.

"I have stopped the story," Uncle Rolf said, now confused.

Turnip tugged at his sister's sleeve."Bye, Uncle Rolf," he shouted back, as he ushered his sister down the slope toward the river.

They ran excitedly through the tufted grass, which grew sparsely on the poor soil. This was what they wanted to do. Get away from the adults for a while and play pretend games.

Even though they were very young they were still expected to help their mother and father. That meant feeding the three pigs and ten chickens, collecting wood for the fire and, the worst job of all, helping with the digging of the ditches. All the people of the tribe were involved in this work. Without draining the marshes, there would be no pastures to feed the sheep and cattle and rich soil to grow the crops.

But just at the moment, all those thoughts were flowing out of Turnip and Meadowsweet's minds. They were heading for the river and some time to themselves.