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Showing posts with label ALICE WENTWORTH. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ALICE WENTWORTH. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

THE MOST IMPORTANT POST YOU WILL EVER READ

You read my title and said,

"Get real."

Exactly.

Get real. Or never get picked up by an agent.

As a writer of urban fantasy,

I have to convince my readers that Samuel McCord, Victor & Alice and their enemies are real,

or they will never buy my fantastical setting and plot as "real."

No matter what you write, you must do the same. Or the readers will never become absorbed into your novel.

How do you do that?

By remembering ...

1) "God and Country" ain't what it used to be.

Duty and honor were once valid motivations. But Shakespeare is dead.

This is the "Me" generation. Even if you're writing about women in the 1700's, you are not writing FOR them.

Abigail Adams sacrificed much for her husband and family. But her letters showed a woman who insisted on owning her own property and money

(very much NOT the custom of the time.)

All of us have had to deal with a situation, not because it was honorable, but because it was heaved into our laps.

Abigail comes across as real because her letters showed she resented her husband's ambition that took him from his children and her so often and for so long.

She fumed at his inability to get along with others.

Ambition, vanity, irritability -- she saw his warts. But they were warts on a face she loved. We can "buy" a woman who sees clearly but loves deeply.

2) Ah, Love ...

"Put the rat cage on her. On her!"

In 1984, Winston is tortured by the Thought Police until he finally breaks and screams for his tormenter to put the rat cage on Julia, the woman he "loves."

Sex is a primal motivator not love.

Man will sacrifice much for love but generally there must be a good chance of success, or your average reader will feel your novel is cliche not real.

Your hero may be different and sacrifice all for love, but that extremism must apply to all facets of his life or your reader will not "buy" your hero.

3.) Curiosity killed the cat ... and the bad novel.

Without curiosity, fire and most of Man's discoveries would never have been made. But as with love, there is a limit to how much we will sacrifice for curiosity.

When a mother's children are threatened by her curiosity, she will generally grudgingly back off.

Up the punishment enough, and all of us curious types will say, "I'm outta here!"

But by the time that moment comes, realistically, it is too late. And that leads us to the next point :

4) Self-preservation or
"I'll miss you terribly, but that last life preserver is mine!"

We like to think the world is a nice place. But try being an ill, frail woman on a crowded bus and see how selfless most people are.

To continue when threats to his life are enormous, your main character must have more than self-preservation to keep on --

perhaps he/she cannot depend on the promises or threats of the adversary to keep his/her children and spouse safe.

Or as so often in life, the hero simply has no choice but to go on. The bee hive has been toppled -- and it's simply run or be stung to death.

5) Greed or

"Excuse me. Is that my hand in your pocket?"

Greed is good -- as Michael Douglas once said. But only up to a point.

For one thing, greed is not something which endears our hero to the reader. Another, shoot at most greedy folks, and they will head for more hospitable hills.

5) Revenge consumes ... the individual and the reader's patience.

Revenge is understandable but not heroic.

In historical or Western novels, where justice was bought or simply non-existent, revenge is a valid motivation ...

often justified under the rationalization, justice.

Revenge in our civilized times must occur when lapses in order happen.

Say when civilization died with the power in New Orleans during and after Katrina.

Revenge on your adversary's part must be understandable, or your plot will become cliche. Revenge must be supplemented with other aspects of the character.

Say a priest, defending his flock of homeless during Katrina, must choke off his desire for revenge for a raped little girl

to stay by his remaining flock to protect them. Playing the desire for revenge against love for helpless family can lend depth to your novel --

making it real.

For who of us has not burned for revenge against a tresspass against us but had to bite back the darkness within?

6) We want to believe ...

Despite all the harsh things I've said of love (and by inference, friendship), the reader wants to believe ...

A) that when the moment comes, we can reach within ourselves and find the hero hiding there.

B) that love can survive dark, hard times if we but simply refuse to let go of it.

C) that humor and wit can overcome the larger, stronger predator -- that we can become Ulysses challenging the gods -- and winning.

7) Give your readers a semblance of reality while still giving them the three things that they want to believe of themselves and of life --

and your novel will be a bestseller.

{Victor & Alice drawn by the incomparable Leonora Roy}
***
{Thea's song for Neil Gaiman's AMERICAN GODS}

Friday, June 1, 2012

WHEN IN DOUBT, TRY NOT TO DIE_FRIDAY'S ROMANTIC CHALLENGE

Denise and Donna are doing another ROMANTIC FRIDAY CHALLENGE:
http://romanticfridaywriters.blogspot.com/


It is about wavering in coming to a decision and the consequences. My entry is from END OF DAYS.


http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0082ZJD08


Alice Wentworth and the spectral Victor Standish are the only "survivors"


in a violent quest to save the planet from an extra-dimensional invasion by beings much older than Earth.


Now, with all of Earth's champions dead, the way is clear for the fae High Queen, Oyggia, to lead her forces to conquer the mortal plane.




Victor shook his head.

“We saved your realm. And unless you want to show your elite killers by your lack of gratitude how little you think of your realm, you
owe us a debt.
And you will pay up, bitch!”


Her words were a throbbing husk, “I do not owe you your lives, whelp!”


He made a face. “Ah, actually you do.”


He held up a restraining hand at her outraged face. “But we won’t act like you’re sane or anything like that and open to simple reason.”


Oyggia rasped, “For what are you asking, Standish?”


Victor snorted, “Oh, I’m not asking you for anything. But a last dance with Alice would be a nice touch to the end of the tales told of this night, don’t you think, Sinend?”


Sinend turned to her liege. “What harm could granting them a last dance do, Your Majesty?”


Her winter frost eyes grew contemplative. “None. And there actually may be profit for me in it.”


Victor snorted, “Well, we’ll dance anyway.”


“How, Victor?” I husked. “We cannot touch and there is no music.”


He winked. “No music? With me in your head, au contraire.”


A melodic, bitter-sweet waltz sang in my head with the sighing of violins, and I knew it was echoed in Victor’s as well.


“And touching?” I asked. “What shall we do about that?”


He smiled as sad as the tune in our heads. “What we’ve done since we first met, Alice. We mirror one another, moving in sync one with the other, heart to heart, movement for movement.”


He held out his hand. I placed my hand above his misty one. We began to dance slowly and gracefully. Hot tears blinded me and hid his face from me.


And yet, they did not, for I had his eyes ever before me, whether awake or asleep. As the Sidhe watched on, we danced. Some were openly grieved. Most were bored, ready to slay us at their queen’s command.


Our last dance was much like our whole love affair. We were so close, yet so far apart. Mirroring each other in step and heart, but forever separated by our very natures. Still, we moved as one, fluid and sweeping. The melancholy tune tugged at me soul-deep.


“What is this beautiful tune?”


Victor smiled, “It’s from a movie, BROTHER’S KEEPER. I thought it fit me since I am Death’s son.”


“How so?”


“With Death as my mother, isn’t everyone my brother and sister in a way? And didn’t you bleed and suffer for the whole world, Alice?”


“I fought for those I loved. To die for an abstraction is beyond me, Victor.”


We danced in sweeping steps that took us all along the circle of hilt-clenching warriors. Victor ignored them.
He studied me as if trying to memorize each gesture I made, every word I spoke. We whirled and twirled in a dance of love unlike the one of death Skeggjold and I had taken but moments before.


He murmured,“I love you, Alice.”


I smiled evilly. “I know.”


He winced. “Does that make me Han Solo or Princess Leia?”


“Oh, the dashing Han Solo, of course.”


I fought the urge to nuzzle my head on his shoulder. Oh, it was so hard to dance like this. But then had not our whole love been an affair of maddening abstinence?


“Victor, do tell me what is the name of this tune done so hauntingly by these violins?”


He smiled wickedly. “It’s called COWS ON THE HILL.”


“You jest! Whatever made you think of this as the music for our last dance?”


He winked. “As we waltz this tune, the transformed Queen Meropis is grazing contentedly in the Elysian Fields.”


I giggled,“Even now, with the rest of our lives measured in but heartbeats, still you can make me laugh.”


I drew in a breath I did not need as I swung in circles in our last waltz. “Are you dead? Are you a ghost? Oh, I must know, Victor, what are you?”


“In love with you, Alice. Leave it at that.”


“No, I simply cannot die without knowing.”


His wavering form kept dancing but his face grew grim. “You will weep bitter tears at the price of knowing, Alice. Do you still want me to tell you?”


“Yes! I will not die without knowing just how you come to be dancing with me, to have helped me these past days though all say you are dead.”


He and I danced as one, our feet seemingly floating above the still smoldering grass. He brushed my lips with his. They tingled. There were tears of farewell in his eyes.

“I can see where you would have to know before you died.”

Thursday, May 24, 2012

WHEN IN DOUBT, TRY NOT TO DIE_FRIDAY'S ROMANTIC CHALLENGE

Denise and Donna are doing another ROMANTIC FRIDAY CHALLENGE:
http://romanticfridaywriters.blogspot.com/


It is about wavering in coming to a decision and the consequences.  My entry is from END OF DAYS.


http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0082ZJD08


Alice Wentworth and the spectral Victor Standish are the only "survivors"


in a violent quest to save the planet from an extra-dimensional invasion by beings much older than Earth.


Now, with all of Earth's champions dead, the way is clear for the fae High Queen, Oyggia, to lead her forces to conquer the mortal plane.




Victor shook his head.  “We saved your realm.  And unless you want to show your elite killers by your lack of gratitude how little you think of your realm, you owe us a debt.  And you will pay up, bitch!”


Her words were a throbbing husk, “I do not owe you your lives, whelp!”


He made a face.  “Ah, actually you do.”


He held up a restraining hand at her outraged face.  “But we won’t act like you’re sane or anything like that and open to simple reason.”


Oyggia rasped, “For what are you asking, Standish?”


Victor snorted, “Oh, I’m not asking you for anything.  But a last dance with Alice would be a nice touch to the end of the tales told of this night, don’t you think, Sinend?”


Sinend turned to her liege.  “What harm could granting them a last dance do, Your Majesty?”


Her winter frost eyes grew contemplative.  “None.  And there actually may be profit for me in it.”


Victor snorted, “Well, we’ll dance anyway.”


“How, Victor?” I husked.  “We cannot touch and there is no music.”


He winked.  “No music?  With me in your head, au contraire.”


A melodic, bitter-sweet waltz sang in my head with the sighing of violins, and I knew it was echoed in Victor’s as well.


“And touching?” I asked.  “What shall we do about that?”


He smiled as sad as the tune in our heads.  “What we’ve done since we first met, Alice.  We mirror one another, moving in sync one with the other, heart to heart, movement for movement.”


He held out his hand.  I placed my hand above his misty one.  We began to dance slowly and gracefully.  Hot tears blinded me and hid his face from me.  And yet, they did not, for I had his eyes ever before me, whether awake or asleep.  As the Sidhe watched on, we danced.  Some were openly grieved.  Most were bored, ready to slay us at their queen’s command.


Our last dance was much like our whole love affair.  We were so close, yet so far apart.  Mirroring each other in step and heart, but forever separated by our very natures.  Still, we moved as one, fluid and sweeping.  The melancholy tune tugged at me soul-deep.


“What is this beautiful tune?”


Victor smiled, “It’s from a movie, BROTHER’S KEEPER.  I thought it fit me since I am Death’s son.”


“How so?”


“With Death as my mother, isn’t everyone my brother and sister in a way?  And didn’t you bleed and suffer for the whole world, Alice?”


“I fought for those I loved.  To die for an abstraction is beyond me, Victor.”


We danced in sweeping steps that took us all along the circle of hilt-clenching warriors.  Victor ignored them. 
He studied me as if trying to memorize each gesture I made, every word I spoke.  We whirled and twirled in a dance of love unlike the one of death Skeggjold and I had taken but moments before.


He murmured, “I love you, Alice.”


I smiled evilly.  “I know.”


He winced.  “Does that make me Han Solo or Princess Leia?”


“Oh, the dashing Han Solo, of course.”


I fought the urge to nuzzle my head on his shoulder.  Oh, it was so hard to dance like this.  But then had not our whole love been an affair of maddening abstinence?


“Victor, do tell me what is the name of this tune done so hauntingly by these violins?”


He smiled wickedly.  “It’s called COWS ON THE HILLS.”


“You jest!  Whatever made you think of this as the music for our last dance?”


He winked.  “As we waltz this tune, the transformed Queen Meropis is grazing contentedly in the Elysian Fields.”


I giggled, “Even now, with the rest of our lives measured in but heartbeats, still you can make me laugh.”


I drew in a breath I did not need as I swung in circles in our last waltz.  “Are you dead?  Are you a ghost?  Oh, I must know, Victor, what are you?”


“In love with you, Alice.  Leave it at that.”


“No, I simply cannot die without knowing.”


His wavering form kept dancing but his face grew grim.  “You will weep bitter tears at the price of knowing, Alice.  Do you still want me to tell you?”


“Yes!  I will not die without knowing just how you come to be dancing with me, to have helped me these past days though all say you are dead.”


He and I danced as one, our feet seemingly floating above the still smoldering grass.  He brushed my lips with his.  They tingled.  There were tears of farewell in his eyes.

           “I can see where you would have to know before you died.”

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

P is for PARKOUR_The Cost To Free Running



http://www.amazon.com/THE-LEGEND-VICTOR-STANDISH-ebook/dp/B0064CKPJ4

Parkour.

The term was coined by Hubert Kounde.

It comes from "parcours du combattant", the classic obstacle course created by the famous naval officer, George Hebert.

The student of parkour is called a "traceur", most likely spun from Parisian slang "tracer" which means "to hurry" or "to move quickly".

In proper French, traceur is an adjective qualifying something that leaves a trace or a trail behind it.

And in UNDER A VOODOO MOON, Victor Standish is leaving a trail of evolved raptors following him as he leads them in a furious display of Parkour.

He meets the ghost of Pere Antoine who reminds him that he must one day pay the cost to free running:

The ghost of Pere Antoine lunged, grabbing me by the scruff of my neck and the back of my belt. “Victor, you cannot come out of this alive. You knew that when you sent your Alice away.”

He spun, swinging me around and around in the humid night air. “Parkour is more than jumping, young man. It is a way of living life, of spending it in the cause of something bigger than you. It is time you live … and die the cost of ‘free’ running!”

With those last words, Pere Antoine hurled me up high into the night. It seemed as if the stars came down to welcome me.

There was a rainbow rift right in front of my body. I passed through it, the ghost-scent of apricots coming to me. And I knew. I knew.

I was never going to see Alice again … or hear her odd British accent.

I loved the way she talked. When she talked to me, there was a living tenderness in her voice. She just let it flow from inside her … as if she owned all the words in the world, and she loved me enough to make them dance for me.

Suddenly, the world re-focused, and I thumped precariously on the ledge of a tall French Quarter building at least thirty feet high if it was an inch. My head spinning, I took in my surroundings.

There!

Not forty feet from this building was Meilori’s.

It might have been on the craters of the moon for all the good it was going to do me. Dozens of raptors were running towards me. Coming at me from both ends of the ledge.

Scrambling right at me from the roof in a horde of scales and fangs. Racing at me from across the near-by roofs. No port of safety.

Except.

In the empty cement courtyard thirty feet below.

I had seen the Sensei make a leap like this and live. But that was onto grass not concrete. And I was no Sensei.

I smiled wide through my labored breathing. No, I was Victor Standish. I pulled up tall despite the pain in my chest. What had Pere Antoine said?

It was time for me to live the cost to “free” running. And to die it as well.
Pere Antoine was right.

Even the harsh Sensei had taught me that Parkour was more than leaping and dodging. It was a way of life. What was its motto?

être et durer ("to be and to last").

George Hebert had changed that motto while rescuing 700 terrified people during the eruption of Mt. Pele : "être fort pour être utile"

("be strong to be useful".)

I looked at the happily crying raptors charging me as they saw I was standing still, apparently trapped. How many terrified street people would these predators eat alive after tonight?

I sucked in a ragged breath. None.

The pain in my chest was worse, stabbing down my left arm. My nose was bleeding more. I couldn’t see clear. Yet, in a way I saw it all crystal clear.

Maybe I wasn’t Captain Sam’s real son, but I could go out as if I were in my death.

The Soyoko had proven that where I would go, they would follow. I smiled like I figured Captain Sam would in this situation.

“Hey, bitches!,” I panted. “Got the balls to follow me?”

I bent slightly at the knees as I faced them and flipped high into the air in a backwards double somersault right off the building.

And oddest thing, I heard the beginning of NIGHTWISH’s “Come Cover Me” in my head. The wind tickled my ears. Man, this was going to hurt so bad!

***

Friday, December 23, 2011

MAGIC AT CHRISTMAS EVE

There is a magic to Christmas Eve

that transforms even the grumpiest into children again.

The cold night winds seem to carry the faint chiming of bells as reindeer fly high in the black sky.

So it is not too surprising that the magical couple, the Victorian ghoul, Alice Wentworth, and the street gypsy, Victor Standish

have more than their share of Christmas adventures.

Some of my new friends may not know of the history of Victor and his ghoul friend, Alice.


Here is the link to their first meeting, told from both of their perspectives :

http://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-am-hungrymy-entry-for-blogfest-retold.html

Here is a re-telling of one of their Christmas adventures that I have fallen in love with. I hope, that like viewing again THE CHRISTMAS CAROL, this tale will make you smile once or twice :

Alice and I stumbled through the mirror. Elu, that Apache Trickster, had surprised us both by grabbing and pulling us into his mirror world.

His Christmas present he laughed.

We came out in the middle of a roaring fireplace. We jumped right out of that blasted inferno. Lucky for us it was big enough to roast a buffalo.

"Oh, my!," gasped Alice as she looked all around.

"What you said, " I whispered.

We were in a humongous great hall. Three gleaming tables ran down the length of it. Twelve giant Christmas trees lined the stone walls.

And it was snowing.

Snowing! Snowing inside this enormous hall. Each flake seemed to be singing. And glowing with a tiny gleam of winter laughter.

I looked up, and my mouth dropped down.

Dozens upon dozens of tall candles were floating high above us, right below a vaulted ceiling painted to look like a night's sky.

I went a little cold. The fluffy clouds were moving. One slowly covered the spectral full moon.

Alice gasped, "Oh my, where are we?"

I smiled crooked, "We're not in Kansas any more, Toto."

"You are so not funny!"

An old man's voice rumbled behind us. "And you are in so much trouble."

I sighed, "Oh, crap -- ah, merde."

The man laughed. "It still means the same thing."

I turned around slowly. "Yeah, but when you're in the company of a beautiful .... Oh, wow."

The man was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt.

He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles.

And his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

"Merlin?," I croaked.

He smiled like Santa Claus and said, "Albus Dumbledore. And you?"

I smiled back. "I'm Victor Standish, and this is ..."

His smile turned impish, "Your ... ghoul friend, Alice Wentworth."

Alice looked like she was about to kick a shin, but he chuckled so good-naturedly that she relaxed smooth as you please. I just had to learn how to chuckle like that.

Alice looked shocked. "Y-You do not mind that I am a ghoul?"

He reached out and gently patted her head. "It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. And your choices have always come from a good heart."

Alice's neon-blue eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

Dumbledore laughed softly. "Because I am quite possibly the most powerful wizard of my time."

"And humble, too," I snorted.

Alice slapped my left arm. "Hush! We are uninvited guests. Show some manners."

I grinned sheepish. "We didn't mean to barge into ...."

"Hogwarts."

I frantically searched my face with flying fingers. "Where?"

He smiled amused and sad all at once. "Where you're standing."

I leapt back, looking at the spot I just left. "I don't see anything."

Alice rolled her eyes. "He means the place we are standing, this great hall, genius."

"Oh, I knew tha ...."

I suddenly heard a whispery, dirty-silk voice inside my head. "Kill. Kill. Kill!"

Dumbledore saw my look and tapped my arm. "You heard the basilisk?"

I brightened up considerably. I could pay my way here. Perhaps even get one of those roast turkeys on the tables.

Maybe they would be magic, and Alice could actually eat it without getting sick. Now, that would be a great Christmas present.

"Hey, I'm no Perseus, mind you, but I could fight that monster for you."

Alice frowned, "That is the Medusa you are thinking about!"

Dumbledore smiled like a forgiving grandfather. "You meant well. But this challenge is for someone else's growth."

I heard a thunder of footfalls, and three voices arguing like good friends will at the other end of this enormous hall.

"Speaking of which," Dumbledore said. "Here he comes now with his two friends of legend."

"Legend?," I asked.

Dumbledore nodded with such a sad look to his wise face. "Yes, but the legend will come at great price."

I nodded back. "Yeah, that's the sucky, ah, bad thing about being a legend : the price tag that goes with it."

Dumbledore gestured, and a silver platter filled to overflowing with a roasted bird appeared in his hands. He gave it to a stunned Alice.

"It is roasted goose."

His blue eyes twinkled as he nodded to me. "I saw you already had your Christmas turkey."

"But, sir," gasped Alice, "I am a ... ghoul. I cannot eat this without becoming ill."

He mussed my hair. "You were right, Victor, it is magic. Your Alice can eat her full of this."

He turned to her seriously. "But only on Christmas Night."

Alice look troubled. "Oh, tell me that I can share."

Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with eyes both happy and sad. "Alice, that is the real truth of Christmas. There is no joy unless you share."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Dumbledore."

He smiled at some private joke it seemed, and shook his head. "Your champion thought of it as payment for slaying the basilisk."

"But I didn't kill it," I protested.

He sighed, "Just this once I wanted intent to be worthy of merit. But I cannot let you be seen by my approaching three young legends. Off with you!"

The world exploded in stars. A ghostly music filled the air. I heard Dumbledore's whisper in my ear, though all I saw was a rainbow showering all around me.

"Tell Elu to shepherd his own legends."

I felt my hair mussed again. "And tell him thank you for giving me the opportunity to share joy."

Then, Alice and I were back in the real world. Or as real as it ever got for me.
***


Tuesday, December 20, 2011

A DOWN HOME CHRISTMAS

So many different kinds of death hunted us this Christmas Eve all through the French Quarter,

I would’ve gotten a headache trying to count them all –

If I already hadn’t had one – to go along with the broken ribs, fingers, and nose.

I looked over at Alice, my ghoul friend,

whose ability to turn to mist had been ripped from her by DayStar.

She sobbed softly, “Victor, our first Christmas together is our last.”

I had taken as many blows for her as I could.

Wasn’t that was Love did? Sacrifice themselves for the one they loved?

Alice had buried the statue of the Madonna and took its shawl. As I had done with the statue of Joseph, taking its robe and hood.

We kneeled beside the wooden manger in the St. Louis Cathedral’s courtyard Nativity Scene.

Right in plain sight of the slowly sniffing and scouting horrors prowling for us.

I didn’t even know some of the monsters hunting us. I knew enough to know Alice and I were goners.

Winged Gahe. Starved Amal. Scaled Soyoko.

And the ghosts, given flesh, fangs, and claws by DayStar, of all the people Alice had eaten over the decades.

Who would have guessed a wisp of a girl like Alice had such an appetite?

I stiffened at the tolling in the distance. I heard the bells, ringing their familiar, mocking refrain :

PEACE ON EARTH. GOOD WILL TOWARDS MEN.

Peace. Good Will.

In despair, I bowed my head.

‘There is no peace on earth!,' I said to myself.

'For hate is strong and mocks the song. The innocent die. The helpless cry out. Does anybody hear them?’

The night winds became soft words : ‘You kneel on holy ground and dare to ask that?’

I looked up. I recognized the stern ghost of a priest, a book of prayers or some such in his hands. Alice went as pale as I had ever seen her.

“Pere Antoine!”

He spoke in razored whispers. “For my sins in the Inquisition I am bound to this plane. So Friar Antonio de Sedella is now who I am.”

I saw the self-hate in his eyes. I saw the same look in Alice's.

I looked to the horrors so near. To speak would be to bring them to us.

But I was going to die anyway. Why not die, letting Pere Antoine hear that I believed in him even when he no longer could?

I shook my head and whispered back. “No, before Katrina, you helped me. You’ve helped others before and since.”

The winged Gahe spun at my words, and I blurted out, “With my last words, I say you don’t deserve to be bound here. You are Pere Antoine! You are a ghost of God!”

So many horrors rushed us that I got sick to my stomach. This was going to hurt so bad. Pere Antoine’s head cocked as if he were hearing words spoken into his very mind, and his ghost eyes grew wet.

He gestured, speaking loud :

“Dark Spawns, this is Holy Ground!”

The Shadowlanders must’ve forgotten that in their lust for our deaths. It bought them their own.

Pere Antoine, the prayer book tumbling to the grass, slapped both hands on the shoulders of Alice and me.

A warm tingle cascaded through me. Reality smeared in spirals of fiery, golden stardust as if God were wiping clean a chalkboard.

Sand, not grass, was suddenly beneath our knees. Cutting through me was a cold wind that can only be birthed in the desert.

My mouth got drier than the winds. The manger scene was now real. A young man and a younger woman were looking sheer love at the cooing baby. Outside the stable, high in the night sky, rippled haunting sounds that only angels could sing.

Pere Antoine kneeled beside me.

“God is not dead, nor does He sleep. No matter how dark, He always sees you. You are a special part of His heart, and you are never alone. Due to their very natures, the wrong shall fail. And those who trust prevail.”

The baby locked eyes with mine, His eyes clear and echoing with strange wisdom and delight.

Pere Antoine whispered,

“He wanted you and Alice to have a 'down home' Christmas.”

The baby laughed long and light.

Alice reached over and squeezed my hand. “I was wrong, Victor. Our first Christmas together is THE first Christmas.”

And impossible though it was, the French Quarter bells rang all around us :

PEACE ON EARTH. GOOD WILL TOWARDS MEN.

***

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!

This is a version I think of as Victor Standish's version : not the tempo, tune, or words you expect. Give it a listen for me. Roland

Friday, October 7, 2011

ROCK CANDY CUTS_Friday's Romantic Challenge



The distant clock tower is tolling midnight once again. The rolling thunder is as hollow as its bells.

As hollow as many of us are, carved out bit by bit by the razored acts of betrayal and disilusion.

This is the month of the carved pumpkin - the symbol for the state of love in our hollowed-out world.

Denise and Francine have given us the prompt ROCK CANDY :

http://fridaynightwriters.blogspot.com/
Here is my entry :

Evil often wears sex as a mask. The Venus Fly Trap is rather pretty ... at a distance.

I watched a pretty girl in a pretty short skirt arguing with Captain Sam at his table. He kept shaking his head at her.

He was a gentleman and all. His Stetson was off, sitting on his rune-carved table ... just like she was a lady.

Ada Byron once pointed this famous rock star out to me. "Victor, to say she has the morals of an alley cat is to insult alley cats everywhere."

I smiled so bitter it tasted of salt. I figure the last man who thought her a lady had been blind. I looked around, trying to spot Alice and wash this bit of empty soul from my mind with the sight of the reason I took each breath.

I looked at the black rose on the table beside me. Since Maija, it was the symbol of our love and our trust in each other.

Great. Miss Lust R Us was walking towards me, her hips swaying like the lazy swell of the tide on some island beach. Her shiny skirt was so short it could have been mistaken for a wide belt. Her top was more bra than blouse.

She tugged down on it to give me a good glimpse of her ... flotation devises.

"I'm Rock Candy," she breathed, wetting her open lips.

"Of course you are. And they sell lip balm down the street."

She pouted, wiggling without moving, "Victor Standish, your wit will not save you. Your lout of a mentor has refused to let me sing at Meilori's."

"It's his club."

"As you are his beloved ward. I am going to destroy you."

"Lots of luck with that, she-bitch."

"I am Circe's daughter, fool. No mortal man can resist me."

She raised her eyebrow. No! My mind was fogging, my will draining. Rock Candy smiled like the succubus she was. My eyes tore themselves from hers, falling on the black rose I intended to surprise Alice with.


I heard Alice's voice within the crypt from the midnight I first met her :


'I feel tears bleed from my dead eyes. I will find flesh to tear and rend. I always do.

But love? Never. Never will there be love for the thing that I have become. Never.'



Then, I saw the memory of her walking into Meilori's next to me for the first time :

I saw Alice’s eyes light up upon walking into Meilori’s. She looked like a little girl on Christmas morning. Her jaw dropped in wonder, and she squeezed my arm in joy. I smiled ear to ear. I caught Ada looking at us and brushing away a tear.

I heard Alice murmur, “I could cry such tears as angels cry.”

“Milton’s PARADISE LOST?, “ I asked.

“Close but no. It is from Milton’s LYCIDAS.”

“You’ll have to read it to me sometime,” I said.

Alice turned neon blue eyes that seemed both happy and sad. “No. Rather I would read you something Christina Rossetti wrote.”

She leaned in close and whispered,

“Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live

My very life again though cold in death :

Come back to me in dreams, that I may give

Pulse for pulse, breath for breath.”


And just like that, Rock Candy's spell was broken. I looked at her sad. She would never have what Alice and I shared.

"Good ... not in the moral sense, of course ... just not good enough."

"Impossible!," gasped the succubus.

Suddenly Alice was beside me, her hand going for mine. The other had the black rose in it.

"Nothing is impossible for my Victor!"

I squeezed her hand. "No, Alice, nothing is impossible for US."
***

LOVE IS AN OCEAN WITHOUT SHORES

Friday, September 23, 2011

A BLUE MOON TO DIE FOR_Friday's Romantic Challenge







I'm prior-posting this 5 days in advance :

feverish, coughing, and chest pains. The ghost of Mark Twain keeps telling me that dying's not so bad.

"As compared to what?," I ask.

He takes a slow puff of his cigar and snorts, "Being nibbled to death by critics."

That's Samuel for you!
***
Denise and Francine have given us the prompt of BLUE MOON.

http://fridaynightwriters.blogspot.com/

So many things happen only once in a blue moon :

friendships with kindred spirits as I have found here in blogdom.

pursuing your dream with gusto.

and true love.
***
My entry is from THE LEGEND OF VICTOR STANDISH :

Victor has taken his newly found love to the infamous drug kingpin, the Snowman and his hitwoman Ice. The terms "Snow Cone" and "Ice cream" take on new meaning for Victor.

Alice and Victor hear Samuel McCord, Father Renfield, and Ada Byron rush to rescue Victor.


Alice whispered, "Victor, the McCord will kill me when he sees what I have done."

I patted her hand. "Not with me here. He and I are friends."

"The McCord has no friends when it comes to justice, Victor. You will see."

I heard Father Renfield scuffling with my friend outside the door.
"No, Sam, let me go in first. Let me see ...."

"No," snapped Captain Sam.

"Yes," said Ada, and I saw her zip in through the open doorway.

She pulled up short as she saw what remained of the Snowman and Ice. She looked at Alice. And I remembered the blood on her lips and fingers.

Ada gasped, "Oh, my stars!"

Renfield darted past her, looking at the bodies, then at Alice behind me. "Bloody Hell!"

Captain Sam rasped, "Dear God, what did that fiend do to Victor?"

And suddenly he was in front of my two friends. He seemed untouched by the Snowman's guards, his smoking Colts still held in his hands.

He looked at me, then at the bloody remains of the Snowman and Ice.

Soft and low, he spoke to me, "Victor, move away from the ghoul. Now."

I shook my head. "Her name's Alice, sir."

His words were soft thunder. "Move away from Alice, son."

"She's my ghoul friend, sir."

Alice kicked me in the right shin. "Damn, Alice! That was the one place on my whole body that didn't hurt!"

I saw Sam angle for a killing shot. "You know, Alice, blocking you from harm is hard enough without having to do it hopping about on one foot."

Ada cocked her head as she studied the two of us. She slowly smiled.

Alice hissed, "Do not EVER call me that again, Victor!"

Sam raised both Colts, and I rasped, "You'll have to shoot through me, sir!"

His pale face was hard. "I'll do what I have to, son. Please don't make me shoot through you."

"No!," screamed Alice. "Do not kill Victor. Kill me if you must, but leave my Victor alone!"

Everybody's eyebrows rose up at her word "my." Ada patted down Sam's Colts.

"Oh, do put away those behemoths, Samuel."

"What are you talking about? Look at what she'd done."

Ada shook her head. "No, look at what Victor has done."

"Have you gone loco?"

"Have you gone brain-dead, Samuel? Miss Wentworth has never strayed more than a block from her cemetery in all these years. No, Victor led her here to avenge Susan and punish vermin who needed it.

She looked tenderly at Alice. "Samuel will not hurt you dear."

"I won't? She's a ghoul, Ada."

"No, Samuel. She's Meilori."

He stiffened. "What did you say?"

"Oh, Samuel, real love comes but once in a blue moon. Think 1853. Look at them. Look at the way she looks at him. The way he was about to die for her."

Ada smiled as if it were an open wound. "She's Meilori, and he's you as you both were aboard the DEMETER in 1853."

He slowly turned to study us. He closed his eyes as if what he saw hurt him too deeply to keep on looking. He holstered his Colts.

Alice smiled at Ada. "You should have seen him do his Parkour."

Sam raised an eyebrow at me. "You know that?"

I nodded. "Learned it in Cleveland from a sensei."

Renfield barked a laugh. "He learns a French skill from a Japanese Master in Cleveland. Victor, you're a bloody riot."

Alice hugged my right arm. "He's a hero. My hero."

Sam sighed and doffed his Stetson to Alice. "Miss Wentworth, would you do me the honor of coming to Meilori's?"

Alice hushed, "Meilori's? Oh, could I? I have always wanted to go."

I patted her hand. "The first time's the worst. But don't worry. I'll be by your side."

Alice smiled soft. "Those are the only words I will ever have to hear to feel safe."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ada's lips move silently. But I read the words : "... and loved."
***

Sunday, July 10, 2011

THEA GILMORE_ALICE WENTWORTH'S theme singer


THEA GILMORE --

the best singer you never heard of. Alice Wentworth has, of course. Thea sings her song of her feelings when she first met Victor Standish, THIS TOWN.

Thea Gilmore's 70th birthday tribute to Bob Dylan takes the form of re-recording her favourite Dylan album in its entirety,

triggered by her acclaimed 2002 cover of "I Dreamed I Saw St Augustine", which sustains its solemnity despite the inclusion of congas.

Elsewhere, piano, dobro and mandolin lend natural illumination to "Dear Landlord",

while Gilmore's take on "All Along the Watchtower" is pitched midway between Dylan's and Hendrix's, as a relaxed strummer with delicate guitar highlights.

The man himself will probably be tickled by her faithfulness to the original's sense of solitude; reflectiveness is something Gilmore does well, in a voice that becomes more beautifully burnished by the year.

There are some triumphs: accompanied by finger-picked guitar on I Am a Lonesome Hobo, she's a lost soul;

the autumnal weariness of Dear Landlord is equally affecting.

Captain Samuel McCord and I are great fans of her JOHN WESLEY HARDING, that noted Robin Hood of Old West outlaws.

***
Alice's theme for Victor that first night they met : THIS TOWN -

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

JOHN LOCKE … thru the eyes of Victor Standish


I walked up to Captain Sam’s table where Alice, my ghoul friend, was lost in a book. “What’re you reading?”

Alice looked up absently, “This system by John Locke to sell millions of Kindle books. I want to discern if there is any merit to it so as to help Roland.”

{http://www.amazon.com/How-Sold-Million-eBooks-Months/dp/1935670913/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1309895373&sr=1-1 }

Her British accent sent tingles through me, but I was Victor Standish, and I don’t let girls know they’re getting to me. But her Mona Lisa smile said I was only fooling myself.

And talking about fooling, I said, “Oh, I read that last night for the same reason. Boy, Old John must have pretty broad shoulders.”

Alice frowned, “Why do you say that?”

“From the way the guy kept patting himself on the back all the time. ‘I have made 3 separate fortunes. My posts are timeless, forever relevant. I write 7,000 words a day when I write a novel. I have the system guaranteed to make you a success. My snake oil will make you live forever.”

Alice frowned like an angry librarian. “He wrote no such thing.”

“Yeah, but he probably will next week.”

Alice sighed as if at a dim-wit (and no snide comments from you guys out there!) “I have read where this Amanda Hocking, herself a Kindle wonder, said that it is more likely a Kindle author will only sell less than a 100 copies of their eBooks – not anywhere close to a 100,000.”

I sat down beside Alice. “Yeah, but she’s not hawking a “How To” book for $10 a pop either. I mean, look – he’s made $20 just from the two of us.”

Alice puckered her pretty lips. “But he’s sold so many books.”

“Yeah, but have you looked at the covers? Sex sells. Even if they’re only sexy legs.”

Alice glared at me. “And just how do you know what the covers look like, Mr. Standish?”

“Hey, he’s got them plastered at the top of his blog. { http://lethalbooks.com/ }

That guy sure knows how to manipulate :

soft-soaping poor people on Twitter to be his shills;

writing only what he thinks will sell, not what’s in his heart;

singing the praises of sport and sick Hollywood greats, then twittering those legends’ fans with a link to his blog.”

Alice looked troubled. “Mr. Locke may be sincere.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve lived on the streets all my life and had to fend off panhandlers that whole time. When a deal sounds too good to be true, it ain’t.”

“Isn’t,” chuckled Captain Sam as he sat down beside me.

“I’ve read his book for the same reason you two did. So that makes $30 he’s made. Still, he did have a sound idea or three. Maybe lightning just struck as it sometimes does. Or his system does works. Time reveals the truth eventually.”

Alice cocked her head, blonde waves becoming a waterfall. “But what of all the people who will follow Mr. Locke’s system in the mean time?”

Captain Sam smiled sad. “Sometimes faith will heal you even if the pill you swallow is sugar.”

***

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Victor Standish's new favorite read : VAMPIRE IN THE OUTFIELD



I sat with my nose happily in my Kindle. My ghoul friend, Alice, flowed silently beside me.

My trap was set. I kept busily turning the pages with the button, apparently not noticing her fidget. I smiled wickedly.

"How do you wiggle without moving?," I couldn't keep from laughing.

"How do you keep on reading with me in this short skirt and low Gothic Lolita top?"

I grinned slyly, "Peripheral vision is a beautiful thing."

Alice snatched Walter's gift from my hands. "Oh, you!"

She smacked me on top of the head with my Kindle. "Ouch! But hey, the eyeful I got was worth it."

Father Renfield was suddenly by Alice's side. He took VAMPIRE IN THE OUTFIELD from Alice.

"Walter gave that to me."

I smiled wide, "I figured you knew all about vampires, Padre."

His sharp canines showing, Father Renfield glowered at me. "Maybe Walter thought I could do with a few laughs?"

Captain Sam smiled at the smoldering Alice, tugging up her Gothic Lolita top. "I think Victor just gave a few to us."

"To you, men, perhaps," murmured Ada Byron.

She curled an arm around my ghoul friend, making me figet as I remembered her, ah, thoughts on what gender was sexy. "Come, Alice. Let us girls put our heads together."

Alice showed her much too sharp teeth at me. "Yes, payback is a terrible thing to waste."

I groaned. I was always too smart for my own good!

Oh, if you guys want to read VAMPIRE IN THE OUTFIELD yourselves, go to :

http://www.amazon.com/Vampire-in-the-Outfield-ebook/dp/B0057P3CMG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1309058032&sr=1-1

Oh, Olivia, Alice, Captain Sam, the Padre, and the rest of us at Meilori's wish you a HAPPY BIRTHDAY. And Wendy Tyler Ryan, you enjoy that jazz concert and get better, you hear?!p>
***