BEST OF ENEMIES_The End of All Things dawns in June

Victor Standish is dead.

{See the end of THE RIVAL}

http://www.amazon.com/THE-RIVAL-chapter-STANDISH-ebook/dp/B007JOUJ60

Hurricane Katrina has devastated New Orleans. The preternaturals are coming out to hunt. The only functioning high school is operated by the Tuatha de Danann poised to invade the world of mortals.

Revenants from Europe are inflitrating New Orleans. Ningyo's are prying open the portal to the Nameless Ones to return home. The last of the Olympians gather in the shadows of a ruined French Quarter to prey on the fallen.

Each faction feels on the brink of triumph.

But they are all of them deceived.

Something has escaped its bonds. Something much older than Earth. Terror is its diet. And now, no one is safe.

Who stands in the breech now? A shattered Alice Wentworth. The two girls who betrayed Victor to his death. An emotionally gutted Samuel McCord.

Enter Estanatlehi, The Turquoise Woman, and her three grandsons:

Wolf Howl, Toomy Starks, and the philosopher/mage, Hibbs, the bear with two shadows.

The End of All Things has dawned.

{Look for it this June}
***

WHERE THE MAGIC LIVES

There is a land not too far from where you sit right now.

Its velvet grasses miss the press of your feet. The billowing clouds strain to see your body walk slowly up the rising hill.

The fragrant winds blow through the lonely tree branches, whispering your name as they seek some trace of you.

It is where the magic lives.

That realm is lonely, wondering where you have been.

Where have you and I been?

We have been caught up in the drudgery that writing has become. Burdened by life's duties and our own doubts, we have lost our way.

We have lost the magic.

Did we lose it straining for that first perfect sentence in our new novel? Looking at the blank, impatient computer monitor did we forget the simple wonder of just writing the first simple sentence that occurred to us?

That creative power which bubbles so tingly at the beginning of our book quiets down after a time. The journey becomes slower and slower, the inertia of doubt steadily dragging our steps.

Do we continue doggedly on or do we stop to refresh ourselves?

The answer to that question determines whether we find our way back to the magic or not.

How do we refresh ourselves on a long wilderness walk? We stop by a stream and drink.

Drink of those poets and writers who sparked that love of the written word spoken in the lonely heart of the reader.

As a hiker takes shade under the canopy of a huge oak, listen to the music of those artists who stirred you to imagine images that you just had to write and make live in your own way.

Then, you shall write as a child writes ... not thinking of a result but thinking in terms of discovery as if you were hiking once again where the magic lives.
***

WHY MYTH?

Myth springs like Athena from Zeus' forehead from the Greek "mythos," meaning word or story.


Man has always used stories to explain things he could not understand or explain otherwise.


Ancient myths were the stories that sifted mysteries into answers that made the dark less frightening.


In essence, then, Myths are metaphors for life and its challenges.


World Mythology has a deep skeleton of common images and motifs that provide a structure ...


an eternal, common quest, if you would, of Man for self-awareness in the face of entropy,


that eternal dark of disorder that waits upon the night's horizon to swallow both meaning and fulfilment.


Bottom line :


myths are the magics that take our breath with that child's awe of the first snowfall.


We listen to their magic because they tap the collective unconscious :


the dreams and hopes and fears which murmur in the night to all of us.


On one level, our modern society seems devoid of myths.


Perhaps that is why many have a sense of meaninglessness, estrangement, rootlessness, and the cold brittleness of a life devoid of reverence and awe.


Those of you have a deep belief in God do not take offense. I, also, have a deep connection with The Father and with His Son.


I am talking about another level of consciousness. A level that often withers from lack of nuturing early in childhood.


We each have our own mythology. Consciously or unconsciously, we create our own myths.


We have our own fables -- the things which are important and valued and vibrant to us personally.


We are the heroes in "mythic journeys" by which we romanticize our various passages through life.


Although we generally accept cultural myths to the extent to which we are a part of our culture,


the truly satisfying and exciting myths are those which arise from our own passions, our own dreams, and our own visions.


As Joseph Campbell said, in An Open Life,


"The imagery of mythology is symbolic of the spiritual power within us."


In this symbolism, we see mythological characters who represent love, youth, death, wealth, virility, fear, evil, and other archetypal facets of life --


and we also see natural events such as rain and wind. The fanciful beings are personifications of those facets, those "energies."


As we read about the interplay of these forces of nature, we are viewing a dream-like fantasy which portrays the interaction of the elements of our own lives.


In Lakota myth, everything is alive, impacting everything else in a delicate web of life.


In Celtic myth, splendor and magic contest with kings and their kingdoms. Lakota myth emphasize the inner, while Celtic stresses the outer.


My half-Lakota mother taught me the importance of being rather than striving to possess.


It is not that we Lakota do not care about physical comfort or material possessions. It is that we do not measure ourselves or others by those things.


We believe we are measured by how well we manifest the virtues praised in our stories and myths.


When the Europeans devastated the Lakota culture and peoples,


we survived by becoming the kind of people spoken of in our hero-cycles and myths.


They are our gifts to the world's peoples to draw strength from for themselves, no matter what race or creed they may be.


These stories continue to inspire and sustain the Lakota people.


And for one dying boy in a frozen-in Detroit basement apartment, the tales melded of both Lakota and Celtic myth whispered not to fear that last looming darkness ...


that Death was just a change in worlds ...


and that Hibbs, the bear with 2 shadows, who championed all hurting children and who had passed beyond and back again,


would champion the cause of that feverish, shivering, coughing little boy.


And before my mother's wondering eyes,


I rallied,


feeling the chills as the loving touch of the Turquoise Woman and seeing the dark shadow at the foot of my bed as the comforting spirit of Hibbs,


he who had been the cub with no clue who grew into the mighty bear with two shadows.



So, there, you have a taste of what you will find in THE BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS:

http://www.amazon.com/THE-BEAR-WITH-SHADOWS-ebook/dp/B004MDLWD0/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1332874953&sr=1-1


Have a magical new week, Roland

***

ORIGIN OF A DREAM, OF A BEAR, AND A TALE IN THE DARK

(TODAY IS THE LAST DAY TO RECEIVE ROLAND'S FREE GIFT :
http://www.amazon.com/BLOOD-WILL-TELL-ebook/dp/B0050219BW/ref=pd_rhf_dp_p_t_1 )

You shrink back from the shadows at my appearing. Do not fear. I am Elu, wandering Apache spirit.

You seek the origin of DreamSinger's path of words.

http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/

Come. Let me turn back the seasons to a time not so far removed …

… yet to almost a different world than you two-leggeds now stride in such clustered aloneness.

Where wisdom was better than strength.

Where two-leggeds walked and rode with no hinged slabs of plastic pressed tight to their ears, speaking words not cared about miles away.

Where they did not hunch over those same slabs punching fewer and fewer scribbles to a world that read seldom and cared less.

Where boxes of metal bits did not spew one’s and zero’s to faceless strangers foolishly called “followers.”

Where “friend” truly meant comrade. Where alone often meant death.

See that young boy coughing until his frail body goes limp, his eyes bleed tears? That is he whom you call Roland.

Look at the fear and love mixed in the Lakota woman's face as she holds him in his bed. She is his mother. And she knows he is dying.

You feel the cold, but can you feel the isolation of this basement apartment in the worst ice storm in Detroit's history? The mother has just come to this town. Whites are hardly friendly to strangers of their own race, not at all to those who are different.

The ice has frozen the city. The wires that carry voices are down. No one can travel. There is no help.

Should she wander the empty night in vain search for help? Or should she stay, holding the hand of one who is her whole life?

Her only son is dying. But she will not have him die in fear and terror. No, she refuses. But what can fend off those demons in the night?

Her words seem so hollow to her ears. Yet, words are all she has. Words. Yes, they are the answer. Words.

Words she remembers the Grandmothers of both sides of her blood, Irish and Lakota, speaking to her when she was her son's age.

So hugging the cough-wracked body of her son, she begins to spin tales born of sparkling myths and misty legends of both worlds. Roland sees a fabled world spread out from horizon to horizon in the darkness.

Though the White Man believes different, magic is real. In the frigid darkness, myth sings her haunting song of majesty and wonder to this coughing little boy. He shivers ever worse.

"That is good," the Mother says, forcing the fear from her face to smile with lips wooden with dread.

"For your shivers mean The Turquoise Woman is standing close by you. Her touch is cold, oh, so cold. But she embraces only those she loves."

The mother points to the foot of the bed. "See that hulking shape there? No, it is not the coat rack, Roland. It is Hibbs, the bear with two shadows, the protector of all ill children."

She waits patiently for his next coughing spasm to pass, wipes his mouth, his chin, then tweaks his nose. "And once he was your age, Roland. The Turquoise Woman then called him Hibbs, the cub with no clue."

"Truly, Mother?"

"As truly as love can whisper healing and laughter even though the night is dark and filled with pain."

His coughing grows worse. The mother hides her tears from Roland. She kisses his scortching hot forehead. "Let me tell you tales of magic and wonder of the ever-curious Hibbs."

"I never heard of Hibbs before, Mother."

"That is because he lives in a land that you cannot reach by foot or cart or horse. No. Only the imagination can take you there. And dreams are the fuel your journey will need.

But once there, you will find great quests, fierce monsters, faes whose beauty is both terrible and haunting beyond any singing of it."

"Oh, tell me about them, Mother."

And so the mother told the tales she frantically pieced together from the myths of both her Peoples.

The more Roland shivered, the more loved he felt by the Turquoise Woman.

The more his eyesight faded from his growing fever, his approaching death, the more clearly he saw Hibbs, the protector of all ill children, at the foot of his bed.

The trusting heart of a child is a strange, wondrous thing.

His worsening shivers made Roland feel loved by The Turquoise Woman. He saw Hibbs at the foot of his bed, protecting him from the fever and coughing. He heard the tales of magic and healing.

Sometimes trust, awe, and belief can give birth to miracles.

When curious Sun peeked his head over the silver mist of the dawn, Roland's fever had broken, his coughing eased.

Sometimes the magic works.

So little DreamSinger learned the power and magic of words young. As a kiss to the winds to the spirit of his loving mother, who did not want her son to die in fear and darkness, Roland wrote THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS.

He spins his tales still in the darkness. Now, you know the birth of his desire to fling tales into the night. Should you write him, say that Elu waits with his mother and Hibbs to speak to him when he slumbers.

- Elu.

{ http://www.amazon.com/BEAR-TWO-SHADOWS-ebook/dp/B004MDLWD0 }
***

WHAT DO OUR EYES TEACH US?

Autonomy.

A "headache word" I used to call it whenever my mother used it as she took me out on our walks through the park near our basement apartment.

In the same manner her Lakota grandmother taught her, she taught me -- with common sights.

The lesson of the rooster weathervane. "Poor Mr. Rooster," she would cluck her tongue, "slave to whatever winds blow, never able to stand his ground.

"Wise Mrs. Willow Tree who sinks her roots deep in good soil, standing her ground, yet bending with the wind and not snapping in two like proud and foolish Mr. Pine."


She would ruffle my hair and say, "From the willow tree you must learn autonomy." I pressed my lips together hard.

I couldn't even say that "headache word," much less know what it meant. But if you wanted an untweaked nose, there were just some things better left unsaid.

We writers many times are like mimes playing to a world of the blind. Not that we are in any way better because we see beneath the surface and many others do not.

We were taught to do so, by mentors or by example. But the fate of the one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind is usually not a happy one.

The wiser of us know that going in. The more foolish of us learn it eventually. The fate is the same.

Yet, it is the journey we must savor as artists.

Enjoy telling the tale for the thrill of reaching even one soul with our efforts. Push back the darkness, if only for the moment. Touch that one hurting heart.

As in that Zen teaching tale :

should we find ourselves clinging to a cliff face, bandits above shooting arrows at us, a hungry tiger waiting to feast on us should we fall,

take in the crisp Spring breeze. Watch the grace of a swooping eagle in the bright blue sky.

And should there be a strawberry bush growing on that cliff face, reach out and taste a strawberry, savoring its flavor with our last breaths.

I wrote THE BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS in tribute to my mother's stories.

http://www.amazon.com/BEAR-TWO-SHADOWS-ebook/dp/B004MDLWD0/ref=pd_rhf_dp_p_t_1

Tales told me as I lay coughing in our basement apartment without power during that terrible winter blackout that lasted for days.

In it is a story of Hibbs, the bear with two shadows, when he was but a cub. And it relates to what I've been saying :


It was the "Warming Season When The Geese Returns" in the Valley of the Shadow. Sometimes Estanatlehi would walk beside him, sometimes not.

Even as a young bear, Hibbs had known that The Turquoise Woman ranged the whole wide world. But in this season of her second coming, she always returned in the flesh.

It was something that Hibbs had thought would last forever. Such was the foolishness of young bears.

One morning, he had emerged from his comfortable den and wandered to the edge of the Snaking River. Sitting by its edge, he had looked down into its sparkling blue surface. He hushed in a breath.

A face appeared below him. A look of shock was on its furry face. He frowned. It frowned back.

He snarled at being mocked. It snarled back.

He sat back on his haunches and laughed.

The face was but a reflection of his own. He laughed again and looked down. His river-face laughed back. He stuck out a tongue. And a tongue snaked out from his reflected face. Hibbs amused himself with this game all morning.

Hibbs had finally wandered off for more exploring. But the next morning found him at the river's edge again.

The wind of an approaching storm ruffled the image of himself so that he could not see it clear. His mood darkened along with the skies, and Hibbs had been in a foul mood the rest of the day.

The weather of the third morning was still bruised and dark from the storm of the day before. Hibbs' mood was equally sour. It worsened when he found his reflection was merely a shadow.

The day had been ruined, along with the young cub's spirits.

The fourth day found dark clouds over Hibbs' head, but they were no darker than the cub's mood. The river-face below him was dim and angry. In a fit of temper, Hibbs hit the offending reflection with his open paw. Cold water splashed him back in the face. It was the last straw.

"Oooh, River-Face," he growled. "You're going to get yours!"

Like a rippling brook given life, icy laughter sounded behind the young cub, "Oh, Little One, you are a walking parable."

Hibbs turned around so swiftly, the water was slung from the fur of his face in a tiny rain. "GrandMother!"

The happy discovery of Estanatlehi's return masked her words from his understanding. The meaning of her words arrived a moment later, like thunder rolling after the flash of lightning.

Or rather their almost-meaning. Hibbs frowned. He scratched his head.


"A walking what?"

Estanatlehi's face suddenly saddened. "A way of teaching, Hibbs."

"D-Did I just make you sad?"

Hair of living lightning became a shaking display of Northern Lights. "No, Little One. The race called Whyte did that long, long ago when they killed one who meant much to me. He loved to use parables."

"GrandMother, I - I don't understand."

Estanatlehi ruffled the soft hair atop his head gently. "You will. All too soon, you will."

She forced a smile. "But for now ... these different reflections of you that are such a torment ...."

She hesitated, and Hibbs whispered, "Yes?"

Turquoise eyes peered into his questioning brown ones, and a ripple of true happiness swam beneath the pain.

"They are only different because of the wind, the rain, and the storm clouds. They are only fluff, mere changes in the external. The internal is eternal."

"I - I do not understand."

She tweaked his wrinkling nose. "You must try very, very hard to do so."

Hibbs earnestly nodded his head like a bobbing apple. "I will try. I promise."

At the sight, Estanatlehi sniffed back her tears and hugged him. "I know you will. I will help."

She stepped back, caressing his left cheek. "Reflections are but that. Reflections."

Hibbs had nodded as if he understood, which, of course, he did not. "Reflections. Yes."

Estanatlehi looked as if her heart were breaking. "Little One, did you feel pain when you slapped your river-face?"

"N-No."

"That is because it was not you, merely a reflection. And reflections of you will change as you meet one being after another. Reflections that change because of their surface, not your core self."

"Core?"

A smile born of pain and love murmured the words, "As apples have cores, so do Two-Leggeds, the seeds of who they truly are."

"S-So I have a core?"

His wrinkling nose was tweaked again.

"Yes, Little One. You have a core. And if you know who you are, you will know your core. But if you do not, you will know only the reflection of yourself that others will give you. And as they change swiftly from one to the other, you will feel all the frustration and anger you just felt at your river-faces."

"So if I know who I am, I can laugh at all the not-core reflections others reflect to me, right?"

Estanatlehi's face looked near to tears as she hugged Hibbs' tiny head. "It always comes back to laughter with you, doesn't it, Little One?"

"It has to come back to something, doesn't it, GrandMother? Why not laughter?"

Estanatlehi wet eyes squinted as if she were looking far into the distance as she murmured, "I do not have the heart to answer, Little One."
**********************
I am giving 100% of the profits for ALL MY BOOKS to the SALVATION ARMY :

HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE BEAR?

On this day in 1907 Kenneth Grahame wrote the first of a series of letters to his son, Alastair,

describing the Toad, Rat, Mole and Badger adventures that eventually became The Wind in the Willows.

Grahame had been inventing such bedtime stories for several years and the letter, occasioned by his being separated from Alastair on his seventh birthday, picks up what seems to be a continuing tale:

"Have you heard about the Toad? He was never taken prisoner by brigands at all. It was all a horrid low trick of his."

Alastair was an only child, born blind in one eye and with a squint in the other.

He was plagued by health problems throughout his short life. Alastair eventually committed suicide on a railway track

while an undergraduate at Oxford University, two days before his 20th birthday on 7 May 1920.

Out of respect for Kenneth Grahame, Alastair's demise was recorded as an accidental death.

Mother once told me that the folly of most two-leggeds was that they wanted "happy endings"

when the best one could hope for was the appreciating of the happy moments in between the dawning of the light and the dying of it.

"Can't we have both, Mama?," I remember asking, coughing from double pneumonia.

She ruffled my hair and smiled sadly, "Perhaps you will be the exception, Little One. I will pray so."

Perhaps Alastair's suicide was brought on by his handicap and his maladjustment to an adult world that seemed, to him as to Rat, more than adventure:

"And beyond the Wild Wood again?" [Mole] asked: "Where it's all blue and dim, and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn't, and something like the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?"

"Beyond the Wild Wood comes the Wide World,'" said the Rat. "And that's something that doesn't matter, either to you or me. I've never been there, and I'm never going, nor you either, if you've got any sense at all."

Grahame himself is described as one who pined for but never took the Open Road,

as an escape from his banking career and a loveless marriage.

When he offered THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS to his publisher he described it as a book "of life, sunshine, running water, woodlands, dusty roads, winter firesides, free of problems,

clear of the clash of sex, of life as it might fairly be supposed to be regarded by some of the wise, small things 'that glide in grasses and rubble of woody wreck."

My own THE BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS grew from my own childhood tales told to me by Mother

as she hugged me as I shivered and coughed from double pneumonia. We were iced in our basement apartment in Detroit by one of the worst ice storms in remembrance.

Phones down. Just new in town. All alone.

So Mother merged bits of myth and legend she remembered from both sides of her bloodline : Lakota and Celtic.

She was sure I would die, and she wanted my last moments to be filled, not with fear and dread, but with awe, wonder, and magic.

She told of The Turquoise Woman, whose touch was icy but whose heart was warm. My shivers were from her embrace.

And that hulking shadow at the foot of my bed? Why, that was Hibbs, the bear with two shadows, protector of all hurting children.

He was there for me.

And a world of wonder and magic opened up in my feverish mind, birthing a happy moment for my mother : despite the odds, I grew better. I lived.

Have you heard about the bear? He saved a little boy once. A bit of that little boy still lives ... in my heart.
***

T is for TWEAKED_in that I have TWEAKED MY CONTEST ONCE AGAIN_last time, promise

Since I have ePublished another novel, RITES OF PASSAGE,

I thought I would extend my contest in two ways :

1.) If you write a review on Amazon for either

RITES OF PASSAGE

or

THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS


You will receive 5 entries to win my autographed books

Stephen King, NEEDFUL THINGS


Dean Koontz, THE TAKING



Laurell K. Hamilton, DANSE MACABRE



2.) To give you time to read one or both books, THE DRAWING WILL BE HELD ON AUGUST 31st.
***

New BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS drawing (dedicated to Gypsy)

I'm back ...
to re-announce the new BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS drawing :

List this contest/drawing in your sidebar,

and you will receive one entry.

Post a review of THE BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS on Amazon,

and you will receive 5 entries.

The prizes? :

NEEDFUL THINGS autographed by Stephen King.

THE TAKING autographed by Dean Koontz.

DANSE MACABRE autographed by Laurell K. Hamilton.

The Drawing?

June 7th.

{SEND ME A COMMENT ON MY LATEST POST TO LET ME KNOW OF REVIEW OR SIDEBAR SHOUT-OUT}

The spirit of Gypsy and I wish you luck

D is for DRAWING says THE TURQUOISE WOMAN

Greetings, Humans :

I am the Turquoise Woman.

For some of you the challenge of the day is D.

I chose the word DRAWING :

From your heart you may DRAW love.

So few of you do that.

I understand.

To love at all is to be vulnerable.

Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken.

If you want to make sure of keeping it intact,

you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal.

Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries;

avoid all entanglements;

lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.

But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--

it will change.

It will not be broken;

it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.


There is another meaning for DRAWING, of course.

As with Roland's DRAWING :

From now to May 21st

(the day some addled two-leggeds believe Judgement Day will come --

as if each day were not Judgement Day for each of you in so many ways)

From now to then,

if you write on Amazon a review of his book, THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS,

you will receive 5 entries for a drawing for three autographed books (one of them to be left a mystery)

{those who have already written a review now have five entries in this new drawing}



Another sense of DRAWING is ,of course a representation in ink,

an etching if you would.

But each of you etch your soul by the choices you make

and by the life journey born of those choices.

I am Day.

I am Night.

I am the World.

I am the Turquoise Woman.

And a traveler like all of you.

You walk miles.

I spin through the vastness of space,

listening to the ghost songs of the solar winds.

I awakened already spinning through space,

hugged to the sun's warmth by his invisible arms of gravity.

But the sun is a distant lover,

following his own path through the stars, drawn by bonds of his own.

He is caught like a glistening bead of dew in the web of the solar system.

Together, he and my sisters journey in a cluster

which is itself part of a moving community of stars you call the Milky Way.

Travelers all,

we can neither turn to the left nor to the right of our own volition.

We are children of gravity and explosion,

cast into the darkness by forces we little understand or know.

I used to envy you your freedom of movement, of choice.

But the longer I watched your scurrying over my surface,

the more a dark truth spoke to me :

You, too, are children of the gravity of your species

and the explosion of the times around you -

which you little understand or know.

You bristle with denial?

If you cannot understand your own heart,

how can you understand another's?

Which choices are yours totally?

As gravity and momentum send me on my path,

so do your DNA, location, and experience

spread the pattern of the paths before you.

You are no more free than I am or the goldfish wandering the narrow confines of its bowl.

From within its bowl, the world seems so large to the goldfish.

Yet, it is trapped within invisible walls.

As are you.

Freedom is an illusion to the goldfish, to me, and to you.

Do we choose or do the choices choose us? ***

<>
>

HIBBS : MISS OLIVIA, I'LL BE THERE, BUT FIRST I HAVE TO SEE HARRY POTTER

Hibbs, the cub with no clue -- and no breath, here!

Huff. Pant. Gasp. All this running is wearing me out!

Miss Olivia, I'll be there. Don't you worry! http://thatrebelwithablog.blogspot.com/

But first, I want to read Mr. Roland's entry into Mr. Michael's HARRY POTTER BEST MATE blogfest : http://writing-art-and-design.blogspot.com/2011/03/harry-potter-blogfest-who-would-be-your.html

{From the journal of Captain Samuel McCord} :

I walked through the mirror into Dumbledore's office. The scent to the air was of cherry blossoms. I smiled bitterly. It was the perfume of my wife, Meilori. He was trying to make me feel welcome and only managing to make me feel more alone.

Poor Albus. He was so wise in so many things ...

just not in matters of the heart.

Which explained his being fooled by Gellert Grindelwald.

I made my way through the maze of spindly tables upon which sat delicate looking silver instruments that whirred and emitted small puffs of smoke, as well as an incredible collection of books, which made up Dumbledore's private library, and his ill-advised Pensieve.

Fawkes the phoenix chirped my way. I winked back. The Sorting Hat chuckled. I grinned back.

Albus smiled as if it hurt him. "Come sit down, Samuel."

He 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, and a purple cloak.

His nose was very long and crooked. Being broken will do that to a nose. The first break came from Gellert's fist. The second came from mine in the fight that broke out when I told him the truth about Gellert.

He forgave me. Friends do that. Even to friends who speak painful truths.

As I sat down at his round desk, I pointed to his withered right hand. "Voldemort?"

He shook his head. "I myself have opened the door to the next great adventure I'm afraid."

I started to reach for his gnarled right hand. "Maybe I can ...."

A voice with all the warmth of a slap said to my left, "Do what the world's mightiest wizard could not do? Hardly!"

I turned. Serverus Snape. He gloomed a room just by entering it.

I smiled crooked. "Still wearing the cast-off's from THE ADAMS FAMILY movie I see. Angelica Huston looked better in that dress."

His right eyebrow arched so high that I was surprised it didn't cut his forehead. "How droll. Low humor from a muggle. How unsurprising."

I wagged a gloved forefinger at him. "You know you like me."

Snape looked as if he smelled his own upper lip. "Me? A friend to a muggle?"

Albus' blue eyes twinkled. "You will note that he did not deny it."

He pointed to the empty seat at the other side of the table. "Come, Serverus. Samuel promised to teach us that colorfully named game. Ah, what was it now?"

The blood of the Angel of Death burned cold in my veins as it murmured I would never see either one of them alive again. I managed a smile.

"Texas Hold 'Em."

Snape sniffed the air touched with the kiss of cherry blossoms and looked at me with haunted eyes.

"You still love her though she deserted you? After all this time?"

I nodded, and though we both saw different faces, we both said the same word,

"Always."

Albus' eyes grew wet as he looked at the two of us. "I, as well."

And so three friends drawn together by broken hearts and lost love dealt meaningless cards to one another into the dregs of the hollow night.

***

HIBBS : HOLD ON, MR. ELLIOT! DON'T START WITHOUT ME!

Hibbs, the cub with no clue, here!

Pant. Pant.

Hold on, Mr. Elliot!

I'm coming just as fast as my paws will carry me. Don't start without me!

Where's Little Brother when you need him?

Oh, well, follow me to Mr. Elliot's place. It's gonna be such fun. He's got really great questions. : ***http://elliot-grace.blogspot.com/2011/03/chat-with-hibbs.html
***

HIBBS : WENDY TYLER RYAN & CANADA! HERE I COME!

Hibbs, the cub with no clue, here.

I am on the run for Canada. I want to see Wendy in person.

You writers live in such a weird world : I mean how strange is the world of words when skating on thin ice can land you in hot water?

Or it may not be you can live on words alone,

especially when sometimes you have to eat them!

You know, traveling as I have with Mr. Roland lately,(especially after being rejected by ABNA),

I think you humans developed language because of your deep need to complain!

Now, come with me to Canada and Miss Wendy.

I hope I see one of those Royal Canadian Mounties so I can swipe one of their hats! http://waitingforpublication.blogspot.com/
***

NO PROSE IS TOO PURPLE FOR THE NATURE OF MAGIC

Tessa and Laura have gotten together to do this fascinating blogfest, THE NATURE OF MAGIC :

http://tessasblurb.blogspot.com/2011/02/nature-of-magic-blogfest.html

Erin Kane Spock yesterday lauched her PAINT IT PURPLE (prose) blogfest :

http://courtlyromance.blogspot.com/2011/02/march-25th-paint-it-purple-blogfest.html?zx=e263309703f03be5

I have melded my entry to fit both their intriguing blogfests.


{Hibbs, the bear with two shadows, has brought the fatally wounded Sidhe, Leandra Dagda,

to his endless cabin built for him by Estanatlehi. But normal magics will not keep death at bay.

Ancient magics are called for -- but to be done in a completely new way.} :


Hibbs' great head fell, his chin resting for a long moment on his chest. Suddenly, he smiled.

“I have a thought.”

Little Brother snorted, “Bound to happen sooner or later.”

Hibbs ignored the hawk, turning to Surt. “You are the master of all the fires around you, are you not?”

The living head of flame studied Hibbs for a long heartbeat of crackling fires. “Yes, I am. Do you wish me to give her a Valkyrie’s funeral?”

Hibbs smiled wide. “No, friend. I want you to summon all the heat from this water as I squeeze it from this cloth.”

In the fireplace, the head of fire seemed to stand still. “You would be caught in the wake of such a thing.”

“I have been cold before.”

“Not like this.”

“Because I must, I will endure.”

Little Brother cawed, “Please do not.”

Knowing what it took for the hawk to say please, Hibbs turned a sad smile his way. “The hard path and the right path are usually the same, Little Brother.”

He soaked the cloth to the full and held it above the still bleeding Sidhe. “What you must do, Surt, do it now.”

A cold, so utter that it was a fire, pierced the young bear to the bone. He stiffened, stifled a groan, and then squeezed the water from the cloth.

At that instant, he realized Surt’s power would not be enough. He ground his great teeth. Thinking back upon his first sight of winter snow, Hibbs drew upon his own Orenda.

And then, it happened.

Magic breathed her whisper of hope into the darkness.

Snow, light as the wind’s kiss, began to flutter from the cloth. Hibbs, despite his great pain, started to laugh. Laugh like a young cub seeing winter’s first snow caressing the slopes.

Quickly he soaked the cloth again and began another, heavier flurry of sparkling snow. It settled like a healing mist upon the wounded Sidhe. She gasped, moaned, then her stiff body began to slowly relax. And Hibbs soaked the cloth yet again.

More snow swirled from his great paw in long, wide arcs. Hibbs laughed deep, turning to Surt, who caught up in the bear’s joy, began laughing himself. To think that he, Surt, Destroyer of Worlds, Father of All Fires, was creating crystal, cold snow.

Snow!

He felt as he had long, long ages ago when the Nine Worlds were steaming and birth-new. No, more than that, he himself felt birth-new, filled with a sense of wonder and endless possibilities, a feeling he had thought Wotan had strangled long eons before.

Surt looked upon the laughing Hibbs. This strange creature had proven Wotan a liar. No, he had done much more than that. Surt felt renewed.

And with the feeling, the laughter boomed out of him over and over again. He looked on Hibbs, and for the first time that he could remember, Surt smiled.

And in that instant, he loved the young bear as one would love a brother. Gone were the plots to gain total freedom by the death of his furred savior. What had he been thinking? The bear had been right. He had let his hate blind him.

Surt laughed even deeper as Hibbs poured down another snow flurry upon the healing Sidhe. Total freedom? Look at what the young bear had just done.

He had shown Surt a power that had laid hidden in him for all his existence. What other wonders might he not show him?

And not to leave his first friend out, Hibbs called out, “Little Brother, would you beat those mighty wings of yours to make a true snow storm?”

The rough-legged hawk had been feeling left out and smiled as much as his beak would let him. “A snow storm it shall be!”

And so it was.

The First Hawk of Creation flew beside Hibbs, impossibly hovering like a Humming Bird. The beats of his huge wings filled the library with a leathery rustling and a tremendous howling of strange winds much like the moans of a thousand Apache spirit flutes.

It was a sight that no Two-Legged had seen since The Great Mystery breathed light into the darkness.

Winter visited the inside of Estanatlehi’s endless cabin. And its gales were the mingled laughter of three spirits who had become one. But there was something odd to the laughter of Hibbs, his face-fur edged in ice.

Its sound had become as thin as butter too spread out on bread. The hawk saw his brother start to shiver uncontrollably and grew worried.

“Surt! Stop -- please. More o-our brother cannot take.”

Surt grunted. Our? Then the Source of All Fires saw the hawk was right. He swore low.

A thousand Sidhe still would not be worth the life of the brother he had just found. He stopped drawing the heat from where Hibbs was weaving on snow-covered legs.

The great bear sank heavily to his ice-crusted knees. But still he was young and filled with the silly pride of youth.

“T-Thank you, Surt, Little Brother. I was tiring -- all that laughter you know.”

The hawk eyed Surt. The head of flickering fires snorted. Hibbs was silent a moment, then his great maw spread into a sheepish grin. He flung flakes of ice from his face as he shook his head and laughed at himself.

“All right, I was becoming aware of a slight chill.”

The hawk cawed, “Slight?”

Little Brother flew to the right shoulder of Hibbs and beat on his head with a flurry of huge wings. Surt chuckled at the sight. And the sound of mingled laughter from three friends filled the enchanted cabin of The Turquoise Woman.

But outside, high in the endless depths of the night sky, the face in the moon shed silent tears.
***
Hibbs' portrait above comes from the genius of Susan Sheldon Boulet. Here are more of her evocative, mystic works of art. Please don't deny yourself the wonder and the awe that will come from viewing her paintings :

HIBBS : COME TO JO'S PARTY! AND RESCUE ME!!

Hibbs, the cub with no clue, and I walk out of Jo's rocking party

and out onto her lush backyard.

"Whew!," gushes Hibb.

"That is some party, Mr. Roland. Who was the Ostrich Lady,

wearing that dress of honey combs, who kept dancing with me?"

"Oh, that was Lady Gaga. You're lucky, Hibbs. Once she wore a dress of meat."

"What? Oh, Eeeyoo!"

His eyes light up. "Ah, do you know where she put that dress?"

I raise my eyebrow, and Hibbs says, "Don't look at me that way. Meat shouldn't go to waste."

He sits down on the grass with a thump beside me.

"At least that mother and daughter came to my resuce ... sort of."

"You mean Madonna and her daughter, Lourdes?"

"Yes, them. What was that weird dance that Madonna woman kept dancing with me?"

"It's called a tango, Hibbs."

"Well, it sure tangled my spine, that's for sure! Ah, speaking of spines,

her daughter looked like her spine was all rubber while she danced with me. Is that the tango, too?"

I ruffle the hair atop his small head. "No, Hibbs, that's called the Dip."

Hibbs shruggs his shoulder.

"At least that band, THE WANDERING PEPPLES, played so loud I didn't have to talk much."

"You mean THE ROLLING STONES, Hibbs."

He nods his head. "Yeah, them."

"Oh, there, you are, you little sneak!," comes a strident voice behind us.

Hibbs pops to his feet, holding out his paw. "Who's that, Mr. Roland?"

"Taylor Swift."

Taylor rushes toward Hibbs, who thrusts out his open paw even more.

"Now, you keep those spindly little legs right where they are, Miss Taylor. I'm all pooped out."

Taylor giggles. "Oh, you cute thing, you."

She wraps an arm around a squirming Hibbs, dragging him back into Jo's party.

Taylor giggles, "I dated a werewolf, but I've never danced with a bear."

Hibbs lolls his head over his shoulder, imploring me with begging eyes.

"Mr. Roland, help! Mr. Roland!!"

I chuckle back at him. "Face it, Hibbs. You just have animal magnetism!"

"Mr. Roland, that is SO not funny!"

Ah, everyone, come help me rescue Hibbs at Jo's party :

http://jostorm.blogspot.com/
***

My melded entry for PURPLE PROSE and THE NATURE OF MAGIC blogfests will be a day late, coming to you Saturday.
***

HIBBS : ONCE I HAD FEET_COME WITH ME TO JO SCHAFFER'S!

Hibbs, the cub with no clue and no feet, here.

Look at my poor feet. They're worn down to nubs.

Ouch! Even coming through a shortcut through DreamTime, going from Fiji to California was sure no fun!

But pretty Miss Jo was worth the trip. Come listen to Jo and Roland talk about neat stuff :

http://jostorm.blogspot.com/2011/03/interview-with-author-roland-yeomans.html
***

HIBBS: TO FLY BY THUNDERBIRD TO FIJI AND NAS DEAN

"Hey, Little Brother! I'm freezing up here! I can't breathe and there's ice on my face fur!"

"Wakin'yan am I! From horizon to horizon is my wingspan. High is how I fly."

"Well, I'm Hibbs, the cub with no clue, not some icicle. Get me down!!"

"No fun you are."

"Ooooh, this is much better. Drop me on that beach. Ummmph! Hey, not so fast. How will I get back you flying off like this? Oh, well, I'll worry about that tomorrow.

Oh, my, look at the pretty flower. Hey, guys, Nas has already started! Time for you to vist Miss Nas and Roland here :

http://nas-dean.blogspot.com/

HIBBS & ME TO J.C. MARTIN, THE FIGHTER/WRITER

Hibbs, the cub with no clue, is happily ambling next to me.

"Miss Summer was nice. Where to next, Mr. Roland?"

"To J.C. Martin."

"Where does she live?"

"It's a secret. See? We're already there."

Hibbs suddenly flashes a huge alligator smile so phony

politicians everywhere will be hounding him for his secret.

"Hi, Miss J.C. ! See me wave? Me and Mr. Roland, we're totally harmless!"

I hiss a whisper. "What are you doing, Hibbs?"

He looks up at me shocked. "Don't you even know your own species, Mr. Roland?

With beautiful female humans you have to show them you mean them no harm."

Hibbs leans in close.

"And this one knows Wing Chun. You know the stuff Bruce Lee taught. I am one bear cub that wants to keep his internal organs internal!"

He nudges me. "See how less tense she looks?"

"Ah, she looks more, not less, tense to me, Hibbs."

"I'll fix that. You just watch."

Hibbs rushes J.C. , his arms outstretched. "How about a nice big bear hug!"

J.C. is a fluid blurr. Hibbs' furry little body flies through the air in a flailing
arc.

"Whoooooooa!!"

He lands and tumbles in a flurry of arms and legs. His big head pops up from the brush.

Snorting leaves and blades of grass from his lips and cheeks, Hibbs wrinkles his long nose.

"Not big into bear hugs, huh?"

He turns to the cyber-void and chuckles,

"Hey, guys, I've paved the way. J.C. is all untense and everything. Head on over."

http://jc-martin.com/fighterwriter/


"Oh, Mr. Roland? Who are we seeing tomorrow?"

"Nas Dean. She lives in Naid,Fiji, by the way."

"F-Fiji? FIJI!! Mr. Roland!!"***

HIBBS: BUT I DON'T HAVE FAERIE WINGS!_ OFF TO SUMMER ROSS' WE GO.

Hibbs, the cub with no clue, here again.

Wy-Wyoming?

Summer Ross lives in WYOMING?!

That's over 800 miles as Little Brother flies!

Sigh. Mr. Roland, do I get any of the royalties?

Mr. Roland!

Oh, well, come follow me to Wy-Wyoming :

http://summersvoice.blogspot.com/
***
Congratulations to Hart and Elena for making it to ABNA's semi-finals!!

HIBBS : ON THE ROAD AGAIN_TO DONNA HOLE'S BLOG

Hibbs, the cub with no clue, here!

I'm all rested and raring to go ... this time to California!

To Donna Hole's blog :

http://donnahole.blogspot.com/

I heard Roland practicing his answers. Boy, they sure interested me.

Come with me. I am one determined cub. Paws don't fail me now.
***

Ever wonder why your great book isn't bought? The aliens are here :

"HOW DO YOU WRITE A CLASSIC?," HIBBS ASKED ME

Hibbs, the cub with no clue, here.

I'm all done in, guys. I can't even lift my head.

I have just enough strength to give you the schedule for next week 's Book Blog Tour for THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS --

that's me when I grow up :

Monday (21st) -- Donna Hole - DONNA HOLE

Tuesday (22nd) -- Summer Ross - MY INNER FAIRY

Wednesday (23rd) -- J. C. Martin - FIGHTER, WRITER

Thursday (24th) -- Nas Dean - ROMANCE FROM THE PARADISE IN THE PACIFIC

Friday (25th) -- Jo Schaffer Part I - SHOVELING IN A JO STORM

Saturday (26th) -- Jo Schaffer Part II - SHOVELING IN A JO STORM

Now, guys, I am going to sleep for a century or so. YAWN. Maybe more.



Little Hibbs asked me a moment ago, "How do you write a classic, Mr. Roland."

That's a question you would like to know, too.

Sure you do. Deep down we all do.

But how to pull off that miracle?

Like the photo to today's post suggests ... by giving the reader what he wants to read.

And that's what has readers come back to read our novel a second ... even a third time.

It's what has them rush to their friends, talking about the book that they just have to read.

Word of mouth gives birth to bestsellers that become modern day classics ... to movies being made of said novels ... maybe your book.

Word of mouth.

That phrase leads us to one of the three things will ensure your book is worthy of coming back for seconds,

thus becoming a classic -- (Sorry, I ran out of space -- I only got to one of the three.) :

1) Dialogue that sparkles.

Take the sixties Western, THE PROFESSIONALS :

Burt Lancaster. Lee Marvin. Robert Ryan. Ralph Bellamy. Jack Palance. Woody Strode.

Each actor at the apex of their careers. How did the director draw in so many large stars at the time of one-star vechiles?

The studio couldn't afford that much in salaries.

Dialogue.

Each actor was given lines that didn't just say something but words that MEANT something. Words that didn't just move the plot along but spoke to something primal within the hearts of the audience.

Such as :

Bill Dolworth (Burt Lancaster) : Rico, buddy. I don't deserve you.

Rico (Lee Marvin): I agree. I can understand you getting in a crap game and losing $700 you didn't have, but how'd you lose your pants?

Bill Dolworth: In a ladies bedroom, trying to raise the cash. Almost had it made, too. Do you realize that people are the only animals that make love face to face?

***

Bill Dolworth (Burt Lancaster) : Maybe there's only one revolution, since the beginning, the good guys against the bad guys. Question is, who are the good guys?

***

Rico: So what else is on your mind besides hundred-proof women, 'n' ninety-proof whiskey, 'n' fourteen-carat gold?

Bill Dolworth: Amigo, you just wrote my epitaph!

***

Jake Sharp (Woody Strode) : Mr. D, whatever got a loving man like you in the dynamite business?

Bill Dolworth: Well, I'll tell you. I was born with a powerful passion to create. I can't write, can't paint, can't make up a song...

Hans Ehrengard (Robert Ryan) : So you explode things.

Bill Dolworth: Well that's how the world was born. Biggest damn explosion you ever saw.

***

Jesus Raza (Jack Palance) : La RevoluciÛn is like a great love affair. In the beginning, she is a goddess. A holy cause. But...

every love affair has a terrible enemy: time. We see her as she is. La RevoluciÛn is not a goddess but a whore.

She was never pure, never saintly, never perfect. And we run away, find another lover, another cause. Quick, sordid affairs. Lust, but no love. Passion, but no compassion.

Without love, without a cause, we are... *nothing*! We stay because we believe. We leave because we are disillusioned. We come back because we are lost. We die because we are committed.

***

[last lines]
J.W. Grant (Ralph Bellamy) : You bastard.

Rico: Yes, Sir. In my case an accident of birth. But you, Sir, you're a self-made man.

***

On the surface THE PROFESSIONALS was just an adventure tale, plain and simple.

But your novel to become a classic cannot be plain and simple.

It must have depth. Your dialogue must do more than say something -- it must MEAN something.

As THE PROFESSIONALS had depth. Beneath the adventure was an examination of what it means to be a professional in all you did, what it took for mature, intelligent men to fight for love or for a cause when ultimately all loves, all causes, betray you.

Each character had a different surface answer. But their base-rock answer was the same : you lived in such a way as to not betray yourself -- you fought because of the people you battled alongside and for.

And that leads back to us :

as authors we write for ourselves and for those who read our words -- not to betray ourselves or the readers who paid cash money for tale. In the end, we want what all authors want :

to tell a story that sings a song of the soul, that murmurs "You are not alone."
***

***