Doran

 

Link to the books in case you are missing one from your library.

http://www.amazon.com/Wise-Child-Monica-Furlong/dp/0394891058/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1368334872&sr=8-1&keywords=wise+child

Very few books have altered my life. Wise Child did in a way that still resonates. Not only in my own daughter Juniper, but in the person, mother and artist I strive to be.

I was but fourteen when I read Wise Child, then Juniper and lastly Colman. The latter too never reached the perfection of Wise Child, but were lovely reads.

I miss them terribly now. All save two of my books are packed up in preparation to move this next week; forgive me if I am absent for a little while–so much work to move from one place to another. Not to mention I had a dead chicken land on my head this morning–traumatic.

What books are your “soul” books?

The ones you run to when stressed? The ones that altered dreams? The ones that gave you dreams? The ones that made a difference.

 

Femme Fatale

Don’t believe me if you wish, but most of this story is true.

I should also put a disclaimer since, I fear, I have neglected to properly edit. Still, it is complete and fairly readable.

Sticky orange rolls* vanilla orange juice

Three pairs of eyes peered over the edge of the fraying basket as the apprentice walked briskly through the open-air market.  Despite the early hour, the place was buzzing alive with activity. In the far corner, the lavender man sat surrounded by a heavy perfume, exchanging pleasantries with the honeybee man who was nearly hidden behind amber-colored jars of waxy honeycomb. The witch, of course, always visited these two first. Farther down the row the apprentice has been enticed for a brief loiter, her one arm hung heavy with the weight of sweet apples that she did not pay for. The snow-white apples were gifts from the plump woman who wore the floral apron—they were for the fates supposedly, but in truth the apprentice is currently marked as a future daughter-in-law for the woman’s shy-eyed son.

As I watch, she pauses at the flower stand where sweet peas, asters, irises, roses and dozens of bright blossoms bloom. Even brighter than the flowery faces, were those of the young men working like drones amidst the petals. I shift the weight of elephant heart plums and Sicilian blood-oranges on my arm and watch the scene. It will be sunflowers or daisies I guess. Yes, soon enough after bouquet and bouquet are pressed upon her, she accepts an alarming large bunch of Black-eyed Suzan’s. She offers money, which is of course is refused, as we both knew it would be, but she still gives a perfectly played blush of surprise. Kisses the tomato-red cheek of the young man and on cue driftes off, leaving too many chapped hands waving desperately after her.

I know envy is not a virtue, but the only present I ever received at the farmer’s market was a spindly bunch of green onions! The witch joins me and instinctively pats my arm as if guessing my green thoughts.

“She is a bit of a femme fatale isn’t she? It is a good thing she rarely leaves the garden or I would be tempted to lock her up. Oh dear, I better give her a hand. Be a peach and pick-up some oranges. Winter has not been kind to our citrus trees.”

Giving the apprentice another lasting glance, I could not help but smile as she teetered precariously, over-burdened with packages while too many helpful hands only added to the chaos. Oh well, the witch would put all to right. Maybe the blessing of true beauty is equally a curse.

Purchasing oranges is always a treat, picking over mounds of sunny rinds that breath the fresh smell of citrus. I am afraid seven pounds was more than the witch had in mind but alas.

Sticky Orange Rolls

(recipe needed)

The morning’s excursion has quite done in the apprentice and she sat blankly a plop the mint sucking the rolls stickiness.  Arranging the black-eyed Suzan’s in a cobalt-blue vase, the witch placed the bouquet on the patio table and then disappeared into the garden, leaving me with all the apprentice’s acquired packages: blue berries, pomegranates, apples, goat cheese, sweet peas, (How had I missed those?”) raspberries and dates. The raspberries were set aside for a special tea dessert to be accompanied by tangy lemon soufflés but later. Sweet peas are a favorite of the witch and thus require immediate care.

The fates had made a sufficient mess on the patio and the apprentice roused herself to hose the whole lot away and scrub the surface over with an old broom. I found the witch trimming her lavender which, one day, will overrun the entire garden.  Afternoon found us weeding and digging the salad plot.  The whole process was dreadfully tiring: digging up the weeds, separating the dirt from roots by hand, removing rocks and twig debris, and then turning the surface over for at least two feet down. At least the Fates enjoyed the opportunity to gobble down the earthworms our shovels revealed. I was grateful when we stopped for tea. The apprentice had beaten me to the kitchen and made vanilla orange juice along with the iced tisane.

Vanilla Orange Juice

8 cups orange juice

1 Tablespoon vanilla

1)      Whisk vanilla into the juice.

2)      For frothy juice, mix in a blender the juice with ice or orange ice, (Cubes of frozen orange juice),  for a few seconds.

            The chilled strawberry-kiwi tea relaxed every sore nerve. The witch seemed tireless and tackled the laundry, pinning up shirts, skirts and sheets to fly above the green shorn grass, and leaving the apprentice and I to dawdle over our cups until we too returned to work. Smudged with dirt and her blonde hair falling from her twist, I wondered how or by what power the apprentice rendered so many helpless. She was very lovely. Still, there was something more. No sense beating around the tree, I simply asked her. She laughed lightly, running the back of her hand across her cheek; thus mud-streaking her face.

I do not think she meant to do that.

“You have the strangest imagination. The only thing that looks twice at me is frogs and beetles. Silly girl.” She drifted away while a menagerie of cats, chickens, butterflies and yes frogs followed her to the garden’s edge. Either she was completely unaware or feigning modesty. No, definitely not the latter.

The witch found me sulking and sucking lemons beneath the apple tree—literally. She did not need to ask the matter. She already knew. “You must not be so unhappy. She cannot help what she is, no more than the cat can help being a cat. Besides, as you have no doubt observed, her attraction is not always a blessing.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right, although is it so bad to mourn one’s plainness.”

“Plainness,” the witch laughed. “My dear open your eyes! You are as blind as she is. Who in heaven’s name do you think the sweet peas are for?

I smiled after her. True, I would never have the entourage the apprentice has, but there was comfort in knowing that at least one person thought you were pretty and expressed it with something besides green onions.

punctuation

 

I was doing a little proof reading yesterday, and due to some poor punctuation and a few typos, my  love interest was gazing with smoldering intensity at his sister instead of the heroine–yuck!

Healing a Changeling

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My young changeling had a small procedure yesterday. Keeping still has never been within his green blood, and denying him the cool air and damp earth is near torture for him. Yet, allowing him to romp in his beloved wild midst mushrooms, squirrels and creeks, is out of the question.

So the evening found us watering and wandering in the garden.

Safely enclosed with young green things fighting their way into the arid air, my changeling  could sit and chew on strawberries while ladybugs tickled his bare legs.

We stayed there, the moon beginning to glow with the darkening twilight, until the garden had worked its healing magic.

 

Perseverance

 

 

 

 

The key to daring the unknown, persevering through rugged rejection, unknown difficulties, and the painful process of gaining necessary experience, is to

1) have a purpose

2) have a haven

“Of course I have a purpose,” you may say. “I want to be a photographer, an editor, an actress, an designer.”

Whatever the ambition, there must be a clear end goal. And no, a title is not a clear end goal. Having your photos appear in Hobby Farm or converting your garage into a dark room is a clear goal. It is specific and clearly defined. Otherwise, you may as well give yourself a title and call it a day.

Then perhaps when the goal is properly defined, it might be a good idea to ask why. Is your goal to bury an old demon? To feel enough? To simply satisfy that craving to create? The answer is more for your sake than anyone else’s. Still, it is important since that reason has see you through a great deal of difficult terrain.

 

The second is a point of survival.

Without a place, mentally or physically to seek sanctuary, your creative goals will become worn, scarred and ultimately tarnished by the harsh upheavals of the business world. The cranky distributor, the non-responsive editor or blatant doubt will slice away at your tender dreams. Finding a haven will protect those hopes when the stress and doubt threaten.

 

So to those wishing for a fairy-tale garden, a printed book, a painting in an art gallery or simply the knowledge of baking bread, give yourself a little grace. This is hard work  beating our way through the unknown; but with work and a little patience the unknown will become the familiar and our goal will be touched.

In the meantime–Good luck!

In the Name of Art

 

 

 

The deadline for the article loomed with intensifying pressure.

Torrents of rain licked down our faces while bellows of thunder blew through the sky. A perfect day for an adventure. At least that is what my Juniper calls mommy’s jaunts into odd places at odder times all in the name of art.

In this particular case, I needed a prop for a photo shoot (coming up) that one simple cannot find in any market known to man. Hence, into the wild we went.

 

 

 

 

 

Despite being wetter than a selkie straight form the sea, my changeling tossed his shoes aside and ran the sandy paths unshod, his elfin eyes discerning wildlife and even mommy’s needed prop with inhuman quickness.

 

 

A little difficult to see with this photo (taken by my photo assistant Juniper), but much to our pleasure, we found a fairy home hidden among the grasses.

Yes, a very grand adventure. Although, I wish I knew by what ironic power the rain instantly stopped and the sun shone upon us right as we touched home?

Semblance

Let’s be honest. I am wretched at typos, breaking syntax and leaving holes in my stories until about the third draft.

The following is no exception.

It is from bits and pieces of unfinished chapters I’ve been playing with. Still, it has enough completion that you shouldn’t become confused or lost to what is happening.

Enjoy.

Nodding forest of sunflowers with the last rays of amber light filtering through their golden-tipped petals. Their heavy heads shook violently as a slender figure emerged with what seemed a pillowous mound of laundry. Only then did I see beyond the looming stems of sunflowers a small clearing of paved stones on which baskets of fabric fluttered overhead on thick rope. A skirt of raspberry cotton bloomed in the wind, twirling in the wind and exposing the silhouette of the girl. In the failing light her pale hair appeared tinted green, darkening to a grassy hue as large locks slithered down her shoulders, framing a graceful face and a lithe body. Herr fingers flickered quickly, pinning a thin white shift to the line and hiding further view of her.

Rising stiffly, my eyes glanced down at the sister shift grazing over my skin. A wet lump, stained in ugly brown streaks of blood lay abandoned on the floor beside me. A feeling close to sadness enveloped me as I thought of the long evenings sitting cold and frigid in the corner, painstakingly sewing every stitch. Another thought tumbled forth: I would never have to wear these again. Not only because they were beyond mending, but because Connor was gone. Sailing far away with the rest of my life and the entire lot of pretty skirts and blouses sewn for my hope chest could be burned or buried for all I cared. Glancing down at the shift, the intricate netting of softened fibers knotted into lacy scallops seemed to shimmer. Walking slowly and a little painfully, I saw it again. An abalone-toned shimmer glistening along the hem as if some celestial thread had been woven into the cotton.

The hem was not the only intriguing thing in the room. For a maid raised among the most sought after artisans in three lands, I had never seen such fair craft. Swallows and finches sang from blossoming pear branches along the mantle, their carved bodies sanded smoother than water, the delicate tables and long-legged couches mirroring with slight alternations of owls and robins. The thick rug beneath my bare feet held a tree stretching forth branches in ochre, scarlet and varying shades of gold. Even the flowers profusely arranged on every smooth surface seemed more brilliant and beautiful than any living thing I had ever seen.

What was this place?

“She has lost a great deal of blood.” Through the doorway of the kitchen, Vervain glided through, holding a handful of muddy bog plants in her fist and then disapeared toward the sink. “She is lovely though, which is saying much considering how pale and beaten she is. Tallen will have to eat his words about an ogres when he lays eyes on her.”

The response was droned over by the rushing of water from the sink’s spout, but I could tell it was male.

“Too soon to tell. Her memories move too quickly and fragmented to form sense beyond what she told herself.”

Creeping closer towards the open archway holding the kitchen to this room, I gasped. Leaning against the warmth of the stove, nearly a head taller than Vervain’s own tall form, stood a demon in the shape of a man, only too tall and broad with skin matching the greenish waters of mountain creeks. Thin tips of his fore teeth curved over his bottom teeth, touching his deep voice with a barely decernable lilt, and his eyes…stared unblinking at me.

Bells tolled in my head as blood swirled into my ears, splattering gooseflesh across my bare arms. This was him. My supposed angel of death who had lifted me from a watery tomb and carried me here—oh sweet saint! Was this Hell then? Would any second the smell of lavender and this strange lovely place crumble to reveal rotting stank and hellfire? Lurching terror gripped me, leaving my thoughts to spree in a whirl of panic as my eyes, unable to look away, stared back.

“Thorn?” Vervain said, placing the lid on a pot. “Thorn, you’re growling again. What is it, darling?”

Growling?

I heard it then, not even realizing what I was hearing, a quiet yet growing purr rippling from his chest as his eyes, those dark, dark eyes dilating into burning embers.

“Thorn,” Vervain insisted again, before following his line of vision until her own gentle eyes rested on me. “Oh no,” she breathed. “Thorn, no, sweetheart. Don’t you dare! Thorn, Thorn!”

But it was too late.

A force reeled in my chest, silently screaming at me to run as he slowly stepped forward, coming closer and closer, never taking his eyes from me. They were hypnotic, his eyes—terrifyingly bright yet memorizing…almost wonderous. Again, a tide of strength surged through me, pushing me to run. Run away, quickly. Just go. Go! Yet those eyes—searing down at me..

“Thorn.” It was almost a plea. His shoulder while his chest rose and fell unnaturally quick and a strong hand touched my face. “Slow down your breathing and back away slowly, very slowly.” Her voice finally seemed to resinate through, breaking the unblinking hold of his eyes and we both stared at her. “Good,” Vervain soothed, softly and very firmly, removing his hand from my face.

“Please, for both your sakes, walk towards the window as slowly as possible.”

My skin felt stretched almost unable to fight the inner urge to run, to hide…or fight. Quick pulses tingled deep within my chest with the thought. I had been taught, long ago before my father had taken in Connor, countless hours on the cold grassy slopes behind the smithy, but my hands knew the feel of a heavy pot better than the smooth steel of a sword, and his intimidating height…I’d have a happier chance resisting a winter’s torrent.

Vervain pushed gently on my shoulder. “Please,” and this time my feet headed her incessant mand. Back stepping several feet until my thighs whacked the casement of the open window. The throaty growl lowered to no more than a vibration in his chest, and relief soaked Vervain’s ethereal features. “Oh, thank the seasons. Whew, I thought for a moment that…” she trailed, her skin paling to a pale gray. Half turning, to the window my vision was hidden by my hair suddenly flying up. Wind tugged at the thin nightdress, billowing the white muslim like sails before taking hold of my hair and whipping the ropey mess into my eyes again.  A sound similar to a thunder crash ripped through him and my body was thrown to the floor under his weight, light dancing beneath dark eyes. Screaming breathlessly as his teeth raked into my hair, twisting knots and ripping several strands.

Vervain’s voiced pierced through my cries. “Thorn! Oh, blooming nightshade. Iris come quick.”

???Pleasure curved a smile across his fanged mouth, ripping back a memory of a similar smile. It was all I needed. Fear fled instantly replaced by a bubbling anger beyond my control. Without thinking, my head jerked up hitting his lips perfectly and splitting the smooth skin. His weight went slack in surprise. Squirming out from beneath him and stumbling to my feet, the room was twirling.

Laughter, eerie and cold, and most decidedly non-human. “You prickly little Thistle.” He grinned, catching my wrist in his massive hand and lowering his head to whisper into my neck. “You smell more gorgeous angry than afraid. Your blood waiting to escape your lovely, soft skin.”

He was toying with me. A single squeeze and my bones would splinter between his fingers. “What are you?” I screamed, yanking my wrist away only to have him catch it again, tighter this time.

He grinned, his pointed foreteeth completely exposed.

I swung wildly. An insane look of tolerance blinked through his dark eyes as he caught my other hand, using the unstable momentum of my thrashing to pull me flush. His face disappearing to inhale my hair, the strange vibration in his chest growing toward near deafening, consuming him. The curved smile vanished now, replaced by a maddening look of hunger, and suddenly I knew this was not a demon desiring my maidenhood, but a creature wanting to feed and feed he would. His arms sought my waist and I was lifted. Bare feet beat the air, occasionally striking his left thigh, but it had the same effect of a petal whacking an oak tree. More strands broke when his teeth glided through the tips of my hair and a disgusting slimy thing lolled beneath my ear, and my stomach lurched realizing that the slug-like thing traveling down my neck was his tongue.

“? you,” a hoarse whisper growled.  His teeth sank and I screamed, too hysterical to even cry. Rivulets of warm blood stained my shoulder and I must have swooned, aware of blood draining and the blurrish mass gripping me so tightly…

“Gross,” he gagged and I was dropped, landing on a human tangle of arms and legs. Two bright blue eyes blinked at me through a swarm of pale hair—the girl hanging the laundry to dry.

“Oops,” she chirped. “Here he comes again” and with that she prostrated herself on me.”

“Move Iris,” he roared.

“Nope. You’ll have to eat her later.”

“Iris!”

“Come any closer and I shall whip my hair at you,” she warned.

Disgust crossed his face and he stumbled back as if in pain. Straining to hold himself back, his shoulders heaving his eyes flickered strangely. “What in the name of nature have you done to me?”

“What have I done?” Iris snorted defensively.

“Not you. Agh,” he groaned as the shreds of my hair fell through his useless fingers. “Oh nightmare, I can’t breathe.”

The maiden’s eyes narrowed briefly before a stab of guilt seemed to soften her features. Half-rising, her hand touched his arm. “Thorn, did you…well you know?”

“I—I don’t know.” Glancing down at his hands, he seemed suddenly aware that he was streaked in blood. “Is—is this hers?”

“No, of course not. It is from the other ravished maiden.” Her tone dripped in sarcasm.

“Sit, Thorn.” Vervain commanded, the air suddenly producing her on the floor next to us. “Don’t stir. Iris dear, go sit by your brother, but not close enough to make him more ill.”

A disappointed grunt and the girl lifted herself from me.

Soft hands a softer voice cooed, gently removing hair form my face and pressing a bandage to you shoulder. “Shh,” she sang again. “You’re safe now.”

“No, I’m not,” I coughed, pushing her away and trying to rise. “How am I safe? He is right there. Leave me alone. Oh mercy, I’m going to—“ Nausea swelled in my throat and I barely stumbled to the window in time. Gagging vomit over the casement, blood pounding in my ears, my legs suddenly buckled.

She caught me. Half-lifting me to the couch. “Drink. I will explain, but I can’t now.”

“No. What bloodless coward do you think I am? Stay away whatever you all are or–”

“Head down.” She ordered a splintered secret before the second rise of bile cramped in my throat. “Drink. I promise I shall explain, but you must drink.”

Where had the teacup come from?

“I am not thirsty.”

“You’ll feel better,” she insisted. The rosy pink liquid smelled intoxicatingly like yellow peaches.

Her smile was indulging. “Would you drink if Iris drinks first?”

A burbled giggle came from the adjacent couch. “So if you fancy poison, I’ll drop first. She took the painted teacup freely, sipping half its contents. “Oh no, help, help,” her hand went dramatically to her throat. “I’m dying. Alas! Woe. The end is nigh…”

“Iris. This is hardly the time to tease.” Vervain scolded, taking the teacup away. “Here, now drink. I’m going to dress your shoulder and mask your scent.

Pure peach slipped down my throat, and something else that was floral and sweet without being cloying. Shreds of nauseua and panic miraculously fled, although my shoulder still throbbed when Vervain’s lithe hands applied a cold cream to the broken skin, and then liberally doused me in what smelled like twelve lavender bushes.

Can you still smell her?” The question directed at the male creature by Iris.

“Some.” His voice was human again, the intensity completely drained form him. Sitting as they were, I saw the likeness between him and Iris. Dark lashes feathered intensely green eyes and sharp-tipped teeth, although on the one called Iris it simply lended an ethereal quality to her beauty whereas he resembled a creature born from nightmares.

“A handsome nightmare?”

What? No! Where had that thought sprung from? He was a monster, one that had tried to eat me quite literally.

 

Chapter 2

Every movement straining each muscle fiber until I simply gritted my teeth and stood. The floor reeled for a moment and then slowed, soothing to a complete halt. Beyond the casement, Iris sat cross-legged in a froth sea of chamomile with a giant fluff of fur on her lap. The fluff twitched as a tiny comb glided smoothly through the long nutmeg-hued hair, pausing when two slender ears suddenly perked.

“Hush, hush,” Irirs chirped to the giant rabbit, quickly stroking the long with her fore finger while her other hand continued combing. “Soon we will be done and I sing you a sing b