I read, therefore, I review

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Posted on February 21, 2013

I love to read. I don’t make as much time for it as I would like because I am consumed with writing, but when I do ignore the incongruously fueled ideas that seep into my conscious hours I love to immerse myself in the written expression of others as consumed as I am by words. I have been fortunate to meet many talented writers and genuinely nice people on this blog site. And I also consider myself lucky to have read some of their published works. I have written my amateur reviews on Amazon and wanted to share them with you in hopes that you would read the books written by these truly talented people.

The Gods of Asphalt by H.E. Ellis – I didn’t want to put it down

Engaging from beginning to end, The Gods of Asphalt takes us on a journey of emotion and growth. Sawyer and River, two brothers with a far from normal childhood, struggle with their past and find a way to define themselves through Ellis’ depiction of teenage angst and growing pains.

Their relationship with each other, their family and their peers is written with such honesty and tension that the pages seem to turn themselves as you are wrapped into the weave of their lives. Within their turmoil we are given true insight into their characters and find something compelling in each of them. Ellis writes with such realism that the book takes on a life of its own. She gives depth to not only the main characters, but to each of the ensemble that support Sawyer and River on their adventure.

The Gods of Asphalt is the first in a series and this foray into the family dynamic puts the spotlight on Sawyer. His journey to finally break free of his past and live a life that is defined only by him is an endearing story and one that will have you strapping into your seat as you ride along on his roller coaster.

I would recommend setting aside several hours if you start this book because you won’t be able to put it down. Go here for more information on H.E. Ellis and her books.

Scenes From A Hundred Morning Drives by Edward Hotspur – Who knew driving to work could be so funny

One hundred morning drives and one hundreds reasons to read this book. From funny to thought-provoking, Edward Hotspur takes us on his journey to work and on an adventure through the workings of his mind. It ranges from hilarious to emotionally charged and never disappoints.

Scenes From A Hundred Morning Drives makes you wish you were the co-pilot in the vehicle that drove this book. It is a collection of blog posts that transforms into a day-to-day account of the life of real person that describes real feelings and hilarious observations of the casualties of the human experience.

It is humor, wrapped in honesty, wrapped in reality and then wrapped in bubble wrap for safety. If you like to laugh at life and find some deeper meaning hidden in the text, put on your seat belt and get ready for a hundred morning drives. Click here to find out more about Mr. Hotspur.

The Eleventh Question by Dianne Gray – Emotional attachment to the characters

Author Dianne Gray truly knows how to get to the real essence of her characters. I was immediately drawn into this book and had trouble putting it down.

Although worlds apart, Dianne weaves a connection between a girl struggling to define her reasons for being and Seer trying desperately to help her find the answers to her questions. The book seamlessly transitions from one perspective to the other and intertwines helplessness with hope.

The Eleventh Question not only engages us in the journey of the characters but makes us reflect on the signs that life presents. It delves into the deeper meaning of intuition and gives us hope that nobody is ever truly alone. It is an uplifting story of survival and success against all odds. For more information about Dianne Gray and the other books she has written, click here.

Dead lines

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Posted on February 16, 2013

Today’s Daily Prompt – Write about anything you’d like. Somewhere in your post, include the sentence, “I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock.”

(image courtesy of Google)

The computer screen projected phosphorescent beams of light coating the room in an eerie glow. It had a macabre essence to it but nothing helped to pique my keen sense of the unusual. The walls in the tiny room inched closer to me with every passing second and the absence of any natural light in the small window signaled that the clock read 9:00 pm. I could have sworn it was still morning.

The cursor continued to flash on the screen and only served to remind me that time was ticking. Each flash represented another second gone by with no words to add to the 100,000 needed to finish the project. Being a ghost writer was one thing, being a dead writer was the threat that gnawed on my consciousness. The shackles around my ankles didn’t allow for the normal freedom of movement I needed to change my perspective and allow the creativity to flow. It was a race against time and I was losing the race.

The only way I could keep track of my time spent in this tomb was to count the number of fast food bags that had been delivered to keep me nourished. The remnants of congealed grease and faux-beef were piled in the corner and the stench was nauseating. I had been here for six days. Watching the cursor was hypnotic and the repetition lulled me into sleep.

I awoke in a panic and the clock on the wall slowly swam into focus. It was 3:00 am. I had a mere five hours to creatively articulate his vision and another 40,000 words to write to meet his deadline. The computer woke much faster than I did and I feverishly began to type the words that had followed me from my dream into reality. The word count rose at a rapid pace. There was no time for editing, no time to read anything back to see how the story flowed. I was writing for my life at this point, I don’t think a misplaced comma truly mattered in the grand scheme of my situation. My bladder argued vehemently and I ignored it. That was the least of my worries.

Light slowly filtered through the small window and I checked the word count – 85,400. I was close. I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock. I had failed. Somewhere at the beginning of this torture, I knew it wouldn’t end well. Many times during my captivity I had wished for a self-destruct button on the computer, or that one little pill that would end it on my terms, but dreams and reality rarely ever meet.

The door opened and light stabbed the floor in jagged patterns. The man responsible for my disgusting diet over the last week hovered over the computer screen to assess my progress. I knew what was coming as he stepped back shaking his head. I had been preparing myself for death for the last seven days. I never even heard the shot.

Read these other entries:

Stolen Moments

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Posted on February 10, 2013

This is another story written for Edward Hotspur’s Romantic Monday.

The first thing that struck her when she saw him was the depth of blue in his eyes. She swam in the ocean of color before she was able to say hello and when she finally collected herself it seemed awkward, but only for a moment. His smile and wit quickly reminded her what it was about him that had attracted her in the first place. The embrace was slight but his kiss sent a shock through her system and she blushed.

Dinner began with a barrage of laughter and good friends talking about years gone by. They stole a few glances at each other when they thought nobody would notice – his wink melted her. She had expected nothing to happen since he had left his commitments behind, but only for a few precious days. After dinner ended and the laughter subsided, the house fell silent. She lay in her bed thinking about him, thinking about the time they had spent together in the past, in what felt like a different lifetime. The tenderness and passion that seemed so natural between them lurked in her thoughts and danced like visions behind her eyelids. She could still feel his breath on her body from those moments long ago.

The noise in the other room pulled her from her reverie. She stole towards the distraction and saw him alone on the couch. Tentatively she approached and was greeted with a warm smile and an invitation to join him. His embrace was as she had remembered it so many times and she pulled herself closer into him. His arm wrapped around her and she stroked the hair on his chest. The moment was idyllic. No words were exchanged and none needed to be as they rose from the couch and he led her into the bedroom. She lay on her stomach and he gently began to massage her shoulders. His touch was electric and, yet, the softest touch she had ever felt.

Although still partially draped in clothing, their bodies began to move together. She felt the heat from his breath before his lips touched her back. His kiss was soft and sweet and she gasped in anticipation of having his mouth on hers. She arched her back and turned to meet his lips. Time stood still in those moments and they lost themselves in each other, he feeling her emotion and she feeling his pain. They both knew this shouldn’t be happening but neither of them had the will to stop. Their bodies moved rhythmically together and eventually they lay spent in each other’s arms, lost in the moment, lost in their thoughts. He was the first to move and, as much as she hated it, she knew she should be back in her own room. Nobody else could know the extent of their relationship. Nobody could know of the passion so deep and so strong that it threatened to swallow her every time she saw him. He laid in bed with his eyes closed. She leaned over and slowly let her lips trace the curve of his. With a gentle whispered goodnight, she left him and closed the door.

The next morning, there was no awkwardness, only longing. She wanted to embrace him, but would have to settle for a hidden trace of his finger along her arm. He winked and her heart warmed. One by one their friends emerged from behind different doors, coffee was poured and the day was planned. She sat with the group at the table, staying as close to him as possible and she longed to touch him.

After a day of great adventures, darkness descended, stars filled the sky and the wine flowed freely. Conversations and laughter were caught on the breeze and carried infectiously around the lake. Although the rest of the group had gathered by the fire, only four of them stayed by the edge of the water staring wordlessly into the night sky. Dusk had long descended and the darkness enveloped them, but she could feel his stare. Neither of them spoke as the group made their way back from the lake. The flashlight beamed in front of them but they held back behind the other two by a few precious feet. In the darkness she felt his hand reaching for hers. Their hands clasped with such ferocity she thought she might lose feeling in her fingers but she wasn’t letting go. Light filtered onto the path ahead of them signaling the closeness of the cottage and their hands reluctantly parted. Their friends took chairs by the fire and he headed towards the cottage, his eyes asking her to follow. She found him in his room and curled up beside him.

His lips met hers in the dark. Sweet, tender kisses were shared, his embrace was comforting and everything about being with him just felt right. If only things could be different. If only these stolen moments weren’t the thoughts in her head every day knowing he would never be hers.

Forever – A Romantic Monday Post

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Posted on February 3, 2013

She sat with her knees drawn to her chest watching the setting sun reflecting on the water. As day gave way to dusk, the horizon hungrily devoured the sun leaving behind a mélange of blood-red and fire-orange dripping onto the waves. His arms were wrapped around her and she could hear his breathing, rhythmic and calming as he lowered his chin to her shoulder. The waves eagerly lapped at the rocky shoreline, undulating their anchored kayaks with each ripple.

She let her head fall back onto him and inhaled deeply, savoring the pungent aroma of the smoke from the fire and letting it permeate her nostrils. He kissed her shoulder and got up from behind her. The moon had snuck up on the treeline and had begun to immerse itself in the night sky. The rock was illuminated by its brilliance and she turned to see where he had gone. He stood stoking the fire and she watched the sparks as they circled his body. She rolled onto her stomach, gazed at his face in the fire light and thought about how he enriched her life. She couldn’t imagine being without him and if time stood still, this would be the moment she would choose to freeze.

He laid down beside her and she curled into him. The wind tickled them as it playfully seduced their skin. The sounds of the night had returned to serenade them and the damp smell of the campfire continued to saturate the air. She could hear the waves teasing the shoreline, the amplified song of the frogs rippling in on the breeze and their boats harmoniously lapping at the water. She lifted her head and found him staring up at the night sky. Following his gaze, she become aware of the stars that had appeared in clusters and were dancing among the surging patches of Northern Lights. They lay in each other’s embrace, lulled by the sounds of nature and gently soothed by the luminescence of the sky. As the waning glow of the fire cast small shadows around them he reached behind him, pulling a blanket to cover them and she nestled deeper into his arms.

The moon continued its voyage through the sea of Northern Lights and they lay in silence, cloaked in each other’s embrace. She felt his lips on her forehead just as he slid the ring onto her finger. No words needed to be spoken. She lifted her head from his chest and he watched the single tear trace the curve of her cheek. She would be his forever.

Another post inspired by Edward Hotspur’s Romantic Monday.

One Day – Weekly Challenge

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Posted on January 29, 2013

This story was written for the Weekly Challenge based on the photo below.

Photo courtesy of Cheri Lucas.

One day someone will walk into your life and make you realize why it never worked out with anyone else. The small plaque etched with those words seemed to burn the phrase into her hand. She read the words repeatedly as if creating the mantra in her head. Her thumb continually grazed over the profoundly meaningful sentence.

With her culinary degree in one hand and a collection of personal items she had kept at the school in her other hand, Audrey stepped into the street car for the last ride back to her flat. She marveled at the warmth of the day as she watched the now familiar buildings pass by her window. Studying in a foreign country had been a daunting task, but one she threw herself into with great passion.

The street car wove its way along the tracks, stopping precisely on time at each stop. He entered the car, lost in a sea of tourists, so she didn’t notice him immediately. The group’s constant chatter seemed to rise and fall like a wave throughout the car, drowning all other sounds as they excitedly took in the sights.

Moments after the car had continued its journey, his voice rose above the tumult of the excited tour group and she caught brief strains of the song he was absent-mindedly singing aloud. He was completely absorbed in his newspaper, his head phones drowning out the cacophony of the outside world, but she could decipher lines from the song Foolish Heart by Steve Perry. Although his song choice came as a surprise to her, the words fell gently on her ears and she leaned into his melody, closing her eyes to focus only on the sound of his voice.

The street car stopped and her eyes fluttered open. Any noise in the street car had been extinguished and she felt his gaze on her before she looked up to meet his stare. No words were spoken. She smiled demurely and lowered her head slightly, embarrassed to be so caught up in his gaze. The words of the song found her ears again and he continued to serenade her on the street car. She met his eyes once more and they remained locked on each other until he finished the song.

The feeling of floating was interrupted as the ride seemed to come to an abrupt stop and the tour group exited the car. He looked longingly at her, smiled and left the street car, paper in hand and humming another tune. The street car lurched forward, but she knew she couldn’t remain on the car and just let him walk away.

“Wait”, her voice penetrated the air and the street car stopped. She gathered her bag and her diploma and jumped onto the street. He had a head start, but she caught up to him and tapped his shoulder. He turned with a startled expression that warmed without hesitation when he realized it was her. Not a word was spoken as she fell into him. His arms circled around her and they stood motionless.

As the street car finally gained momentum up the hill, the plaque remained on the seat where she had been only moments ago. Someday, someone else would need to read those words, but her one day was today.

Trifecta challenge – Twisted Serendipity

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Posted on January 28, 2013

He had been standing in this exact place at least a thousand times. He could find the precise location by the position of the trees and rocks and he loved these hills for their privacy. He was always alone in this place. Wildlife took shelter when they saw him and birds would stop in mid-song when they sensed his presence. There was something unnatural about him. The animals felt it, and he knew it too. But he couldn’t stop himself. He knew eventually his tenacity would pay off.

She arrived in the late afternoon on a Tuesday. She didn’t look lost or scared and her camera hung loosely around her neck. She didn’t notice that not one creature was making a sound as she concentrated on her footing, careful not to fall in such a remote place. Had she been more aware of her surroundings, the silence would have been deafening.

She stood admiring the sun beginning its decent into the hills and took one step, two steps, inching closer to get that perfect picture. The mouth of the hole he spent hours carving opened and swallowed her into the earth. It was his moment of serendipity. His fortune, her accident.

He was pleased with himself. He would come and visit her tomorrow and he left the way he had come. The shrill song of the birds awoke her from unconsciousness and she let out a scream that nobody would hear.

This was written for the Trifecta challenge, which was this (and I think I have read too many Dean Koontz stories):

This week they are looking for stories or poems from 33 – 333 in length that feature the word: mouth. Not just any definition of the word will do though. Only the third definition shown below is accepted.

MOUTH

1a : the natural opening through which food passes into the body of an animal and which in vertebrates is typically bounded externally by the lips and internally by the pharynx and encloses the tongue, gums, and teeth
b : grimace <made a mouth>
c : an individual requiring food <had too many mouths to feed>
2a : voice, speech
b : mouthpiece
3: something that resembles a mouth especially in affording entrance or exit: as

a : the place where a stream enters a larger body of water

b : the surface opening of an underground cavity

c : the opening of a container

d : an opening in the side of an organ flue pipe

Daily Prompt – The Light Beyond The Glass

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Posted on January 5, 2013

Daily Prompt – Take the first sentence from your favorite book and make it the first sentence of your post. I took this line from Cold Fire, by Dean Koontz.

Even before the events in the supermarket, Jim Ironheart should have known trouble was coming. The gloomy weather was an overwhelming indication that the confines of his small apartment would be his only safe haven, but he was never one to let the voice of reason be his guide. He was a man, after all, and he would let no sinister feeling shape his mood or carve the path of his day. He prepared himself for the barrage of wind and rain and locked the door behind him.

The Supermarket, oddly named since it stood on a small corner and was the only store for miles, seemed to cast an eerie glow through the mottled grey light of the morning and he paused with his hand on the door. Something was waiting for him inside that store. He felt it as much as he felt his heart beginning to pick up the pace of its beat. He surveyed as much of the store as he could see beyond the shelving units that were home to his precious fast food addiction. After what seemed like an eternity, he couldn’t delay any longer without looking like he was casing the joint and as he pushed open the door the chimes signaled his entrance into the store.

The air was frigid. Not just air-conditioned, but Arctic cold. The exhalation of his breath hovered in front of his face and seemed to hang in the air long enough to form its own icicles. The place was deserted. Apart from the humming of the coolers, there was no sound. With slight trepidation, Jim made his way deeper into the store. It took several seconds before he realized his footsteps made no noise. There was no squeak of wet rubber on the tile floor and no audible proof that he had even moved at all. The incessant hum of the fridges seemed to increase in volume and pierced the silence like an arrow. Jim was now drawn to the back of the store. He needed to get to that fridge.

As he pulled open the door to the cooler, the world behind him went black. The ethereal luminescence emitted from the refrigerated section of the store was the only thing that seemed to exist. Jim turned slightly to look behind him and there was nothing. The store seemed to have been pulled into a giant vacuum and the only thing that existed within those four walls were Jim and the door he still grasped in his hand. The contents of the fridge no longer existed. Jim seemed to be standing on the divide between the blackness behind him and the white light of the cooler.

Jim stared at the light. He cautiously brought his free hand to the opening and found the courage to let his fingers be bathed in the warmth that the light was emitting. His fingers tingled in the light and he felt a joy that he didn’t know he had within him. He liked it. He wanted more. He stepped into the opening and the door closed behind him. He was awash in such a blissful feeling. He began to weep and as the saline from his tears saturated his cheeks he felt a sense of utter happiness. All the pent-up anger and disappointment were sluiced away by his tears and for the first time in his life he felt blessed.

The alarm clock blared and Jim was startled awake. The modest decor in his apartment swam into focus and Jim realized he had been dreaming. He swung his feet out of bed and sat up, wiping the cobwebs of the dream from his head. As he rubbed his eyes, he felt the dampness from his tears and noticed that his pillow was wet. As he struggled to recall the fragments of his dream, he began to smile. The smile became wider and, for the first time in a long time, he was happy to greet the morning. Jim carried that feeling of joy with him for a long time after that experience and realized that the name “super market” was a gross understatement.

Once upon a time

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Posted on January 1, 2013

I developed my love for the vernacular at an early age. Reading was a fun pastime for me and I treasure my very young memories of spending hours with my nose in the book – The Poky Little Puppy. After my parents had read it to me at least a thousand times, I then regaled myself with that tale ad nauseam. Even now, I recall the story with such great fondness. That series of children’s books certainly lived up to the name aptly given to them – Little Golden Books.

The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein, is another book that will always hold a very special place in my heart. The message it conveyed is still embedded deeply in my childhood memories and is carried with me today.

As I got older, chapter books grabbed my attention and would not let go. I was swept into a miraculous sea of imagination and wonder. Oh, the places I could venture! Judy Blume was my absolute hero as I matured into my teen years. Akin to how I feel about Dean Koontz today, she spun tales that I would read until my eyes felt like they were bleeding. I read everything she put to paper and when I was finished her collection, I started over again.

Roald Dahl was another master of vocabulary and he spun tales that kept me enthralled into the wee hours of the night. A hidden flashlight and a phony admission to my mother that I would go to bed resulted in me hiding under the covers to lose myself in the pages for just a while longer. Stories were a magical place where dream-like creatures came to life and the stagnant brain of a child was immersed in possibility. C.S. Lewis had me wishing that, while I slept, my closet would transform into a portal that led to Narnia.

With all of the cherished memories I obtained by reading, I was overjoyed to share that magic with the next generation. I absolutely loved to read to my ex’s three children and, like Mrs. Doubtfire, I used different voices for each of the characters. We would take turns reading Harry Potter and each one of us wished that bedtime was just a little further away. Years later, reading to my nephews allowed their extended bed time to be filled with countless stories from an abundance of characters. How could I say no when they excitedly asked me to read more fables of magical creatures?

I was rather inspired to write this post after attending one of my nephew’s recent hockey games. Every child that was not on the ice had their hands eagerly wrapped around some electronic device that sputtered out mechanical noises from the latest game they were playing. Wouldn’t it be great to see a child with a book in their hands, consumed by words and ensconced in imagination instead of killing zombies or launching Angry Birds? I will admit, I’ve spent my share of time launching those same Angry Birds, but I still, and will always, put words ahead of birds!!

Do you read with the children in your lives?

Weekly writing challenge – A picture is worth 1000 words

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Posted on November 7, 2012

It seemed perfectly innocent. They were freshly bathed, well dressed, almost too well dressed for a Tuesday morning had I thought about it, and they both presented themselves with an intelligence far beyond their years. Their mother seemed embarrassed when they both ran to me, each clutching one of my hands in their tiny grips. Neither of them seemed afraid, nor did they show much emotion at all, and for a moment we just stood, unmoving, holding hands as if this were a natural occurrence.

Perplexed and without knowing how to react, I looked to their mother for some guidance. Although trying to maintain her poise, she seemed distant and somewhat aloof. When she finally regained her composure, she smoothed her dress, approached the three of us and complimented me on my suit. The children remained reticent as the idle banter of adults hovered like cartoon balloons above their heads, but their grips never wavered.

She asked if I would like a coffee, so we walked a few blocks, sharing idle conversation, the children never losing their hold on my hands. There were no introductions made, so my comments were relegated to generalities. She was referred to as ‘little girl’ and he was called ‘strapping lad’. They seemed content with these monikers and never once did they volunteer their birth names.

When the little girl finally spoke, her voice was so hushed it was almost impossible to hear over the din of the crowd. “My dad died. You look like him.” My heart seemed to quiver in my chest and I felt it break into a thousand shards. I wanted to let go of the boy’s hand and hug her. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but his grip remained firm so all I could do was squeeze her hand and give her a wink.

I had been so distracted by the children that I hadn’t noticed the row of houses instead of the coffee shops I had anticipated. The children had stopped in front of a brick facade and, with their stoned expressions, they turned to face their mother. The camera recorded that moment before I had a chance to react.

With their grips remaining firm, the children guided me up the stairs towards the house. The mother had managed to beat me to the door and fumbled to get the key into the lock. The hinges on the door vehemently disagreed with being opened and argued every inch of the way. Once inside the house, the children released their grip on my hands and stood together, an immovable fortress blocking the way back to the door.

As my eyes adjusted to the lack of daylight, the row of pictures in the foyer began to materialize. Each photo, almost an exact replica of what I suspected the picture would look like that was just taken outside. Although the little girl and the strapping lad were in different colored apparel, the photo would have been an exact replica. My heart rate increased. When the strapping lad finally spoke, my blood turned to ice. “Welcome home, daddy.”

As the words ‘I’m not your daddy’ tumbled from my lips, I felt a dull crack at the base of my skull. It would be the last thing I ever felt.

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polysyllabic profundities

Random thoughts with sporadically profound meaning

Category Archives: fiction