Candy Crone is a Christmas Short Story standalone in the bestselling Hawthorne University Witch Series.
Candy Crone
The Hawthorne University Witch Series Book 8
By A.L. Hawke
Genre: Paranormal Holiday Fantasy
Candy Crone is a Christmas Short Story standalone following Shadow Cast in the Hawthorne University Witch Series.
While I’m enjoying a spicy caramel apple surprise at our local ice cream parlor, an old lady in rags rambles nonsense about candy canes to children waiting for Santa.
That distracts me from prepping my young friend Cat for her college interview at Hawthorne University.
Christmas turns into creepy Halloween when all the local children, including Cat, disappear in the woods.
Bryce and I search our forest but become spellbound. All this voracious casting heralds the arrival of a new witch in town. The Candy Crone.
As the Hawthorne Witch, I hold great power, but with my unborn baby kicking, the witch exploits my sins and vices through gluttony.
Am I nothing more than my appetites and power as the Hawthorne Witch? Or can I accomplish something greater? If I can’t sort my stuff out, Cat, my unborn baby, Chandra, and all these innocent kids living in Hawthorne are toast.
Cadence Hawthorne returns in this Christmas novella taking place after Shadow Cast, book 6, in The Hawthorne University Witch Series. Candy Crone is a complete self-contained novella not ending in cliffhangers. Some spoilers cannot be avoided, but the story is a STANDALONE book that can be enjoyed without reading the preceding novels.
Bryce and I spin around in the direction of the shouting. That was Cat’s voice!I’m forced to squint as the sun’s rays open again through a gap in the trees. But then Cat stops crying for help.
Light shines over our dirt path, winding through the trees, and I see more breadcrumbs strewn along the ground. I don’t follow the path.
Instead, I walk off the trail and start gathering large fallen branches in the bushes. I pile the thickest ones and start forming a five-pointed star.
“What are you doing, Katie?” Bryce asks.
“I don’t know. I remember doing this in my dream. All this happened before, in the dream…or…I foresaw it happening. You and I first spotted breadcrumbs. So I built this sigil as a signal and as a refuge during the nightmare. I think the headmaster’s right, this witch is very powerful. She, or whoever’s possessing her, is attacking us with powerful magic. I feel like I have to build this circle for protection.”
And I drag another stick along the ice, forming a circle surrounding my pentagram. Then I gesture at my work.
Bryce nods, but then he freaks me out when he covers his eyes, squinting over my left shoulder.
Turning in the direction of his gaze, I see a bright golden glow. The light is heralding a small cottage among the trees.
The breadcrumb trail ends at a walkway surrounding the cottage, which has two windows with shutters and a chimney. It’s as if the cottage has always been there, hidden in the woods.
Two large red poles with white stripes by the entrance appear to be the size of people. They look like huge peppermint candy canes. And beside the peppermint sticks, in the snow, are two gingerbread-like statues about half my height.
The top of one of the peppermint sticks forms the outline of a girl’s face. But her expression is frozen, motionless, like a statue. An icy pathway of shiny red and green candy tiles leads to the front door.
The door and the shutters are composed of a brown cake-like substance. Gingerbread? White patches on the walls form a thick plaster. On the plaster brush marks stick out in sections, reminding me of frosting.
Soft red and green gems embedded in the white plaster, covered in crystalized sugar kernels, reflect the golden sunlight.
Gumdrops or sugar plums. Chocolatey-brown drippings fall from the rooftops, draining into chocolate pools. And the roof is made of a cinnamon red candy–like surface.
We walk slowly along the candy path. Bryce runs a finger along the white plaster beside the door. It’s not solid, and it’s not plaster, it’s like a thick white goo.
“Frosting?” Bryce asks me with a nervous chuckle.
I nod and run my finger along the wall too. I bring the goo to my nose. It smells so sweet and delicious.
“This has to stop,” snaps Bryce. “This sick witch is controlling us like in a fairy tale. And . . . I feel drowsy, as if I’m dreaming, Kate. I think she’s putting a spell on us.”
How can she not be? We’re standing in front of a gingerbread house.
I nab a large crystalized green gumdrop the size of my palm, stuck to the white frosting, and bite into it. It tastes so good! It’s soft, full of granules of sugar, with a wonderful tangy sweet lime. And the best part is the consistency. The gob sticks in my mouth like chewing gum.
“Cadence, what are you doing!”
He tries to snatch it from my fingers, but I pull it away. I don’t know why I’m eating it, but I am. It’s like I’m compelled to eat it. But it tastes sooo good. I don’t know how Bryce is stopping himself. I’m so hungry.
“It tastes really good, Bryce,” I say with my mouth full. “Wow. You should try some.” Then I dip it in some of the wall plaster and offer him some. “Try it, babe. Just take a bite.”
“Growly, growler. Growly, growler.”
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A young prince begins his quest for purpose in this epic first installment in the War of Fear Historical Fiction Trilogy
Eye of the Nomad
War of Fear Book 1
by Umberto Nardolicci
Genre: Historical Fiction
#1 New Release in Historical Asian Fiction
Based on actual events surrounding Genghis Khan’s death squad of special operators, known as The Mangoday, this historic saga immerses the reader in a spellbinding tale of life, love, and revenge that will leave you breathless…
Book I, Eye of the Nomad, so begins the legend of Yasotay, a gifted young prince whose search for purpose takes a dramatic turn saving an illiterate nomad from captivity. He embarks on a hero’s journey far from home to learn the true meaning of life. Murder, kidnapping, and revenge soon find Yasotay in a thrilling race against time to save someone he loves from a fate worse than death.
Author Umberto Nardolicci takes the reader to the 12th-century Eurasian Steppe in this heart-pounding tale of adventure.
What readers are saying:
“A superbly written and researched tale of high adventure and deeply felt family and tribal ties.”
-Goodreads Reviewer
“Have an interest in historical fiction? War of Fear is a must-read… The character development and portrayal of the times in which the characters lived make for an exciting and wondrous read. The stage is set, the anticipation palpable; I am very much looking forward to reading the next book in the series.” – Goodreads Reviewer
“This book truly kept me on my toes. The writing was so vivid and descriptive that I felt like I was physically present in each scene.” – Amazon Reviewer
“Eye of the Nomad is a riveting story that will keep you hooked from its beginning through to the last page. The story not only offers intrigue, heroism and passion, it also presents an incredible history lesson into one of the most mystifying and exciting periods of human existence.” – Goodreads Reviewer
Feet spread shoulder-length apart, Emperor Shizong, dark-haired and clean-cut, peered down at the ornate stick in the grip of his delicate, privileged hands.
“I am intrigued by this…this child and his potential,” proclaimed Shizong, appearing relaxed and focused on playing his game of chuiwan.
The eyes of the sixty or so guests in attendance were glued to the emperor’s every move. The tip of Shizong’s tongue slightly protruded from the left corner of his mouth as he concentrated on aligning the f at end of his stick with the wooden ball at his feet.
He was comfortable performing in front of a crowd. His next move was to strike the ball toward the hole in the lawn, two-and-a-half paces away, all the while trying to converse with Master Chang, which was proving to be a challenge for the priest.
“It’s all very interesting, my emperor,” responded Chang, mildly irritated by the lapses in their conversation. This silly game is a distraction; why did he call me here? “My emperor, I am still unsure how you see this child relating to our efforts?”
Chang’s formal, deep-red daopao robes, tied at his lean waist by a black dadai belt, and his simple black hat topped with a round, silver pin made him appear positively priestly.
Chang was shadowed by his watchful and silent lead assistant, Master Gao, who was nearly identical in appearance and stance. The priest maintained a respectful tone and a pleasing smile with the emperor, but the beleaguered look on his usually kind face betrayed his frustration.
“He’s an amazing young man,” said Shizong. Noticing Chang’s irritation, a wry smile formed on the emperor’s face, whose prickly whiskers ran around his mouth and down to his chin.
He mumbled something as if he were talking to himself. Focusing on the immediate challenge, he lightly struck the ball with his jewel-encrusted stick. The perfectly round wooden ball, not much bigger than a walnut, rolled toward the hole in the lawn six chi away.
The eyes of everyone in attendance were fixated on the ball as it moved across the well-manicured grass toward the impeccably cut round hole, measuring just under a half chi in diameter and depth.
“Go…IN…,” playfully exclaimed the emperor. A smile spread from his pursed lips into a broad grin as the ball approached the hole. The emperor quickly stepped forward in unison as the ball spilled into the hole, making a hollow, cavernous noise as it hit the bottom of the wooden cup.
Light applause erupted in the south garden from the guests gathered to watch their emperor play chuiwan with the elegant Lady Shimo. Only those in his favor were allowed the privilege of observing today’s game in the blistering sun.
The midday shadows sheltered small portions of the south garden, giving shade to just a fortunate few. Today’s parade of gentry, arrayed in their colorful hanfu, comprised almost all the fashionable elite of the 12th-century Jin Empire.
“I think he’s adorable,” purred Lady Shimo, the emperor’s kittenish courtesan whose floral-red, exquisitely designed hanfu hung down in the back, making her look as if she had a tail.
“I asked him about the Buddha, and his answer was, was…precious.” Then, the pretty paramour, whose apple-red cheeks and plump round bottom had won the emperor’s favor, brought her stick back and struck her ball toward the same hole.
“See, I think the fair lady is infatuated with the young boy, and I think you will be too, Chang,” said the emperor as he admired Lady Shimo’s sultry body move sprightly with the roll of her ball directly into the hole at his feet.
“Nice shot!” exclaimed the emperor with a playful grin that showed his pearly white teeth. All those in attendance, while subdued, did show their appreciation with nods, hand gestures, and verbal displays of approval.
“You will see, Master Chang, you will see!” chided the emperor as he retrieved his ball from the hole. “Have you ever played chuiwan?” he asked the priest. “It originated hundreds of years ago; I think it was called buda in the Tang Dynasty…it’s great fun!”
“I look forward to meeting him, my Emperor,” replied the venerated Master Chang, who was one of the North’s seven most respected and venerated Taoist priests. As a disciple of the most revered Master Wang Chong, he was no ordinary priest. “And no, my Emperor, I have never had the pleasure of playing chuiwan.”
“That’s three hits for you and four for me, Wulu. You always win,” Lady Shimo teased in a playful voice. Hearing her use his intimate name, never used in public, made his cheeks flush just a little.
The emperor handed his ornate stick to one of the eunuch assistants among the crowd of those waiting to serve him. Eunuchs attended to his every need, from consoling him on military machinations to wiping his nether region. They were a valued commodity within the imperial palace.
“Oh, here he is now!” exclaimed Lady Shimo loudly, her baby face bubbling and body bouncing while she excitedly clapped her hands in a light and rapid fashion.
Princess Jia and her son Yasotay entered the sun-soaked south lawn through the Moon Gate, a large circular opening in the garden wall covered in tangled green vines and adorned with hundreds of little white flowers.
It was one of the main entrances to the emperor’s residence. A woman, who appeared to be somewhat older than the princess, followed two paces behind the pair, a governess to the young boy.
Princess Jia was radiant in her flowing, floor-length, deep royal blue silk hanfu. The gold-colored piping around its edges matched the intricately folded gold sash around her middle.
Her delicate footwear, also gold with royal blue stitching, rounded out the stunning and well-planned presentation of the twenty-year-old princess as she walked through the Moon Gate. With every intricate detail of her beautiful face, thin lips, large brown eyes, and attire fashioned
to present a very delicate, refined, and contrived look, her natural beauty was almost obscured.
“Princess Jia and young Yasotay, I would like to introduce you to Master Chang,” said the emperor.
“It is my pleasure to meet you, Princess Jia, and certainly you, young Yasotay!” greeted Chang. “I have already heard so much about you.”
While he deeply bowed, a small pair of round hazel eyes, those of the five-year-old child’s, calmly held Chang’s gaze.
The child’s face had been dusted with a thin coat of white powder, making his eyes and their startling hazel hue stand out.
Dressed in a plain cream tunic with a blood-red sash around his middle to match his silk trousers, the young boy responded, “It is also an honor to meet you, Master Chang.”
Princess Jia, reflexively fussing with and straightening the bottom of Yasotay’s jacket, noticed the prized dragon figurine held tightly in the boy’s hand.
Princess Jia hissed and whispered in an aggravated tone, “Yasotay, give me that.” The green figurine seemed enormous compared to his tiny hands. The boy refused, tightened his hold, and looked to his governess instead.
Mana held out her hand and smiled kindly at him with warm eyes, and Yasotay handed the dragon over. Chang looked on at this exchange and smiled.
“Good, now we’ll show what this young boy can do. Let’s see,” the emperor paused, thinking, “What can I ask him?”
Cupping the palm of his hand under his chin with his fingers on his cheek, he was thinking intently, getting straight to the task at hand.
Yasotay looked to Mana, and she responded with a slight affirmative nod and another warm, encouraging smile. The young man turned his attention back to the emperor and Master Chang.
“I have one,” proclaimed the emperor to Master Chang. “I have a question for young Yasotay, which will honor you and your interest in ethical matters.”
Chang bowed in appreciation. Ten, the emperor looked directly at Yasotay and said, “I would like you to recite section seventy-four of the Tao Te Ching.”
“Stand up straight and answer the question!” ordered Princess Jia to her son, who was already standing perfectly straight.
Yasotay took one small step forward and began to speak, “If men are not afraid to die, it is of no avail to threaten them with death. If men constantly fear dying, and breaking the law means a man will be killed, who will dare break the law? The official executioner kills. Substituting him is like substituting the master carpenter who carves; you can do so, but one rarely escapes harm.”
“Very well said. Well done, young man!” responded Chang with a broad smile, mildly surprised that this child, whose appearance and doll-like performance conjured thoughts of a trained monkey, could articulate so clearly from the great works of Master Lao Tzu.
“But do you know what it means?” asked Chang in a jocular tone bordering on sarcasm.
“All creatures fear death,” said Yasotay matter-of-factly. “Master Lao knows that each of us fghts our own internal war of fear. Once cornered by death, both man and beast do but one of two things: fight with fury or cower in fear!”
The young man paused for a moment in thought. “Plagues, wars, and famine make death a daily reminder; people lose faith…they cower.
Master Lao was speaking to those in authority, those leaders who choose to kill deviants, and others who disobey the law.
Leaders must be careful not to create too much fear within those they lead, lest they become immune to death as a deterrent, which makes them more inclined to strike out in response.
Teir yearning for a supreme god and the hope for something or someplace better renews faith! Therefore, the belief in a god is both useful and difficult when managing the affairs of state.”
His young voice changed tempo when he expressed the afterthought, “The closing point, referencing the master carpenter and the executioner, merely argues that those trained and conditioned for killing are best kept to their calling.”
Chang’s long, clean-shaven face began to change color, turning visibly red. His visions of a trained monkey were long gone. Not sure what to say, mouth gaping wide, totally surprised, he instinctively responded, “Yes, well, I agree, interesting, and thank you for that!”
“He’s a bit of a know-it-all,” proclaimed the emperor, breaking up the awkward moment. “But I believe that if you are building this library of all known knowledge, as you put it, to discover some supreme singular…”
“My Emperor!” interrupted Chang, speaking over him. One of the eunuchs drew his breath in loudly at this breach of protocol. No one ever interrupts the emperor.
“Yes, I know, Chang, secrecy and all, but someone like young Yasotay here could be a valuable addition to our efforts.” The emperor did the signature twirl of his chin whiskers with the side of his left index finger.
“Your staff seems less than satisfactory for this effort! Have you considered bringing on others?” asked the emperor, giving Yasotay an affectionate pat on the back while extending a dubious glance at the less-than-satisfactory Gao.
The emperor’s slight was received loud and clear by Chang’s principal assistant, who just stood there, silently observing their interactions. His teal-colored daopao, typical Taoist attire, was aged and slightly faded but with perfect folds and creases.
“Yes, Emperor, I understand your point,” said Chang with a nod, not actually comprehending the point or even thinking about an answer. Still, the bewildered look on his face revealed much. Chang was struggling to understand what he had just witnessed with this child.
“He is still too young,” said Princess Jia hesitantly. “The emperor must be talking about once he is of age for such things.”
“Yes, obviously, Jia, I’m not looking to pull the baby from the breast,” the emperor conceded.
After expressing an odd look of surprise and confusion with his brow furrowed, he continued, “It seems that for now, Master Chang will have to rely on understudies who are hopefully smart enough to understand what we are handsomely paying to collect.”
Then, as an additional intentional insult, the emperor mocked Chang, whispering, “…and, more importantly, for what purpose we labor.”
“How old is he, four or five?” asked Chang incredulously.
“He was five just two weeks ago,” said Princess Jia.
“Five years old!” Chang hesitated for a moment to bring his emotions under control. “Young Yasotay is many years away, and I would certainly welcome him when the time comes, Emperor…I deeply apologize for any misunderstanding.”
Chang’s long face softened. “But if there is nothing further, I must take my leave.” Chang bowed deeply and awaited the emperor’s dismissal.
The emperor feigned a nod of assent and quickly turned away, which told the priest, You are fine, leave. Chang bowed for the last time toward Princess Jia and Yasotay.
Then, giving the boy one long, last look, he slipped out quietly with his shadow, Gao, trailing closely behind.
“I had heard of this child, but I wasn’t expecting THAT,” whispered Gao to Chang, dumbfounded, as they walked quickly through the Moon Gate and out of earshot from the gathering.
“What was that?” Chang exclaimed in a low, exasperated tone, seemingly speaking to himself. “That child spoke as if he possessed the intellect of an ageless master! His tone and the confidence in his voice sounded more like those of a very mature and learned person!”
“Who is he?” asked Gao, whose low tone and mannerisms seemed to replicate Chang’s, just in a younger version.
“He is the second cousin to the emperor, Princess Jia being the emperor’s first cousin.”
“Who is his father?” asked Gao, “that child looks different!”
“I don’t know.” Chang’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Princess Jia’s husband died soon after she was wed. All I know is she left Zhongdu for the port city of Pingzhou after her husband’s death and returned a year later with his child.”
“His facial features look a little odd,” added Gao, “he almost looks foreign.”
Chang ignored this comment. “That had to be some sort of trick,” mused Chang out loud. “I could swear I’ve read a similar opinion of Master Lao’s work.”
“Are you saying he memorized some obscure commentary on section seventy-four of the Tao Te Ching?” asked Gao. “Who would do that?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying. Maybe the emperor gave him the question in advance,” said Chang.
The priest hesitated momentarily, then continued, “Gao, I want you to talk to our friends and find out as much as you can about this child prodigy. Who his father is, his history, everything.”
“Yes, Master Chang, I will attend to it!”
“What of the emperor breaking protocol and mentioning our project in public?” asked Gao.
“What of it?” replied Chang sharply. “He can tell what we do to everyone if he likes.”
“I don’t trust those around him! Tey latch on to him like parasites stealing crumbs from the sides of his mouth,” said Gao.
“Those fools know what we do, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything!”
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Born in upstate New York, Umberto Nardolicci is a computer engineer and businessman.
After completing service with the US Navy in 1986, he worked as an engineering consultant at Johns Hopkins University, Applied Physics Laboratory in the Advanced Systems Design Group.
He received his degree in Computer Science and Information Systems from the State University of New York (ESC) and, after some brief independent consulting “gigs,” co-founded Systems Made Simple (SMS) in 1991.
He managed daily operations and P&L responsibilities within SMS for 20 years as Chairman of the Board, President, and principal founder.
During his tenure, SMS evolved from a ‘garage startup’ to an industry-leading Federal Health IT Company with employees nationwide and over 350 million in sales.
SMS achieved INC 5000 honors six years running, with INC 500 honors in two of those years until its “Entrepreneurial American Dream” sale to Lockheed Martin in the Fall of 2014.
During his five-year forced sabbatical from Health IT, he focused his full-time efforts on writing War of Fear.
He put a great deal of research into this effort, which actually spans over 40 years, and began with his initial foray into martial arts and the teachings of Eastern philosophies.
Nardolicci is a disabled veteran, like his father and one of his two sons. He also has numerous relatives and friends who are veterans or currently serving in the military.
He is committed to supporting veteran organizations such as the Wound Warrior, Tunnels2Towers, Nardmoor, and the DAV.
Christmas comes but once a year; chaos never ends! Happy Halloween, merry Christmas and joyful Lumpy Rug Day. That’s real, by the way.
Lumpy Rug Day is celebrated every May 3, though “celebrated” might be too strong a word.
It’s the American way to create a celebration for everything, then turn it into a chore or worse, a nightmare.
’Tis the Season to Feel Inadequate is a collection of humorous essays about how we let our expectations steal the joy out of Christmas and other holidays and special events.
It’s understanding for those who think Christmas form letters can be honest—or they can be interesting.
And it’s empathy for anyone who’s ever gotten poison ivy during Nude Recreation Week or eaten all their Halloween candy and had to hand out instant oatmeal packets to their trick-or-treaters.
Excerpt:
Excerpt from Essay: The First Year of the Rest of Your Life
… I’ve studied the topic of New Year’s resolutions. And from my extensive research, I’ve gleaned the following tips for keeping them:
1.Write them down. The simple act of putting your resolutions on paper will make them seem more doable and make you feel more committed to them.
Also, if you fail you’ll have your list ready when it comes time to make resolutions next year.
2.Frame your resolutions in a positive way. For example, instead of saying “next year I will stop being a couch potato,” say “Next year, I will become a couch asparagus, which has fewer carbohydrates.”
3.Don’t let setbacks discourage you. If you fall off the wagon get right back in the saddle! Tomorrow’s another day. Never say die. Then next year resolve to stop using clichés.
4.Keep a journal of your progress. It could look something like this. January 1: I resolve to walk the dog daily.
This is going to be so fun! January 2: Spotty and I walked four blocks. We are bonding and getting fit at the same time!
Tomorrow we’ll do five. January 3: Spotty and I walked four blocks again. It’s okay once we’re walking but I hate getting up early. January 4: Spotty and I walked just two blocks today.
It’s so cold this time of year. January 5: I forgot to walk Spotty. January 6: Spotty isn’t my dog. We got him for the kids. Let them walk him.
Giveaway
The author will be awarding a $20 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner.
About The Author:
Dorothy Rosby is an author humor columnist whose work regularly appears in publications throughout the West and Midwest.
Her humor writing has been recognized by the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, the National Federation of Press Women and the South Dakota Newspaper Association.
In 2022 she was named the global winner in the Erma Bombeck Writers Competition in the humor writing category. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays.
The number one piece of advice I’d give new authors is to believe in yourself. You will get many rejections, and if you don’t I hate you. Not really!
What I meant to say is, if you don’t get rejections, you’re probably not submitting enough.
But as an author, you have to have an unshakeable belief that you’re good and getting better at what you do no matter who tells you otherwise.
You can pout now and then. You can even fall into despair for a day or so. But you can never give up.
But the “getting better” part of that statement is as important as the “belief that you’re good” part.
And maybe more important. Consider the comments or criticisms you get about your book. You can dismiss them if they have no merit. But you may be able to learn something from them.
Secondly, I’d say network. Of course, the most important thing you can do as a writer is to write. But if you want what you write to be read, there is so much to learn.
The members of a supportive writers group may have knowledge about your particular genre, marketing, publishing and the business of writing that you can draw on.
They also understand you and can support you in a way you’re nonwriting friends and family cannot.
Writers conferences provide learning opportunities in all of the topics I just mentioned.
Plus they give you the chance to meet agents and publishers as well as other writers who can partner with you down the road.
I’ve written book blurbs for many authors I met at conferences and others have done the same for me.
My work is included in anthologies published by writers I’ve met at conferences.
We buy each other’s books and write Amazon reviews of each other’s books. And we share knowledge and follow each other on social media.
Having said all of that, I have to add that it’s easy to spend a lot of time doing writing-related things that aren’t actually writing. It’s definitely a balance.
Echoing Chuck Palahniuk’s statement. “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known,” this collection explores identity.
These poems drift down rivers of old, using histories private and public and visit people that I love and loathe.
Through heroes and villains, music and cartoons, literature and comics, science and wonder, and shadow and light, each poem canals the various channels of self and invention.
As in the poem, “Credentials,” “I am a collage of memories and unicorn stickers…[by] those that have witnessed and been witnessed.”
Excerpt:
Refurbished
Susan taught me that poetic energy lies
between the lines, white noise scratching
and clawing between images, ideas,
things…
And like a poem,
the chair was molded by my Tio’s hands,
an antique wooden upholstered desk chair.
My Tio moved from Durango, Mexico
to Forth Worth in 1955.
He became a mason and wood worker.
He bricked the stockyards
He built the signs
He died in 2005.
Now,
matted. Worn. Faded floral design. Wood
scarred like healing flesh.
The arms torn, ratted by the heft of his arms
and the stress of the days. The foam peeks
out.
The brass upholstery tacks rusted. I count
1000 of them. With each,
I mallet a fork-tongue driver under its head.
A tap, tap, tapping until it sinks beneath the tack,
until the tack springs from its place.
I couldn’t help but think of a woodpecker.
A tap, tap, tapping into Post Oak,
a rhythm…each scrap of wood falling to the ground
until a home is formed.
Until each piece of wood like the tacks removed
shelter something new.
I remove the staples, the foam, the fabric,
the upholstery straps
until it’s bones.
I sand and stain
until its bones shine.
I layer and wrap its bones with upholstery straps,
foam, fabric, staples and tacks.
New tacks, Brass medallions
adorning the whole, but holding it
all together—
its bones
its memories,
its energy.
Giveaway
One randomly chosen winner via rafflecopter will win a $25 Amazon/BN.com gift card.
Donovan Hufnagle is a husband, a father of three, and a professor of English and Humanities.
He moved from Southern California to Prescott, Arizona to Fort Worth, Texas.
He has five poetry collections: These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them), Raw Flesh Flash: The Incomplete, Unfinished Documenting Of, The Sunshine Special, Shoebox, and 30 Days of 19.
Other recent writings have appeared in Tempered Runes Press, Solum Literary Press, Poetry Box, Beyond Words, Wingless Dreamer, Subprimal Poetry Art, Americana Popular Culture Magazine, Shufpoetry, Kitty Litter Press, Carbon Culture, Amarillo Bay, Borderlands, Tattoo Highway, The New York Quarterly, Rougarou, and others.
I don’t remember having any imaginary friends; however, my favorite childhood book was Where the Wild Things Are.
I did, however, imagine trudging through a forest, floating in space, or fighting monsters in front of my castle.
I did imagine being in places where time didn’t exist, my own wonderland.
My bedroom, my pillows, my sheets, and whatever things I used to project from to imagine with all formed my worlds.
Do you have any phobias?
In my introduction to humanities course, I teach monsters and myths. And one of my lessons involves students trying to attach their biggest fear to a known monster.
In my example, I use clowns. I don’t necessarily have a fear of clowns, but I do dislike them tremendously. The clown that started it all was the doll from the original Poltergeist movie.
There’s a scene in the movie that occurs in the boy’s bedroom, under the bed—You know “that under the bed fear.” well, I have it with clowns.
Anyway, ever since that movie, clowns incite my fear of the unknown and the feeling of powerlessness.
Besides, the duality of hiding their faces with smiles doesn’t make me want to smile; it is too Jekyll and Hyde for me.
This duality does come out in my poetry, too. I have a fascination with duality, especially with heroes and monsters.
The poem “Spanish Fly” deals with my perception of Bill Cosby’s duality as hero and monster. And the poem “Secret Identity” uses superheroes like Superman, Batman, and the Incredible Hulk to illustrate a sense of duality.
Do you listen to music when you’re writing?
Music plays a major role in my life as well in my writing. I don’t really listen to music while I write, but music influences almost all aspects of my writing, including content and form.
My current book These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them) has several poems influenced by blues music and musicians. “The Spirit of Deep Ellum” is a tribute to Blind Lemon Jefferson, for one example.
Lemon would walk to Deep Ellum in Dallas and play on the conners. I also “misuse” song lyrics all the time.
I am sure that you have experienced this, too, but I will sing lines from a song that I thought I knew but really didn’t, and I will use those lines as influence in some of my poems.
Even the experience of music enters my poetry. The poem “Sussudio Saves, The Day After, #6” uses the first five songs I heard in the car after January 6th.
The songs that played from my iTunes: Living On the Edge by Aerosmith, Eye of the Beholder by Metallica, White, Discussions, Territorial Pissings by Nirvana, and Dead Bodies Everywhere by Korn were legitimately the first five songs I heard and the sixth, of course, Sussudio.
Do you ever read your poetry out loud?
Only if I must. Joking. I read them out loud to hear the cadence and rhythm.
Some poems have a stronger musicality to them, but all my poems have some form of rhythm or tempo, a pulse that either moves quickly or slowly.
Certain words, phrases, or lines play fast while others slow the poem down. If it is a traditional formed poem such as the villanelles sprinkled throughout the book, hearing them out loud helps me hear the repetition and to understand how it is working or not working.
I even have a short poem “Chorus” toward the middle of the book. Though the two lined poem “Nothing you imagine is better than the real./Being here and now is all you need to feel” do not represent my overall style of writing (I don’t typically rhyme in poetry), the chorus of the book is about reality and authenticity, weaving fantasy and imagination with an actuality.
It could be “sung” throughout the reading of the book.
Tell us about your theme and what inspired it.
The book These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them) is about identity.
I like to think the poems not only represent the different influences on my life, on my perceptions and thinking in which certain situations or people have formed who I am, they are also representative of my journey as a writer.
Many of the poems use personal experiences that I hope resonate with those that read the book. I think we all have had childhood loves or childhood dislikes, for example.
Or maybe we have had issues with family—fathers, mothers, siblings, or other. If anything, I hope readers can see how exposing and revealing these poems are.
The other poems use influences from the outside like influences from pop culture that shape identity. From the personal to the public, these poems tell the story of identity.
At the same time, I use many different forms and styles of poetry that have shaped my own style of writing. I would argue that this latest book uses more variations of style and forms than any of my previous works.
Thank you, Donovan, for spending time with us and sharing your story. We wish you continued success and lots of luck with the These Are Not My Words.
Dan Roland has always gone it alone. And no prissy miss from back East is going to convince him to do otherwise.
Even if she does have the most alluring brown eyes he’s ever seen. But when his boss suddenly orders that he help the brunette beauty find a buried treasure, the rugged ranch foreman doesn’t have any choice but to offer his protection.
It’s not just the weather leaving Penny Anderson feeling a bit chilly upon her return to Texas.
First she gets the news that her ailing father has hidden the family fortune. Then she learns Dan Roland is the only one he trusts to help her find it.
And yet one teasing, tempting kiss at a time, he starts to thaw her out until all she yearns for is A COWBOY FOR CHRISTMAS.
Excerpt
John couldn’t believe his luck as he tracked Dan and Penny. Things were turning out far better than he’d ever hoped. First, he’d turn their horses loose and then he’d get the money from them and take off. His plan was perfect. This blue norther would take care of everything else for him.
Dan and Penny were so far away from the line shack they wouldn’t last in the freezing cold, and even if they did survive, he’d be long gone by the time anyone rescued them.
Feeling more confident than ever, John moved down to where they’d left their horses. He checked the saddlebags and found the metal box filled with money that they’d found on their first dig. After running the horses off, he went to find them.
John reached the drop-off on the side of the road and was surprised to see Dan and Penny on their way up carrying another box of money. He stepped back to stay out of sight until Dan reached the trail.
Dan got to the top and helped Penny up to find John waiting there for them. He immediately feared the worst – that he’d come after them because Jack had died.
“John, what happened?”
“Nothing’s happened … yet,” John said, his tone serious.
“Then why are you here?” Dan demanded.
John’s expression turned deadly. “I want the money.” He drew his gun and aimed it at them. “Just toss the box over here, real easy.”
“Don’t do this. You’ll never get away with it.”
“Thieves only get in trouble if they get caught,” John sneered, “I’ll be so far gone before anyone finds out what I did, they won’t have a chance. Now, throw that box over here or I’ll shoot the girl.”
After working as a department manager for Famous-Barr, and briefly as a clerk at a bookstore, Bobbi Smith gave up on career security and began writing. She sold her first book to Zebra in 1982.
Since then, Bobbi has written over 40 books and 6 novellas. To date, there are more than five million of her novels in print. She has been awarded the prestigious Romantic Times Storyteller of the Year Award and two Career Achievement Awards. Her books have appeared on numerous bestseller lists.
When she’s not working on her novels, she is frequently a guest speaker for writer’s groups. Bobbi is mother of two sons and resides in St. Charles, Missouri with her husband and three dogs.
Romantic Times Storyteller of the Year
NY Times Bestseller
USA Today Bestseller
Inducted into the Sigma Tau Delta Literary Fraternity
What if everything we think we know about Vincent van Gogh is all lies?
Vincent’s Women:
The Untold Story of the Loves of Vincent Van Gogh
by Donna Russo
Genre: Historical Biographical Women’s Fiction
Donna Russo’s ‘Vincent’s Women’ is the untold story of Vincent’s loves: how they shaped his life, his art, and his death.
It writes against the ‘myths, ‘ exploring the possibility that none of them are true.
It is the only novel to bring into question his sexuality, how he lost his ear, who he lost it for, and how he might have died, all through the eyes of a woman. We learn of Her; we learn all of it through Her.
The story is guided by Johanna van Gogh Bonger, Vincent’s sister-in-law, as she decides to reveal the truth about Vincent to her son.
We are then taken on a journey through Vincent’s life, each section bringing a pivotal moment of Vincent’s life alive while showing us the part she played in bringing it about.
Between each woman, our guide, Johanna, gives us the transitional periods, right up to his death, which is now in question.
Hundreds of the nearly thousand letters between Vincent van Gogh and his brother Theo, now considered one of the greatest documents of the human experience, were used to help construct this novel, its narrative, and dialogue, especially the dialogue of Vincent himself.
Vincent van Gogh is one of the most well-known artists of all time. The world knows of his madness, traumas, and suicide.
But what if all that we know isn’t true? What if this knowledge is based on rumors and nothing more? What if his true story is vastly different when based on factual material and forensic information?
What if the truth of Vincent’s life-his madness and his genius-is defined by his never-ending search for love?
Advance Praise:
“Arresting…masterful… a provocative and compelling look at one of history’s most enigmatic artists.” -Publishers Weekly
“A symphonic novel that sheds new light on an elusive genius.” -Kirkus Reviews
“Vincent’s Women represents historical fiction at its best…astute, thought-provoking, and revealing.” -Midwest Book Review
“One of the most wonderful books about an artist I have ever read.” -Stephanie Cowell, Author of Claude and Camille: a novel of Monet, and Marrying Mozart. Recipient American Book Award.
“A powerful and satisfying read.” -Lynn Cullen, Bestselling Author of The Woman with the Cure and Mrs. Poe
“The writing and dialogue are all so well done, and the use of a fictional narrative makes it all feel authentic. Very highly recommended.” -Readers’ Favorite 5-star Review
“This novel is not just a book; it is a masterful painting in itself, portraying the vibrant, volatile, and often tragic life of one of history’s most renowned artists.” -5-Star Amazon Review
“This is historical fiction at its best…a tour de force!” -5-Star Goodreads Review
“This is easily the best book I’ve read this year!” -5-star NetGalley Review
“You think you know him. You don’t. You think you know what happened to him. You do not.”
“Mother!”
My son sputters. Tea spills as he drops his cup and saucer on the curly-legged table beside him.
It’s not well done of me. To dive into it. But I saw his eyes glance up to the portrait, the self-portrait of his uncle, Vincent van Gogh.
My son and I were speaking of his work and mine. In mine, it is there. All I have found. All I have discovered. The string, the true thread of such surprising colors. The colors of women, of love, and of lust.
He starts to rise to his feet.
“Please don’t,” I beg. I am not ashamed to. I will beg for more. And soon.
But he is kneeling before me as I quiver in my chair. His father’s greenish-blue eyes bore into me. I sigh from the comfort of them. My hands wring at the fear I’ve put in them.
I cup his face in my veiny hand. His face, long like his father’s as well. But capped by the startling red hair of his uncle.
“I am not long for this world. I feel it, my son,” I say. I know. Of that, there is no fear. Only of what I leave behind. “And when I am gone you will learn the truth. I’d rather you heard it from me.”
“Now, Mother…,” that long head shakes. I can’t stop my grin from forming as his shaggy hair flutters. He’s in need of a barber. I look at this young man as a child, I know. But he is that. My child. My only child.
“It is all right,” I assure him. Trying desperately to for it is my truth. “I am almost ready. I will be with him, with them, again.”
I am the widow of Theo van Gogh. I am one of the women who shaped Vincent van Gogh’s life. Just one of them. I am the woman who allowed the world to discover the genius of Vincent’s art.
Many come to me looking for answers. I have yet to give the true ones. Not even to him. I’ve guarded them. Their pain is too great. But the time has come. I can guard them no more.
I rise. Old bones creak. I groan.
My son, Willem, as he likes to be called, rises, and takes my arm. I lead him into my study.
Vincent’s art covers my walls, piles in corners. The Van Gogh family letters—some I’ve translated for I speak many languages; some I’ve read but not yet translated—stalagmites of varying sizes at various places. The odd pairing of my husband’s old, carved desk with the straightly cut modern chair behind it can barely be seen.
“This will all be—”
“You know I have little interest in all this,” Willem says, sounding like a child.
“Yes, yes,” I tut. “I know your mind bursts only when it sees numbers…your engineering.”
Now I hear Willem chuckle softly. He knows the true depth of my pride.
He helps me sit on one side of the beige brocade settee. I pat the other with an expectant look.
The time is drawing closer. I find it harder to swallow. I have no time for preamble. There is no time. I tire so easily these days.
“You will read my diary.” Once more I startle him. Unintentionally so. If there is a proper way to do this, to confess others’ sins as well as my own, I do not know it.
“Your diary?” He turns to face me. “I never knew you kept one.”
He is curious now. I’ve presented him with a puzzle. Perhaps it will help.
“I’ve kept one almost the whole of my life.” My gaze drops into my lap. “Save for the time I was married to your father.” A marriage that lasted not even two years.
Would he ask why I didn’t write during those years? I hope not. The answer is a tangle of love and despair.
No, it is better I tell him. Tell him the all of it. No matter how it will test me. How it may hurt. I will tell him the truth. I will pray he loves me still.
“There is the story of your uncle, of Vincent van Gogh, the story that the world has taken as truth.”
Willem has always worshipped the uncle—the man he was named for—that he knows only from my memories. The ones I’ve shown him.
“They say he went mad because of a certain kind of disease.” I try not to blush. I lose the battle. “It is not what caused his madness. They say he cut off his ear for a prostitute. He did not cut it off for her. It may be that he did not cut it off himself.
“And they say he killed himself.” I bang my moist hand on the fabric between us. “He…did…not.”
Willem gasps, flinches. I feel the cushion below me flutter with his jerky movements.
“But how can…why have you not—” He tries to interject.
I pay attention to none of it. I can’t. For once begun, this spewing of truth cannot be stopped. I can only hope he will be my son—that I will live in the same place in his heart—when the telling is done. I am, at last, ready.
“I will tell you, oh, yes, I will. I will tell you the truth of him…the truth of Vincent. Me…and Her.”
Giveaway
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Donna Russo is the bestselling author of historical fiction, women’s fiction, and fantasy including the international bestselling Novels of Newport: Gilded Summers and Gilded Dreams as well as her latest release, Vincent’s Women.
Her critically acclaimed work has been praised with multiple awards and has received a starred review in Publishers Weekly.
Additionally, Donna worked as a model and actor since the age of seventeen, working on such projects as Martin Scorsese’s The Departed and Showtime’s Brotherhood.
Donna is also an award-winning screenwriter, ghostwriter, and painter. She holds two degrees from the University of Rhode Island. Her two sons—Devon, an opera singer; and Dylan, a chef—will always be her greatest works.
Can the love that binds this family deliver Christmas miracles?
Or will the unforgiving wilderness crush their holiday spirit?
A Pioneer Christmas Beyond the Oregon Trail
A Ghosts Among the Oregon Trail Holiday Novella
by David Fitz-Gerald
Genre: Historical Holiday Western Adventure
Dorcas and her family endured a harrowing trip along the Oregon Trail in 1850. Now, they face their first brutal winter in the rugged wilderness. Can they survive the harsh realities of frontier life?
Devastating setbacks threaten their lives, crush their hopes, and test their faith in timeless traditions. Their cabin is unfinished. Wild animals shred their tents, ruin their food supply, and wreck their camp.
As winter closes in, a powerful storm strikes their remote homestead. How much more can they endure?
Dorcas suggests skipping Christmas to focus on survival, but her children balk. They don’t want to give up on the cherished holiday. Is Christmas a luxury they can’t afford?
When her husband, Agapito, fails to return from a critical supply run, Dorcas ventures into the wilderness with a rifle in search of food for her children.
She must brave the elements as a mountain lion stalks her through a violent winter storm.
Can the love that binds this family deliver Christmas miracles? Or will the unforgiving wilderness crush their holiday spirit?
Start reading A Pioneer Christmas Beyond the Oregon Trail today. Get wrapped up in this gripping western adventure of love, survival, and the enduring power of hope. Perfect for fans of frontier fiction and heartwarming holiday tales, this novella will keep you on the edge of your seat.
Blogger’s Introduction: Today, we step into the dreams of Andrew, a thoughtful and determined young man from A Pioneer Christmas Beyond the Oregon Trail. Andrew’s mind is always working.
While journeying across the wilderness, he published his own daily newspaper. Someday, he hopes to attend college and become a true newspaperman.
Let’s hear his story and get a glimpse of the hopes and determination that fuel him.
Blogger: Hi Andrew! It’s wonderful to meet you. I’ve heard you published your own newspaper on the trail. What inspired you to do that?
Andrew: [Nods, eyes focused] Yeah, I did. It was called The Rolling Home Times. The trail was full of things happening—storms, stampedes, wagon troubles.
I thought folks needed a way to know what was going on and share news between wagons.
I’d talk to people, listen to their stories, and write it all down. It made me feel like I was part of something bigger, like I was helping keep us all together.
Blogger: That’s incredible. You must have quite the knack for storytelling. Do you still want to be a newspaperman when you grow up?
Andrew: I do. I’d love to be a real newspaperman, maybe even have my own paper someday. And I’d like to go to college, too, though I ain’t too sure what that would be like.
I just know it’s a place where you learn more and get better at things like writing and printing. But until then, I figure I’ll just keep learning out here on the frontier. And it doesn’t hurt to remember to say your prayers now and then. [He nods solemnly]
Blogger: Wise words, Andrew. I heard you helped build the family’s cabin. What was that experience like?
Andrew: [Smiles with a touch of pride] It was a lot of work, but it felt good. Agapito, Dunk, and I worked from sunrise to sunset most days. And you know, Mama cut down most of the trees herself, like she was a lumberjack.
She’s stronger than most men. Dunk and I would haul logs and notch them while Agapito made sure everything fit just right. By the end of the day, my arms ached, but it was worth it, seeing the walls go up and knowing we’d have a place to keep warm.
Blogger: Your Ma sounds amazing. And I hear you have a special way of sensing things before they happen. Is that true?
Andrew: [Looks down thoughtfully, then back up] Sometimes I get this feeling, like I know something before it happens.
It’s hard to explain, but it’s helped a time or two, like when trouble’s on the way or when there’s something important we need to do.
I don’t know if it’s luck or something else, but I trust it when it comes. Out here, you gotta take all the help you can get.
Blogger: That’s remarkable. I heard you wrote a song for Christmas, too. Can you tell me about it?
Andrew: [Smiles softly, eyes lighting up] Yeah, I wrote a song called Hope on the Horizon. It came to me while I was out working one cold morning.
I wanted to write something that made us all feel like there was a point to all our hard work. Like we were more than just settlers out here fighting the land. The chorus goes:
In this land of promise, where dreams come alive We build a home, where hope can thrive Through the darkest night, we find our way Bringing light, keeping shadows at bay.
When I sang it at Christmas, Mama and the others joined in, and for a moment, it felt like we were back home, safe and warm.
Blogger: That’s beautiful, Andrew. What’s your biggest hope for the future?
Andrew: I want to write for a real newspaper one day, and I’d like to learn enough to make a good life for my family. Sure hope I can find my way to college one day.
But I know one thing for sure: telling folks about the world around them is important work. That’s what I tried to do with The Rolling Home Times. And if I can, I want to make Mama proud.
Blogger: I’m sure you already do. One last question: if you could give other kids a piece of advice about life out here, what would it be?
Andrew: I’d tell them to be ready for anything, because the frontier doesn’t play by the rules. Work hard, help your family, and don’t be afraid to dream.
And remember, even when times are tough, there’s always something to hold on to—whether it’s a song, a prayer, or the people around you.
Blogger: That’s wonderful advice, Andrew. Thank you for sharing your dreams and your story with us. Merry Christmas!
Andrew: Merry Christmas to you, too. And if you ever need news or a song, just come by. [He gives a small, proud smile as the dream fades]
Giveaway:
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David Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850.
Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a member of the Historical Novel Society.
Alpine landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head.
He is also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level.
Dave is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music.
It should be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses.
