Vampire Dinosaur

Jenny Russ, a charter member of WriteOn Joliet, gifted me with this dinosaur vampire back in the fall.

It's a slippery little sticker, not in texture but in the way it keeps disappearing - and then reappearing at the most random times and in the most random places.

I love this sticker because I think of so many fun "writerly" things when I look at it.

Obviously, the BryonySeries features vampires in many of its stories.

And the third installment of "Before The Blood" features the origin story of the jack-o-lantern.

Finally, some veteran WriteOn Joliet members will see this dinosaur and think "dinosaur porn."

And who can blame them? (If you know, you know).

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: Just an Excerpt, Just Because

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Just an Excerpt, Just Because

So this is a small portion of what I do on weekends, from Before the Blood, Kellen's Story, Chapter Nine: The Suite Life.

But Kellen also had a mischievous side, and he allowed it to play when John was occupied playing piano. He crawled through the sewers of Paris until he reached the neighborhood known as Montmartre on the Seine's right bank, seeped through a crack in the road, and stepped through the front door of le Café de l’Enfer (shaped like the hungry mouth of an angry demon) and bumped into Satan.
           
"Welcome to damnation!" the man in the devil's suit shrieked.
            
Before Kellen could reply, the man shrank back, eyeing Kellen's soiled clothes and holding his nose.
            
"I'll drink to that," Kellen agreed.
            
Still holding his nose, the devil led Kellen past rows of Paris underbellies occupying wood tables in the long, cavernous cafe. Stone gargoyles spread their wings and emerged from the rock ceiling, their clawed hands hovering above the clueless and innocent. 
           
The devilish host and Kellen passed into a second, darker cave and to an empty table near the back, where the other patrons could not smell him.
            
"Coffee?" the devil asked in a nasal voice through tightly clamped fingers.
            
"Coffee...and cognac."
            
Twirling his tail, the devil scampered to the kitchen screaming, "One vessel of mortal sins, with a squirt of molten brimstone!"
           
Cackles replied from the back of the house.
            
The patrons seemed unaffected by the bizarre atmosphere, and they were too far away for Kellen's stench to bother them. They talked and smiled to their companions  or read the day's news. Most wore black. None of the women had red hair. 
            
But everyone smelled good enough to eat.
           
Another devil pranced to Kellen's table with the bubbling brew.
           
"Choke and die!" The devil slammed the mug before Kellen and then just as quickly pranced away.
           
Kellen sipped, relishing the coffee, drawing out the moment. Should he start with the customers or the wait staff? He pondered as he sipped and sipped. Decisions, decisions, decisions...
            
 He picked up the mug for another sip, and his hand froze in mid-air. Horrified, Kellen lowered the mug and peeked inside.
            
It was empty.
            
He tossed a bag of francs on the table and fled. 

Paradise

Rebecca Gillespie responded to a problem faced by people who search for good vampire poems and could not find them by writing one her instructor called "excellent."

http://www.simplysupernatural-vampire.com/VampirePoemParadise.html

"Der Vampir" (The Vampire) by Heinrich August Ossenfelder

Der Vampir (The Vampire) by Heinrich August Ossenfelder (1748)

 My dear young maiden clingeth
Unbending, fast and firm
To all the long-held teaching
Of a mother ever true;
As in vampires unmortal
Folk on the Theyse's portal
Heyduck-like do believe.
But my Christine thou dost dally,
And wilt my loving parry
Till I myself avenging
To a vampire's health a-drinking
Him toast in pale tockay.

And as softly thou art sleeping
To thee shall I come creeping
And thy life's blood drain away.
And so shalt thou be trembling
For thus shall I be kissing
And death's threshold thou' it be crossing
With fear, in my cold arms.
And last shall I thee question
Compared to such instruction
What are a mother's charms?

"Of Diets Most Diabolical," by Sir Frederick Chook

Of Diets Most Diabolical
By Sir Frederick Chook

Sir Frederick Chook is a foppish, transcendentalistic historian and the author of FrillyShirt. He lives variously by his wits, hand to mouth, la vie bohème, and in MELBOURNE with his wife, Lady Tanah Merah. When not reading Milton and eating Stilton, he writes, ponders, models, delves into dusty archives, and gads about town. He has dabbled in student radio and in national politics, and is presently studying the ways of the shirt-sleeved archivist. He is a longhair, aspiring to one day be a greybeard. He has, once or twice, been described as “as mad as a bicycle.” Read his collected works at http://www.frillyshirt.org/.

For a number of years, I have been a practising vegetarian (a curious expression - a non-practising vegetarian would, I suppose, be one brought up in the faith, but who now only forgoes meat at Easter and Christmas.) Meatless diets have been proscribed throughout history, by different persons and with different reasons. The Shelleys condemned the eating of flesh as causing disease and madness, including the social maladies of crime and tyranny. Many religions advocate against, limit or forbid the consumption of meat, ranging from the absolute reverence of life held by Jains to the pre-Flood vegetarianism described in Genesis. H. G. Wells' The War of the Worlds, with its description of captured humans used as a sort of cattle by the technocratic Martians, caused some popular revulsion to meat-eating, though the author's intention was more a metaphor for Britain's colonial expansion - but then, the reading public is terribly sensitive about its food. Upton Sinclar had a similar experience when describing the meat industry in The Jungle, I believe.

Compared to these varied schools and creeds, my own motives for vegetarianism are... astonishingly poorly thought out. They are, in part, moral: the receiving end of an industrial process is no place for anything with a brain. They are partly ecological - a perception that an overall reduction in demand for meat would be a good thing for the planet. Partly, it's because I know that without an absolute restriction, I wouldn't have the willpower not to gobble down every deep-fried burger strudle which passed across my plate, particularly given that I wouldn't necessarily know where it had come from. And, of course, some of it is simply a groaningly literal matter of taste. Now, you may have noticed that at least three of these concerns could be allayed by restricting myself to meat which I had secured myself - by hunting, for example, or at a traditional farm. Quite right, which leaves only the personal side of the equation: my sentimental discomfort with feasting on some doe-eyed creature who never meant me a moment's harm.

Obviously, the problem is irrational, but the solution is rationality itself: I should eat only malicious animals! Creatures whose designs against me are even now being spun; who would themselves, given half a chance, serve me up as rissoles. Why, such a diet would not only be perfectly justifiable, but is practically essential for my continued self-preservation! The only trifling objection - scarecely worth mentioning, really - is that it's questionable whether any such animal actually exists. Indeed, the overlap between those species which A: are mentally capable of understanding right and wrong, B: could pose a threat to me, C: are not justly protected against predation, owing to dwindling numbers, habitat, etc., and D: are edible, let alone tasty, is likely incredibly slight. In the face of this, there's only one thing to be done: if no candidate creatures exist, then I shall eat creatures which do not exist. Thus, I outline: the principles of a mythitarian diet!

There is no shortage of mythical beings who bear us ill will; indeed, the very names "ghouls", "goblins" and "bogeymen" are synonymous with, well, ghouls, goblins and bogeymen. Not all of these are edible - banshees, for example, are famously hard to trap and harder still to hold (not least for the municipal noise pollution restrictions.) The stony skin of the troll is impenetrable to mortal cutlery, while tasting the flesh of the wendigo puts the diner at considerable risk of becoming a wendigo, which is why it is rarely seen served in the best restaurants. Despite these drawbacks, fantastical meat is in surprisingly common use; many readers, for instance, will likely have eaten a Cornish pasty made with the traditional filling of diced onion, swedes and spriggan, or even participated in the gathering, plucking and carving of jack-o'-lanterns for Halloween.

Mythmeat has a culture all of its own, which seemed daunting when I first made the transition away from mundane meat. Centaur and gremlin are stock fare, found on every table, but bunyip is emerging as an affordable meat with a range to please the gourmet, comparable to the rise of beef in the American diet in the 20th century. The inner cities have seen something of a fad for corner-stand breaded ogre cutlets, which are easy to eat on the go, but prices are rising as ogre feed (children, mostly) is proving hard to secure in quantity. Now, vampire - vampire is an unusual case. It was never to everyone's taste - no matter how much you cook it, it always comes out rare - but the animal-rights crowd don't like to eat anything which was recently a living, breathing creature, while the fresh-food crowd don't like anything which wasn't. It's not even remotely sustainable, but a boutique industry has sprung up providing vampires which have felt the chill of undeath just long enough to forget their last shreds of humanity, without yet being twisted into something foul and chewy.

Naturally, when discussing moral or political issues, one must cast up the usual caveats: unlike a teacher on exam day, I cannot pretend to have all the right answers, every generation sows the seeds of the next generation's rebellion, and so forth. Perhaps, one day, the image of a bucolic gnomeherd stomping through a field full of scampering gnomes, all waving tiny pitchforks and swearing like sailors, grabbing them up by their little red caps and stuffing them into his sack, will come to be seen as comically backward. We must live in the house of cards we're dealt, to mangle metaphors, and as things stand, the best source of nutrition for many communities - particularly where crops are poor and grazing land scant - is to knock a faerie on the head and get in the icebox before it turns to soot with the dawn. I'm not saying there isn't excess and waste - the number of sky-buffalo killed for their wings alone is an outrage - but the ecological cost is minimal, and the pixie dust produced as waste is easily treated and recycled for use by the medicinal and aeronautical industries.

Well, thank you for hearing out the ramblings of a chap with mermaid stains on his cuffs! Now, if you'll excuse me, my dessert has just disappeared, so I've got to go will it back into existence. I -do- believe in coulis, I -do-, I -do-!

Christmas Vampire Stories and More

Here is a site run by an Oregan community college teacher who offers two "Vampires in Literature" Courses.
http://www.simplysupernatural-vampire.com/index.html

On this site, there are several Christmas vampire stories, as well as classic literature, poetry, essays, cartoons, and links to festivals, clothing, etc.

If you're into vampires, then you'll want to check this out.

One Weekend, Three Book Signings

On Friday, I dropped Rebekah and Daniel off at the warehouse to clean and await the arrival of inserts, while I had lunch with the "real" Julie Drake.

Julie is one Melissa's (Bryony's main character) Munsonville friends, but is also the name of a very nice local woman whom I met by phone quite by accident while working on a story. This is what happened.

One of the features I write for the Herald News is called An Extraordinary Life. These are memorial pieces on recently deceased, local people who lived interesting an/or inspiring lives. While interviewing one woman about her mother, the woman asked if I would also call her sister. I did and requested the phone number and name, which was "Julie Drake." Of course, I told her about Bryony.

We've kept in touch via email and phone over the last two years it took to bring Bryony to print, so it was wonderful to finally meet this very nice lady in person, who treated me to lunch, brought me a box of Fannie May pixies, and entertained me with verbal snapshots of her family while I signed books. We're hoping to release Visage late next year, so Julie's already suggesting we have a standard, traditional, pre-Christmas date. She's on!

On Saturday, I heard interesting speakers at the HS Healing and Wellness Center's second paranormal cafe and sold a few books. One man who bought a copy of Bryony is part of a large vampire role-laying community and, through his independent film studio, created a three-minute film based on his character for next month's international convention of this vampire community. He sent me the unreleased trailer last night. His work shows promise! I will definitely share that trailer once he officially uploads it onto YouTube.

Sunday at Aunt Nina's Sweets N Treats in Crest Hill was much slower, but I made some nice connections, so it really was a good day. One woman from the local writer's guild was soooo happy to finally have Bryony, she kept hugging it. The venue itself was particulary interesting. It's a 7500 square foot candy store with every type of candy you can buy, along with a full bakery, party room, and some of the best coffee you can buy.

Both places will have copies of Bryony for purchase. You may check them out at www.hshealingandwellnesscenter.com and www.auntninas.net/Home.

And, of course, Bryony is available on the website: www.bryonyseries.com.

Candy Canes and Irish Vampires

Yes, Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, dressed in an Old World Father Christmasy hat and carrying a bucket of candy canes, was already making his jolly rounds when I, huge mug of coffee in MY hand, arrived at the distribution center at one o'clock this morning.

It's been over a year since Ed last worked at this particular location and just several months since I've stopped delivering newspapers, yet the return was a joyful one for both, especially me, since I'm still in withdrawel. I have these moments, suppressed, of course, where I want to ride around at night--windows down and radio cranked up--throwing things (ideally newspapers) out of windows.

Ed and rival supervisor Dan resumed their plans to take over certain countries with insulting limericks, and one female carrier entered to the loud cry from Ed she (mistakenly) assumed she'd never hear again: "All, hail, Audrey the Magnificent!"

Of course, Ed showed the proper respect by virtue of his former nickname for me (Newspaper Goddess), by genuflecting, head bowed, to offer me a candy, the very pose assumed every day when he brought me my route book.

Now, having immortalized him and all, my nickname is Mistress of Immortality or MOM. Yes, I know it doesn't match, but Ed is horribly dyslexic, so it works for him. FYI: Any blog postings he sends are thoroughly edited by me, keeping in mind my copyediting skills are less than stellar.

Saturdays are a notoriously slow day. Carriers, the ones that still run on Saturdays, arrive late and leave late. Ed still had to drive an hour back to HIS distribution center to run a route. Still, I sold, and he signed, a few books. To catch the attention of sleepy carriers pushing grocery carts full of inserts back to their tables, Ed would stop them and point to his picture on page one hundred and ninety-three.

Periodically, he would stop, grinning, and excitedly say, "We're really doing this. Remember when we only talked about signing books at the center?" Before I could do more than smile and nod, Ed was showing a carrier where his name appeared in Bryony, then add the exhortation to look for the parade in his honor some thousand years hence.

I chatted to a couple of carriers who were a little envious--in a good way--of my having completed an entire book. One, a musician, is writing his autobiography, but got stuck one hundred and fifty-five pages into it. The other, a former Chicago teachers, has an idea for a screen play, but can't get the words out.

Both marveled how I, with homeschooled kids, other writing assignments, and throwing papers at night, managed to write an entire book. I told them my lap goes with me everywhere I go.

"Oh, so you wrote it all the computer?"

Well, yes, eventually. I also wrote bursts of inspiration on backs of old envelopes, margins of books, and myriads of tiny notebooks, really any form of paper within reach. I also had to utilize random bits of time, which is the way I really dislike to write, but when it's the only available time...well, that's when you have to stay true to your goals.

Ed then told me a story about how is granddaughter is beginning to not believe he is REALLY Santa Claus and wondering if his credibility will be shot if he tells her Santa is also a vampire.

"Especially the first Irish vampire," Ed said.

One of the supervisors, who is generally quiet and whom I did not expect to wander near our make-shift work station book "store," spent some time flipping through the Bryony, noting the research, and asking me how long it took me to compose it.

Even better, he made a couple allusions to the distribution center being "one of the seven levels of hell." Later, he referenced something back to "the library of Alexandria." Now my curious was piqued, and I hope an opportunity for conversation with him the next time I bring my teens down to stuff inserts. There's so much more to people than meets the eye, right?

And yes, he bought a book.

Ed took five back with him for family Christmas gifts this weekend and is coming back for twenty more next week. These will be a huge surprise, he said. Although he's told everyone in his large extended family that he is in a book, when you identify yourself as a ruthless dictator and create Celtic myths about yourself, your family tends to dismiss your other claims.

I jubilantly waved a book before him. "And now you have the proof."

He laughed. "Yes, now I have the proof!"

At three-thirty, Ed packed it up, worried about making HIS deadline, then paused.

"Can I hug you?" he asked.

LOL! Why, of course! Merry Christmas, O Ye Steward of Tara!

: "The Bride of Corinth" by: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"The Bride of Corinth," written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe in 1797, is a difficult, but thoroughly enjoyable read about how a young man, uninformed that his betrothed is dead, receives a visit from the one he was to marry, except she is now a vampire.

I suggest reading the summary first (http://www.simplysupernatural-vampire.com/vampire-poetry-summary-brideofcorinth-goethe-femalevampire.html) and then the poem.

The Bride of Corinth

Once a stranger youth to Corinth came,
Who in Athens lived, but hoped that he
From a certain townsman there might claim,
As his father's friend, kind courtesy.

Son and daughter, they
Had been wont to say
Should thereafter bride and bridegroom be.
But can he that boon so highly prized,
Save tis dearly bought, now hope to get?
They are Christians and have been baptized,
He and all of his are heathens yet.

For a newborn creed,
Like some loathsome weed,
Love and truth to root out oft will threat.
Father, daughter, all had gone to rest,
And the mother only watches late;
She receives with courtesy the guest,
And conducts him to the room of state.

Wine and food are brought,
Ere by him besought;
Bidding him good night, she leaves him straight.
But he feels no relish now, in truth,
For the dainties so profusely spread;
Meat and drink forgets the wearied youth,
And, still dress'd, he lays him on the bed.

Scarce are closed his eyes,
When a form in-hies
Through the open door with silent tread.
By his glimmering lamp discerns he now
How, in veil and garment white array'd,
With a black and gold band round her brow,
Glides into the room a bashful maid.

But she, at his sight,
Lifts her hand so white,
And appears as though full sore afraid.
"Am I," cries she, "such a stranger here,
That the guest's approach they could not name?
Ah, they keep me in my cloister drear,
Well nigh feel I vanquish'd by my shame.

On thy soft couch now
Slumber calmly thou!
I'll return as swiftly as I came."
"Stay, thou fairest maiden!" cries the boy,
Starting from his couch with eager haste:
"Here are Ceres', Bacchus' gifts of joy;
Amor bringest thou, with beauty grac'd!

Thou art pale with fear!
Loved one let us here
Prove the raptures the Immortals taste."
"Draw not nigh, O Youth! afar remain!
Rapture now can never smile on me;
For the fatal step, alas! is ta'en,
Through my mother's sick-bed phantasy.

Cured, she made this oath:
'Youth and nature both
Shall henceforth to Heav'n devoted be.'
"From the house, so silent now, are driven
All the gods who reign'd supreme of yore;
One Invisible now rules in heaven,
On the cross a Saviour they adore.

Victims slay they here,
Neither lamb nor steer,
But the altars reek with human gore."
And he lists, and ev'ry word he weighs,
While his eager soul drinks in each sound:
"Can it be that now before my gaze
Stands my loved one on this silent ground?

Pledge to me thy troth!
Through our father's oath:
With Heav'ns blessing will our love be crown'd."
"Kindly youth, I never can be thine!
'Tis my sister they intend for thee.
When I in the silent cloister pine,
Ah, within her arms remember me!

Thee alone I love,
While love's pangs I prove;
Soon the earth will veil my misery."
"No! for by this glowing flame I swear,
Hymen hath himself propitious shown:
Let us to my fathers house repair,
And thoult find that joy is not yet flown,

Sweetest, here then stay,
And without delay
Hold we now our wedding feast alone!"
Then exchange they tokens of their truth;
She gives him a golden chain to wear,
And a silver chalice would the youth
Give her in return of beauty rare.

"That is not for me;
Yet I beg of thee,
One lock only give me of thy hair."
Now the ghostly hour of midnight knell'd,
And she seem'd right joyous at the sign;
To her pallid lips the cup she held,
But she drank of nought but blood-red wine.

For to taste the bread
There before them spread,
Nought he spoke could make the maid incline.
To the youth the goblet then she brought,--
He too quaff'd with eager joy the bowl.
Love to crown the silent feast he sought,
Ah! full love-sick was the stripling's soul.

From his prayer she shrinks,
Till at length he sinks
On the bed and weeps without control.
And she comes, and lays her near the boy:
"How I grieve to see thee sorrowing so!
If thou think'st to clasp my form with joy,
Thou must learn this secret sad to know;

Yes! the maid, whom thou
Call'st thy loved one now,
Is as cold as ice, though white as snow."
Then he clasps her madly in his arm,
While love's youthful might pervades his frame:
"Thou might'st hope, when with me, to grow warm,
E'en if from the grave thy spirit came!

Breath for breath, and kiss!
Overflow of bliss!
Dost not thou, like me, feel passion's flame?"
Love still closer rivets now their lips,
Tears they mingle with their rapture blest,
From his mouth the flame she wildly sips,
Each is with the other's thought possess'd.

His hot ardour's flood
Warms her chilly blood,
But no heart is beating in her breast.
In her care to see that nought went wrong,
Now the mother happen'd to draw near;
At the door long hearkens she, full long,
Wond'ring at the sounds that greet her ear.

Tones of joy and sadness,
And love's blissful madness,
As of bride and bridegroom they appear,
From the door she will not now remove
'Till she gains full certainty of this;
And with anger hears she vows of love,
Soft caressing words of mutual bliss.

"Hush! the cock's loud strain!
But thoult come again,
When the night returns!"--then kiss on kiss.
Then her wrath the mother cannot hold,
But unfastens straight the lock with ease
"In this house are girls become so bold,
As to seek e'en strangers' lusts to please?"

By her lamp's clear glow
Looks she in,--and oh!
Sight of horror!--'tis her child she sees.
Fain the youth would, in his first alarm,
With the veil that o'er her had been spread,
With the carpet, shield his love from harm;
But she casts them from her, void of dread,

And with spirit's strength,
In its spectre length,
Lifts her figure slowly from the bed.
"Mother! mother!"--Thus her wan lips say:
"May not I one night of rapture share?
From the warm couch am I chased away?
Do I waken only to despair?

It contents not thee
To have driven me
An untimely shroud of death to wear?
"But from out my coffin's prison-bounds
By a wond'rous fate I'm forced to rove,
While the blessings and the chaunting sounds
That your priests delight in, useless prove.

Water, salt, are vain
Fervent youth to chain,
Ah, e'en Earth can never cool down love!
"When that infant vow of love was spoken,
Venus' radiant temple smiled on both.
Mother! thou that promise since hast broken,
Fetter'd by a strange, deceitful oath.

Gods, though, hearken ne'er,
Should a mother swear
To deny her daughter's plighted troth.
From my grave to wander I am forc'd,
Still to seek The Good's long-sever'd link,
Still to love the bridegroom I have lost,
And the life-blood of his heart to drink;

When his race is run,
I must hasten on,
And the young must 'neath my vengeance sink,
"Beauteous youth! no longer mayst thou live;
Here must shrivel up thy form so fair;
Did not I to thee a token give,
Taking in return this lock of hair?

View it to thy sorrow!
Grey thoult be to-morrow,
Only to grow brown again when there.
"Mother, to this final prayer give ear!
Let a funeral pile be straightway dress'd;
Open then my cell so sad and drear,
That the flames may give the lovers rest!

When ascends the fire
From the glowing pyre,
To the gods of old we'll hasten, blest."

An Endorsement from the IVA

That's Irish Vampire Association to the uninitiated. In a recent email telegram, Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara and first official Irish vampire, sent the following message:  "I've got the whole IVA rooting for you. (Don't know what financial help that is)."

Well, money isn't everything, and it's nice to know the entire IVA is supporting Bryony's cause. Despite the impressiveness of that claim, however, you must know the IVA has a membership of just one (Calkins), and maybe two, since he claims the organization has dubbed me an honory member.

Still, despite its lack of a structured vampire mythology, Ireland has, nevertheless, made some important contributions to vampire lore. Read the following and judge for yourself:

www.darkecho.com/darkecho/horroronline/irish_vampire.html

NaNoWriMo Day #9 and Sneak Peek at "Bryony" Music

Bryony Prequel, Section One, Chapter 8: check!

Word Count: 818

It's James Onohan Wednesday!

The official Bryony CD, The Best-Loved Compostions of John Simons is released and available for purchase through James' website. Samples of all the tracks, including the Bryony theme song, are also on that site.

Even if you're not a lover of piano music, I think you will find James' music hauntingly beautiful. And if you do enjoy quality piano music, no further words are required. A recent reviewer of Bryony just emailed me and said the music sounds just like John. So while you're waiting for Bryony's release, check out this music and get a glimpse into the personality of Bryony's lead vampire.

To listen, visit http://jamesonohan.webs.com/My%20Life%20Bryony.html

Vampire Moths Discovered

CHRISTOPHER LEE IS DRACULA

Ireland, Legacy, and a Marriage Proposal

Immortality and noteriety are the two reasons why Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara, agreed to become an Irish vampire in Bryony. This makes Ed the first "real" Irish vampire, since Ireland has no distinct vampire mythology (until now).

In the selection below, Tommy Connolly, a member of the Bryony team, shares the memorable trip to Ireland with his father. The trip had but one mission--to seek out and visit a town named Connolly--but for Tommy, it alsoincluded a spontaneous decision to begin building his own family legacy.

Tommy is a recovering alcoholic; he blogs about his experiences at http://www.tommyconnolly.blogspot.com/. He plans to release a collection of those blogs, Soul Parole: Making Peace with my Mind, God, and Myself, in December.


On February 21, 2002, my Father and I left for a seven day trip to Ireland. We arrived to cold and rain, mixed with colder, harder rain and accented with occasional stinging, frozen sleet. It rained everyday, but we had some sunny spots here and there.

We weren't in for the touristy side of the country, so we rented a car and started driving. We left Dublin with only one planned point on the trip and that was to visit the town of CONNOLLY in County Clare. One of the funniest things on our trip was my first dinner in Dublin. My dad suggested Indian food! Indian food? In Ireland? He didn't eat Indian food in America, but we flew three thousand miles to try the stuff! I hated it (and still do).

The "Ring of Kerry" winds and climbs along route N-70 on the southwest coast of the Emerald Isle. I loved everything about the awe-inspiring island. The coast was like heaven. Every fifty feet was a spectacular panorama of peat bogs, inlets, hills, fields, stone fences, and breathtaking flowers. The vast Atlantic lay beyond. God truly was inspired when He painted Ireland. Every scene is a giant green postcard, and I would recommend a visit to anyone, except those pesky terrorists.

Driving takes exceptional skill for visitors and townsfolk alike. Sheep run free on the roads in herds, color-coated so the owners can recognize their stock. When driving on the opposite side of the road, there are no railings or shoulders, but plenty of deep cutting cliffs and slopes. If you slide off the shoulder, eternity will greet you. There are also roadside chapels, painstakingly crafted, in the middle of nowhere, with amazingly ornate statues and seats for prayer. Those driving past can give praise for the beauty or, at least, thanks for making it around the sheep.
We moved through the last few days of our adventure and stopped in a tiny coastal town called Sneem, population six hundred. Here was Ireland complete. There was a church, a pub, a petrol station, a general store, a feed store, a couple quaint shops, and a few more pubs, and a few beds & breakfasts.
As we parked our "smart car" sized Renault in front of the pub of my father's choice, there wasn't a soul to be found. Nothing, nobody, zippo. It was like that ghost town in the Brady Bunch episode with Jim Backus (Mr. Magoo and Thurston Howell the Third) as the crazy miner. Thank God, Mr. Brady was able to knock the jail cell key down with that rope of belts. Ooh! I get the chills remembering the intrigue and ingenuity of Father Brady.

Anyway, there was no one around and we walked from colorful shop to colorful shop. All were trimmed in bright reds, brilliant greens, and other eye-catching hues…and all were locked. We returned to the car and sat perplexed at the silence. It was as if the whole town vanished. We were planning to move down the road when, at the end of the main street, we heard the gong of a church bell. Gong!......Gong!......Gong! The doors flung open, and the whole town spilled into the street right where we sat awestruck. Someone had died, and I think all six hundred townspeople attended the funeral. They scurried back to their shops and continued their business in the colorful town.

We asked for directions to the best bed and breakfast and drove back to check in. It was a quaint home with a spectacular view of a lake and the ocean beyond. I could have stayed there forever. We returned to the pub for dinner. I have mixed emotions by confessing I only had nonalcoholic beer in Ireland. The selections they had were quite good, and I managed to stay free from the attention of the Garda during our entire visit. The most memorable part of the night occurred when a homeless man with a puppy entered the pub. He placed the puppy on the floor, and the little nipper ran right to my father and leaped into his arms, licking and pawing at my dad.

Dad enjoyed a few beers, but the country, as a whole, intoxicated me. The people, sights, and charm of the Emerald Isle live up to the hype. Still very much sober and full of nonalcoholic beer, I told my dad I was going exploring. That expedition was a street of about a quarter mile. At the end of the way was a typical English phone booth, bright red and stark sitting on the edge of Sneem. I walked toward the booth and saw it butted against a tiny bridge with a bubbling creek snaking and crawling underneath and through the idyllic village.

As I followed the course of the river, it flowed gracefully into a lake, then into the ocean beyond. Even though it was ten o’clock, sunlight still cracked through the skies above. The vision magnificently burned in my mind. I thought of my roommate, partner in crime, and best friend sleeping soundly back in the states. She was everything I had ever pictured and my perfect foil. Where I was weak, she was strong. When I was miffed, she was relaxed. She was a great mother, and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. We had been living together longer than my three other marriages combined, and I was inspired by the moment’s beauty and grace.

I can be impulsive. It comes with my nature. It was four o’clock in the morning back at home, and I knew Squeaky wouldn't be waking for another hour, but I was consumed. I was driven! I felt my heart leap and sing that THIS was the moment, even though I was an ocean away from her. I dialed the states direct, and she answered the phone slightly startled, and a wee irritated, by the early morning call. She accepted the charges, and I rambled endlessly about the beauty of Sneem and the events of the day. After a few minutes of rambling like a kid who downed a bowl of sugar, my focus returned to my mission.

I started to sob as I confessed my unwavering love for her and the kids. I said the magic words: "Will you marry me?" She began sobbing too, the good sobbing of course. Her first response was, "Are you serious?" I gushed as tears spilled around me and shouted, "YES! I have never been more sure of anything!" She shot back excitedly, "You traveled to Ireland; you're standing in a phone booth at four o’clock in the morning; and you're asking me to marry you? I caught my breath, slowed my tone, and replied, "Yes, I am." She cried a sweet sigh and said with complete assurance, "I would be proud to be your wife..."

God I love Ireland!

Vampire Bats

Lord Gorf: The Irish Vampire

The Back Cover of Bryony

If you are like me, when a book interests you, you flip to the inside or back cover to read what it's about. Since you are reading the blog, Bryony has interested you and here is that back cover you'll flip to!

"What shall I do first?" Melissa whispered.

John reached out his hands. "Touch me," he said in a low, smooth voice.

She hesitated. Even in the dim light, Melissa saw how thin and pale they were. Her insides recoiled at the thought of touching a corpse. Then Melissa remembered how much she wanted to be Bryony. This was nothing new; John had already siphoned blood from her: Could it harm her to continue for a little longer?

"I'm not afraid," she told herself, but she did not believe it. "I am not afraid. I am not afraid."

After her father’s sudden death, seventeen-year-old Melissa Marchellis
moves onto the former estate of nineteenth century composer and pianist
John Simons, where a mysterious mist stalks her, ghostly piano music invades her bedroom, and lovely visions of John Simons’ young wife Bryony,
who died in childbirth, fill her dreams.

So, when John proposes a trade, a trip to the past as Bryony in exchange
for her blood, Melissa happily agrees. She soon seesaws between a life of
school, slumber parties, and cute boys to dancing at balls, attending formal dinner parties, and hosting garden fetes.

But fantasy and reality blur when her eccentric, middle-aged English
teacher penetrates her dreams as Melissa’s dashing vampire chaperone; her
brother Brian adopts a peculiar stray cat after a friend disappears in a midnight exploration of the dilapidated mansion; and another girl with a similar vampire pact is gruesomely murdered.

Caught between the danger of her agreement and her escalating infatuation
with John Simons, Melissa contends with other vampires and their agendas,
while struggling with her feelings for an undead musician.

I Labored All Labor Day Weekend and a Gloriously Noble Labor It Was

But when I tried to explain that to the rest of my family at my mother’s seventy-sixth birthday gathering Sunday afternoon, the projects that kept me occupied over the three-day weekend sounded dry, even to me: brain aneurysms, a Civil War reenactment, a pastor’s thirtieth anniversary of ordination, a fundraiser for a young man with ataxia of unknown origin and degeneration of the cerebellum, a tattoo artist, two elderly cats in a shelter, a press release about hospital fall programs and another press release on diabetes screening for children.

Until, that is, you read them. Because the goal of all my writing is to first please me, but then to also (hopefully) grip the reader.

While one might argue there is a cavernous difference between a program listing and a vampire series, the two actually have quite a bit in common.

The other day, my marketing guy praised Bryony’s vividness, it’s ability to deeply draw him into the story. Is that not the goal of all writing? So with the feature stories and news releases I hammered out this weekend, I strove to recreate:

• the drama of a brain rupture and the passion the survivor, a former dental hygienist, now has for nursing and helping others in their crises.
• the zeal a young farmer, working his nearly 150-year-old family farm, has for Civil War reenactments and turning kids onto history and agriculture through a trip to the past and the giant pumpkins he grows.
• the dedication of a pastor to Hispanic ministry and the merging of two Lutheran parishes: one a 140 years old and the other a Hispanic mission, into a single thriving urban unit.
• why people should come out and support a fundraiser to send a dying, young man to Las Vegas, because his only wish is to meet and sing with Garth Brooks.
• the joy an artist has for his tattoo apprenticeship, so people can carry a bit of his personally-created art with him.
• the satisfaction when a one-eyed cat, who’s lived in a shelter since 2003, has finally found a loving home, and the hope that an even older cat will soon find the same.
• the reassurance that, no matter if your health concern is knee pain or uterine fibroids, there are answers for you.
• the urgent need to screen children for a disease that previously only affect adults.

And yes, I tempered all that writing with “family and friends” time: chatty conversations on the route with Rebekah, an equally as chatty conversation with my oldest son Christopher while he related his Kentucky weekend via cell phone as I power walked the neighborhood, a catch-up with a friend and book formatter whose plate was fuller than mine when I took a much-needed coffee break, and a “meaning of life” discussion with Timothy during a trip to the grocery store for fresh fruit and tomorrow’s dinner.

Best of all, I learned yesterday that, unbeknownst to me, Christopher had taken a draft of Bryony’s third book with him to read on the train, so he spent a few minutes sitting cross-legged on my office floor (He’s 6/10”, mind you, and my office is in a tiny attic), sharing comments, insights, and reactions.

Now if that wasn’t a perfect way to spend a holiday weekend, I don’t know what is.

Fred Figglehorn - The Babysitter's a Vampire - Official Music Video

Where's the Chocolate?

While locating recipes for the "Bryony" cookbook: "Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles from 'Bryony,'" it occured to me that I hadn't found any chocolate recipes.

Oh, I saw recipes for chocolate drinks, but none for cookies, pies, cakes, pastries, etc. Sure, I didn't expect chocolate chip cookies and brownies, but I'm wondering when DID the Victorians start to prepare chocolate desserts? I can't believe John Simons, with all his clout, couldn't devise a way to serve chocolate at Simons Mansion.

Certainly, I understand Melissa's squeamishness about sampling the ancient fare set before her. You won't find me first in line for the boiled calves head.

Still, I think once Melissa realized that chocolate was not part of her bargain with vampire John Simons, she should have told him all bets were off.

When a vampire doesn't return your affections, a gal should at least have some chocolate for sorrow-drowning, instead of relying on an antique music box and an undead chaperone.