SPOTLIGHT: Teagan’s Books | Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene

#CreativityFound is one of my favorite hashtags, but I use it sparingly, and only when the person or subject matter is truly deserving. Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene is clearly worthy because she is the epitome of creativity and imagination.

“Tell me the facts and I’ll learn. Tell me the truth and I’ll believe. But tell me a story and it will live in my heart forever.”

~Native American Proverb

 

Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene, is a true storyteller with a vivid imagination. She enjoys interacting with the readers on her blog and her readers take part in the creation of her serial stories. A southerner by birth, she was “enchanted” by the desert southwest of the USA when she moved there. She had always devoured fantasy novels of every type. Then one day there was no new book readily at hand for reading — so she decided to write one. And she hasn’t stopped writing since.

Her work is colored by her experiences in both the southern states and the southwest. Teagan writes many types of fantasy, from what she likes to call “quest type” fantasy, to urban fantasy, to fantasies with a dash of mystery. Her blog, Teagan’s Books contains serial stories written according to contributions from viewers.

Teagan’s major influences include Terry Brooks, David Eddings, Robert Jordan, and Charlaine Harris.

The novella version of the serial that helped establish her blog is now available.

The Three Things Serial Story is a spontaneously written (“pantser”) story. Everything in it — characters, setting, plot, was driven by “things” left by readers of the blog Teagan’s Books, episode by episode. Each week readers left three more things. The story evolved according to what those random things inspired. The serial began with oscillating fan, which brought me the vision of the 1920s setting. The era and narrator continued in two more serials that followed. While it was not great literature, it sure was a fun ride!  Here’s a trailer to put you in a Roaring Twenties mood.

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“Creativity takes courage.”

~Henri Matisse

Check out Teagan’s other books here.

Connect with her on Social Media

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

Amazon Author Page

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Be sure to visit Teagan’s blog, Teagan’s Books. It’s one of the most creative, colorful and fun blogs you’ll ever visit.

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Have a wonderful week and join me on Friday for ‘Haiku Friday’!

 

 

 

Writers Quote Wednesday – Mystery

“The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science.”

~Albert Einstein

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What is Mystery?

Any affair, thing, or person that presents features or qualities so obscure as to arouse curiosity or speculation.

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I’ve decided to put myself out there and post a section of my work-in-progress, Dracúl. This is my first draft. Dracúl follows The Fall of Lilith and is the second installment of my Fantasy Angels Series. I thought this section had a lot of mystery, so it went well with this week’s theme.

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Chapter 1- THE AWAKENING

 

I awoke to darkness and the smell of musty earth and mold. I gasped, feeling disoriented to the time and place. The air was humid and stinging cold. Trembling I shifted on the moist ground my eyes flitted in every direction searching for a source of luminosity. Filaments of moonlight scarcely passed the towering trees that surrounded me.

I raised my shadowy vision to the skies but did not gaze upon a single star. Instead, I saw a mass of dark, branches looming above me. The cold breeze blew and made the trees rustle like living things. Bare branches seemed to come at me like clutching clawed hands. An eerie howling and whistling made by the wind moving around them gave me a jolt.

My pulse began to thump loudly in my ears drowning all sounds except that of my fitful panting.

“Where am I?” My voice sounded small, brittle and unfamiliar. I was but a child. A boy.

Unsure what to do, I lifted my upper body off the wet earth and squinted into the dimness of the forest.

My mind was clouded. “Who am I? Why am I alone in this darkness?” I squeezed my eyes shut and then sprung them open again. My vision began to clear, but my mind was still a fog.

I passed my hands over my face and head. I inhaled sharply as my hands ran across two pointy projections extending from my skull. Shaking, I passed my hands over the rest of my body and noticed the skin below my waist was different from the skin on my torso, arms and face. My lower body was covered in dry, smooth scales cold to the touch.

Images of a tall creature with long extremities filled my mind. Where are my lower limbs? As my vision adjusted to my surroundings I saw that I had no legs. Instead, I had a scaly tail––like a serpent. There was a heaviness tugging on my backbone. I shook to remove the hindrance, but instead a huge pair of black, spiky wings distended from my back. My body tensed. “What sort of creature am I?”

Once more I closed my eyes. When I reopened them I saw colors––grayish green moss covered rocks and russet trees, a sea of gold and copper covered the ground as crisp leaves float down from trees and curl into the moist earth. I gazed at my arms and hands. My skin was red––as red as blood and my hands were clawed.

“Was I abandoned here?”

I wished to escape, but my reptilian lower body would not move. A gust blew chilling the air and blowing the trees. I feared getting ensnared by the trees’ clutches if I took flight. Hostile screeches from unknown creatures pierced the air. I whisked my head to and fro searching for the origins of the sounds futilely. Terror seemed to thwart logic and rational thinking.

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Colleen Chesebro is a writer, poet, and book reviewer. She hosts an inspiring event every Wednesday on her blog, Silver Threading, called Writers Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge. Anyone can participate by choosing a quote by a favorite writer and combining it with a poem, story or excerpt and posting it on your blog.

A Town’s Perception – Short Story

 

 

Hello everyone! Thank you for visiting my blog today. I’m featuring a short story inspired by a nightmare I had. The nightmare was somewhat bizarre, as night terrors often are, but what I remember of it became the creative impulse that led to this story. I’ll call it a Sci-Fi/Horror.

WARNING: The story is a bit macabre.

 

( ^ Click PLAY to hear soundtrack ^)

 

A Town’s Perception

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

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It began with the moon.

One evening I lifted my eyes to the skies, and the moon appeared to have doubled in size. After that, all sorts of curious phenomena began to occur. Everyone in my small town was in a panic.

Strange swirls of indescribable colors were seen in the night skies. During the day the sun shone blood red and colored the skies pink. It was as if we had been transported to a different planet overnight.

When I saw the ships in the sky, I knew it wouldn’t be long before they came for us, and I was right.

In the middle of the day, they came. I watched them disembark their ships, small groups at a time. They resembled men of diminutive stature with large heads. They appeared to waddle rather than walk. They wore weird metallic suits with respirators attached to their faces.

I rushed to my daughter’s side. She lay on the bed in her room, stared ahead at nothingness and wailed, as she had done for days.

My poor child. Her mind was not equipped to handle this invasion. I held her tight. I would not allow her capture. Who knew what these small creatures were capable of doing to her—-to us.

I pushed the barrel of the gun up against her temple to keep my hand from trembling. The cold metal did not stop her wails. Poor thing, her voice was so hoarse. I would extinguish the fire in her gullet.

I pulled the trigger. She fell on her side, her eyes still open wide, as if she could still see this nightmare. I shut her eyelids and finally gave her peace.

It was my turn. I’d convinced myself, like so many others in this town, that this was the only way out. I was the last to take action since I was taught to always have hope, but even those of us who always have hope had given up.

The priest took most of the townfolk. After his last sermon, he instructed the congregation to get on their knees and pray. While the town’s people prayed, the priest left the church and locked the doors behind him. Then he set the church ablaze.

Pitiful man of God, his mind also handled the crisis poorly. He burned those people alive: men and women, young and old. He had invited my daughter and I to attend his last sermon, and I agreed to go, but my daughter was not doing well, so we stayed home and were saved from a horrific death.

I live a block away from the church, and I heard the screams and howls of the burning souls. I ran down the street and was met with a fiery inferno. The stench of burning flesh and hair made me retch. I released the contents of my stomach right there on the street. What did it matter? There was no one around to watch me. I saw the priest stagger from the back of the burning building. My stomach was tied in knots.

“Demons! The demons are upon us,” he shouted. “If you remain they will take your soul!”

“What are you talking about?” I gasped and pointed a shaky finger at the combusting church. “There are people burning alive in there.” I ran toward the church’s double doors. The heat of the blaze stopped me. I sobbed unable to act. Those were my neighbors. My friends.

“You have to burn! Otherwise the demons will take your soul. I burned them because the fire will purify their spirits.” He stared at me with wild eyes.

My hands flew to cover my mouth upon recognition of what he had done. My legs faltered, and I fell to my knees. I trembled uncontrollably as the priest took steps toward me. I extended my quaking arms before me.

“Stop! Stay away!” I made an attempt to get to my feet, but my knees buckled.

“My dear, you must not remain alive. The demons will take your soul.” His voice eerily calm. He continued to trudge in my direction.

“You’re right!” I shouted. My head nodding briskly. “I know I must die. I must tend to my daughter’s demise also.”

“What? Your young daughter is still alive?”

“Yes, she waits for me at home.”

“No, no, no!” The man of the cloth pulled on his sleeves and shook his head like a madman. “You must go to her! It may be too late already. The demons do not waste time. A young soul like hers is a prime target. Go to her! If her soul is still intact, take her life immediately and then take your own.” He took a lighter out and flicked it on. He bent over and put the small flame against the hem of his cassock.

I tried to scream as I watched the fire spread and grow on the flammable cloth of his priestly vestment, but I opened my mouth and sounds did not leave my lips. I gathered all my strength and lifted myself off the ground. I wanted to run. Instead I barely escaped the wailing priest who floundered, engulfed in flames. I staggered past him. The crackle and pop of his burning flesh lingered in my ears never to be forgotten. Noxious smoke attacked my nostrils. The stench was so great, I could taste it.

The very next day, the little men came.

It’s time now. My daughter is gone. The entire town is gone.

*

A gunshot is heard. Men in white lab coats and facemasks run into a young girl’s bedroom. On the twin bed, dressed in pink, lies a pre-teen girl and a thirty-something-year-old woman. Both females are deceased due to gunfire wounds to the head.

“We’re too late,” one of the men in lab coats said.

“Well, maybe it is for the best,” his partner said. “There is nothing we could have done to reverse the effects of the chemical agent.”

“It’s a shame what happened in this town.”

“Yes, but how could we know Compound K would have this effect on them?”

“No––we had no way of knowing that the solution we prepared to cause infertility in the men and women of this town would turn into a powerful, hallucinogenic, mind-altering drug when combined with their water.”

“We’ll have to look into the town’s filtering system before we try this again in the next small town.”

“I agree, but let’s not allow this small speed bump to deter our cause.”

“Doctors,” a young man interrupted, “you asked for bottled water?” The men nodded and each took a bottle. They hardly took notice of the fellow. The young assistant leaves.

“Of course it won’t deter us. Our cause to save the planet by ending overpopulation goes beyond a few casualties.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call five hundred people a few casualties, but such things happen in the name of science.”

“Absolutely.” The scientist gulps down his bottled water. Suddenly, he sputters. His eyes widen. “Th-thi-this water was bottled right here in this town!”

The other scientist fumbles with the bottle, trying to see the manufacturer’s name.

“How could this small town have a bottled water company?” Wide-eyed and hands trembling, the scientist stares at the lettering on the bottle. He reads, “‘We take pride in our fresh, clean mountain water and we use the highest quality water filtration systems.’ They bottled this water four days ago.” He drops the bottle, and it crashes to the ground.

“No!” his partner yells. “We put Compound K in the water supply seven days ago!”

“Maybe it won’t affect us in the same way as the townspeople. We’ve only drank a small portion in comparison to what they must have drank in the course of several days.” His voice wavers and his body shudders at the thought of having ingested the solution that caused all the townspeople to go mad and kill themselves. The other scientist stares at him, unnervingly silent.

Unexpectedly, the first scientist cries out and recoils. “Stay away from me! Don’t come near me. You will never take me alive!”

“What is the matter with you?” Staring at his partner and looking perplexed the second scientist takes a step back. “Oh, no.” His face slackens as realization hits.

His partner continues shouting, “You’ll never take me alive, Nazi!” He grabs a lamp and charges.

The scientist wrestles with his crazed colleague and seizes the lamp from him. The madman bites him on the shoulder. The scientist beats the man on the head and shoulder repeatedly until the lunatic finally unclenches his teeth and falls to the ground dead.

The scientist falls back against the wall, panting. He slides down the wall, landing in a crumpled mess on the floor. He holds his head in his hands and stares at his partner’s limp body, whose blood meanders toward him. Rivers pour from his eyes. His body shakes and convulses.

His eyes do not reflect what his mind sees.

The flames of hell surround him while demons dance around and torment him with everlasting pain.

 

Copyright © 2013 by Vashti Quiroz-Vega. All rights reserved.

Haiku Friday – Guide & Map

RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge

 

Happy Haiku Friday! This week’s prompt words are Guide and Map. Hmmm, not exactly poetic words. Well, this is what I came up with this week. I hope you like my haiku.

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A mind map is a powerful graphic technique used to visually organize information and unlock creativity.

Have you ever used this technique for storytelling, blogging or to plan an event? Has it worked for you?

Am I A Sucker?

The other day I went to a nearby supermarket to buy strawberries, pineapple, kale, spinach and parsley for a smoothie I planned to make the following morning. The grocery store was busy for a Monday evening. I looked around and, of course, picked up a few knickknacks that were not on my shopping list—but what else is new. When I finally got to the checkout line, there were two people ahead of me (not bad).

I was caught up reading the latest gossip about Kim Kardashian and Miley Cyrus in the trashy magazines located in the racks conveniently placed near the register, when it dawned on me the line had not moved at all. The man at the head of the line took off, leaving all his groceries behind. The cashier pushed his groceries to one side and told the lady ahead of me to come forward. As she did, she asked what had happened. While the cashier explained, my ears were alert and focused (imagine a Chihuahua with its large ears standing at attention).

The man had forgotten his wallet at home, or so he claimed. As the cashier processed the groceries, her customer grimaced at the story, twisting her mouth and rolling her eyes. Then, as she was paying, the man suddenly returned. He explained to the cashier that he had misplaced his wallet and couldn’t find it. The customer sucked audibly on her teeth, shot him a dirty look, and walked away with her bags of groceries.

The man’s face wore an expression of complete humiliation. He continued to offer explanations to the woman behind the counter as she checked out my groceries. From the corner of my eye, I saw what he had come to get. There was no beer, whisky or cigarettes. As a matter of fact, his groceries consisted of staples: a pack of chicken drumsticks, milk, eggs, bread, a small bottle of vegetable oil, peanut butter, tomatoes and a package of American cheese.

I peeked at him and noticed his shoes were worn down to nothing. His pants were baggy and worn, as was his shirt. He had the look of a man going through hard times.

The cashier gave me my total. I paid. I left the supermarket.

As I walked away from the building, my heart grew heavy. I sat in my car. I’m not claiming to be Mother Teresa, but I couldn’t stand the thought of that man going hungry. I left my car and returned to the market. I ran to the checkout line. The man was no longer there, but his groceries still lay cramped in one corner. I asked the cashier where the man was, and she told me he had just walked out the door. I told the cashier I would pay for his groceries and then rushed to get him, but not before receiving a weird look from her.

I caught up to him at the corner and told him to come back to the store—that I would pay for his groceries. He refused. It took me quite a while to convince him to take my money. I finally told him he would be doing me a favor. The older man smiled faintly, took the money, and gave me his blessing. At that moment, I felt a weight lifted from me.

I’m not rich, and I know I’m no saint, but my gut told me this man really needed a break. He looked like he could be anyone’s dad. He was clean and did not smell of alcohol, and I could see anguish in his eyes. I was compelled to help him.

Some people I know tell me I’m a sucker. They say he went to the grocery store looking for a sucker to pay for his groceries. My answer to that is, maybe he did. Perhaps he was that hungry and that desperate.

So what do you think? Am I a sucker? Or did I do the right thing? What would you have done if you were in my shoes?

TERROR

(^ For creepier effect turn on sound-effect)

Hey everyone! Continuing my efforts to completely creep you out this month I will begin with a hair-raising quote by the master of horror: Stephen King. Enjoy the story. Oh! If you’d like to heighten the creep-factor, press play on the sound player just below the picture of the strange doll. Enjoy!

The 3 types of terror: The Gross-out: the sight of a severed head tumbling down a flight of stairs, it’s when the lights go out and something green and slimy splatters against your arm. The Horror: the unnatural, spiders the size of bears, the dead walking around, it’s when the lights go out and something with claws grabs you by the arm. And the last and worse one: Terror, when you come home and notice everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute. It’s when the lights go out and you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against your ear, but when you turn around, there’s nothing there…

~Stephen King

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 by Vashti Q

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He touched me. His cold fingers lay upon my bare shoulder and made me shudder. His breath, icy, lingered on the hairs standing on end at the back of my neck.

 

I turned quickly.

 

No one.

 

My eyes flickered in every direction searching for his likeness. I was alone in my room.

 

This is not the first time this has happened to me. He still torments me. It was not enough to do so while he was still among the living. He visits me now as he did then . . . only at midnight.

 

At first it was only a touch, and he was gone—back to the place where phantoms dwell. Cold and piercing as was his contact, I preferred it to the unspeakable things he now does to me. I can’t get away so I lie awake, waiting for him, as I did not too long ago when he was still alive.

 

Alive, in the dead of night, he used to leave my mother in a drunken sleep and sneak inside my bedroom. He’d put a hand over my mouth and threaten to kill me if I spoke a word to anyone of the vile acts he would perform on my teenage body. Back then my mind would escape, leaving my body to suffer the terror and pain. I escaped to a faraway place to be by myself. Being alone then was a blessing. When he was finished with me for the night, I’d lie writhing in pain, bleeding and sobbing against my pillow as he once more made threats to end me before departing my room.

 

There is no escaping him now. He haunts my mind, my very soul, and being alone now is synonymous with hell. How do you rid yourself of a ghoul—an evil spirit that plagues your slumber? I wish I knew. Night after night, he tortures me. My shrieks and howls go unheard. I am on my own.

 

Tonight I will put an end to my suffering. I can no longer endure the hurt and anguish he inflicts on me. I should have done this long ago. Perhaps this would have been a better solution to ending the agony, rather than the one I ultimately chose.
Uggh! As I run a piece of glass along my wrist to the point of bleeding, I tell myself the excruciating pain is only temporary. My hand shakes uncontrollably, making it difficult to finish what I began, but I am determined to end this nightmare. I will be rid of him once and for all.

 

Argh! The agony! It is as if I just forced white-hot pokers into my arms. My fingers cramp and seize into claws. Slitting one’s wrists is not the painless, glamorous death the movies make it out to be. It is repulsive, foul, excruciating. I watch the blood gush out of me like geysers. There is gore everywhere. The smell of metal and fear assaults my nostrils. My chest feels tight. I scream. I cannot prevent myself from screaming in anguish. The pain. Oh God, the pain!

 

I feel a chill in my bones. I have an obscure sensation like something is expanding inside of me, filling me with haze. I . . .  I–––

 

 

*

The doctor bent over, hands on knees, panting after running from the other side of the hospital. “Nurse, how could she do this with your station right outside the room?”

 

“I heard nothing—only silence—but when I entered the room to administer the nightly medications, I found her like this.”

 

“Did you . . . ” deep breath, “move the body?”

 

“I found her just as you see her.”

 

“In all my years tending the mentally insane, I have never seen anything like this.” The doctor pulled a small tape recorder out of his lab coat and pressed the record button. “The patient is nude and covered in blood from head to toe. Her eyes are open and they gaze at me as if they could see me. Her arms are extended, her hands together, one over the other, palms up, resting on her thighs proximate to her knees. Her legs are crossed at the ankles.” He paused and took another deep breath. “The only visible wound on her body is a large laceration on her chest. It begins inferior to her sternum and extends to the left. It appears to be self-inflicted, although I have not been able to locate the instrument used.” The doctor gulped and continued. “Lying on the palm of her hand appears to be–––her heart.” He switched off the recorder.

 

“Do we have to move her?”

 

“Call the police.”

 

 

*

“This is how they found her?” one of the orderlies asked.

 

“Yes. Neither the doctor nor the police wanted to move her,” the other hospital assistant said.

 

“Strange. She looks like she’s just sitting comfortably in the chair, waiting for someone. Her dainty hands offering her heart as if on a platter. She should be slumped over, but she’s sitting upright and alert. Her open eyes look aware, and her face has an innocent tranquil quality. She looks as if at any moment she would break words. I don’t believe she was capable of doing this.”

 

“Of course she was capable! Both the doctor and police confirmed it. One of the CSI police noticed a large piece of glass jutting out slightly from the gash on her chest. She used it to cut herself open. I don’t understand how she could have that expression on her face after all that pain. Her faint smile and serene expression are unnerving. Besides, no one that ends up in this place is innocent. She murdered her stepfather in cold blood while he slept. Her mother awoke to find her straddling him, dressed only in his blood and gore. She stabbed him seventy-eight times. Her mother said she saw a demon in her eyes that night.”

 

“Why did she do it?”

 

“She claimed her stepfather abused her sexually.”

 

“Surely that must have driven her to it.”

 

“No, it would have been impossible for her stepfather to abuse her since he was paralyzed from the waist down.”

 

“Oh.” The orderly gawked at the young girl’s corpse. “Wow, she must have really been crazy.”

 

Copyright © 2013 by Vashti Quiroz-Vega. All rights reserved.

Readhead Girl – Ballpoint Pen by VianaArts

 

Hell’s Half Acre

Hello! I had said in my last post that for the rest of the month of October my posts will be of the spooky variety. I believe I am definitely delivering on that today. The following story is based on true facts as witnessed by a friend of mine that prefers to remain anonymous. Now I have to warn you, this true story is not for the faint of heart. My friend claims this story is true and since the incident occurred he and his friends had not spoken of it…until now.

^CLICK PLAY

 

 

 

Here is his story…

Between the scraggly Florida bushes and the misting rain, Kit could barely make out the two small tire tracks where the remains of a road used to be. She was sitting in the backseat of the pickup truck, behind the guy she was trying so hard to be brave for and his best friend beside him. She chose the backseat because she felt that if she were behind him, he wouldn’t let anything get her. Kit’s best friend was sitting beside her as the four of them slowly made their way down the winding path, farther and farther into the woods.
In a voice as brave as she could muster, trying to hide the trembling from the shivers running up and down her spine, she said, “Why do they call this place Hell’s Half Acre?”

Johnny looked at her in the rearview mirror. The lights from the dashboard reflected ever so elegantly in her already bright green baby doll eyes. He could see she had her light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, exposing the soft curves of her face.
With a smile he replied, “The story goes that in the 1930’s, a schoolteacher took her class out to the old sawmill on a field trip. That sawmill is where her husband had worked. One day while she was teaching at school, he disappeared, along with their three children. She didn’t know what had happened to them, and the unknowing was said to have driven her insane. That day at the mill, she killed all the children in her class before committing suicide. They say sometimes at night, you can still hear the old mill running, even though it was completely abandoned in the 60’s. There hasn’t been any power out here since it closed. They also say she has been seen walking down the road at night in a white dress stained with the blood of the children she murdered.”

Old, abandoned haunted Mill

Even though Kit usually found Johnny’s voice soft and soothing, the longer he talked, the more his words swept through her like a cold winter wind, chilling her to the bone. She had been raised in a church that believed in heaven and hell, demons and angels. Maybe that was one of the reasons she decided to come out here tonight—to see if everything she had been taught was true. Maybe she could bring some reality to match the faith she was told was so necessary.
Now Johnny was talking with Cody. Kit couldn’t really hear what they were saying, nor did she care. She focused on the schoolteacher’s story and on the old Live Oak trees that reached out above the grass-covered road as though they were trying to suck all the light out of the world.

“Kit, you gonna make it girl?” Shelley was leaning across the seat looking at her.
Her real name was Kathleen, but her friends called her Kit, short for Kit Kat. She turned from the window and looked at Shelley, who was such a great friend. When Kit first moved to town, Shelley was the first person she met, and for some reason, they just clicked.
“Yeah, I’m good.” That was the best lie she could come up with at the moment.
As the last of the light faded from the day, the rain started to fall more vigorously. Lightning lit up the sky, which only made the Live Oaks’ reaching arms seem that much creepier.
Johnny looked back over his shoulder. “Around this next corner, there should be a sign that says ‘Entering Hell’s Half Acre.’ Help me look for it, alright? They say not to drive your truck past the sign. Said it pisses the woman off!”
As they rounded the corner, Cody hollered. Johnny, who was still looking over his shoulder, spun back around and hit the brakes all in one motion. With no warning, the engine died. Without its constant hum, there was nothing to hide the thumping of Kit’s heart.

 
A loud clap of thunder shook the truck. The four friends stared out the front windshield. Kit’s fingers gripped the door handle of the truck so hard, she could no longer feel her fingers. At the right front quarter panel of the truck, covered in small green and brown vines, was the old sign: ‘Entering Hell’s Half Acre’.
A woman stood in front of the truck, peering back at them through long, wet, pitch-black hair and with eyes red from the tears of blood she had been crying.

Ghost of crazy teacher that murdered the children

Another flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder. Kit’s heart raced faster and faster. She was frozen. Everything in her wanted to scream, but her chest was so tight that she couldn’t even make herself breathe.

Kit staring at the unbelievable!

Underneath the wind-driven raindrops that crashed against the windows of the truck floated the whir of large saws starting up and the screams of horrified children. Kit could see Johnny desperately trying to restart the truck. The engine was dead!

 
The wind blew harder, as though this hell storm was solely concentrated on that one horrid half acre of the world forgotten by God. Another loud scream from a child—so much pain and fear in the sound that it penetrated Kit’s soul. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had been totally isolated from God. All she wanted to do was leave, but fear ripped through her body, leaving her paralyzed.

The next bolt of lightning was so bright that Kit was sure it hit the truck. For a moment she lost focus, like someone had just taken her picture with an oversized flash from a camera in a pitch-black room. The truck rocked back and forth as thunder bellowed its way through the four corners of hell.

When the roar of thunder subsided, Kit’s eyes focused once again beyond the windshield—but the woman was gone. Soft raindrops tapping on the window and the comforting purr of the engine were the only noises she could hear.
Johnny instinctively slammed the truck in reverse. As they made their way back down that long, dark, empty road from the place nobody should ever go, not one of them spoke a word. The absolute truth of the children’s cries on the wind and the woman, cold as the grave, standing in the road just past the sign were evidence enough for Kit that if there was a devil that could hold such a place on this Earth, then there must be a God to protect us from him.

 
What the four of them had seen and heard was never spoken of that night — or any other time since. But if you ever find yourself in need of evidence of what lies beyond, there is a small grass road out in the country that will take you under the old Live Oak trees to the end of the vision of God, and you will find what is truly unholy….

Spooky Nights in October

Halloween

Hello, one and all! Welcome! The month of October is associated, at least in the USA, with Halloween. Many people love this holiday and count down to the 31st. All across America, there will be parties and costume contests as the official date approaches. Even Universal Studios dedicates a portion of its theme park to “Halloween Horror Nights” —an event I’ll be attending this year (and posting pictures ;D)

I’m scared already!

There are many people who do not celebrate Halloween. Some people claim that it’s an ungodly event marked by devil worship. Well, I hate to inform them that every night, there’s probably devil worship going on somewhere in the world. Anyway, this has always made me wonder about the origins of Halloween. I looked into it and in today’s post, I will share with you what I’ve found.

Halloween’s origins date back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain. Samhain is a Gaelic (Irish, Scottish) festival marking the end of the harvest season (summer) and the beginning of the cold winter, or the “darker half” of the year often associated with human death.
Celts believed that on the night before the new season (what we now know as Halloween), the boundary between the worlds of the living and dead became indistinct, unclear. On the night of October 31, they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed the ghosts of the dead returned to Earth.

Celtic Samhain Celebration

The Celts believed the spirits caused trouble and damaged their crops, but they also thought the presence of the phantoms helped the Druids, (Celtic priests), to make predictions about the future. Celts were entirely dependent on the natural world, so these prophecies were an important source of comfort and direction during the long, dark winter.
During the celebration, the Druids built huge sacred bonfires where the people gathered to burn crops and sacrifice animals as offerings to the Celtic deities. To honor the gods Celts wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each other’s fortunes.
When Christianity spread throughout the Celtic lands, the church changed the festival of Samhain to All Saints Day, which was a day to honor the dead. The celebration was similar to how the Celtics used to celebrate Samhain. Later, All Saints Day was changed to All Hallows Eve and, eventually, to Halloween.

All Saints Day

So there you have it. A little insight into how Halloween came about. In the spirit of Halloween (no pun intended), I will be posting scary stories and all things spooky, as well as Halloween recipes, decorations, costumes, make-up and more. So hold on to your butts! Here we go…
I will start you off easy today with a few Halloween cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Enjoy!

PHOTO BY: Kraft
Yummy! Sludgy Chocolate Martini

Sludgy Chocolate Martini

 

What you need

1

Tbsp.  chocolate syrup

3

 Halloween OREO Cookies, finely crushed (about 1/4 cup)

1/2

cup  chilled brewed strong MAXWELL HOUSE Coffee, any variety

1/4

cup  vodka

1/4

cup  chocolate-flavored liqueur

1

cup   light vanilla ice cream

2

Tbsp.  PLANTERS Creamy Peanut Butter

make it

 POUR syrup onto small plate; place crushed cookies on separate small plate. Dip rims of 2 martini glasses in syrup, then in cookie crumbs.

SPOON any remaining cookie crumbs into prepared glasses.

BLEND remaining ingredients in blender until smooth; pour into prepared glasses.

kraft kitchens tips

DEEPER-CHOCOLATE MARTINI

Prepare using light chocolate ice cream.

VARIATION

Omit the peanut butter for an equally delicious martini.

NON-ALCOHOLIC VARIATION

Substitute 1/2 cup chocolate milk for the vodka and liqueur.

Spooky drink – Midnight Mary

Midnight Mary

Original ingredients for the Midnight Mary #3:
1 1/2 oz North Shore Aquavit
1/2 oz Benedictine (not B&B)
3/4 oz lime juice
1/4 oz galangal syrup
1/4 oz simple syrup
1 1/4 oz clarified tomato water
Fresno chile bitters
Nitrogen frozen basil foam
Garnished with heirloom tomato and pigmy basil

An easy at-home version that has proven delicious:
1 1/2 oz North Shore Aquavit (or sub other brand of aquavit, gin, or tequila — all work very nicely)
3/4 oz lime juice (fresh-squeezed)
1/2 oz simple syrup, or to taste (1:1 sugar to water)
3 cherry tomatoes, halved
3 basil leaves (or other fresh herbs of choice)
Pinch of salt

* Place halved tomatoes in the bottom of a mixing glass. Add lime and simple syrup. Muddle well to extract liquid from tomatoes. Add remainder of ingredients. Add ice, shake well, and pour through mesh strainer (to collect solids) into a chilled coupe.

Hot Dog Mummies

Breadstick Mummy Dogs

1 roll/pkg Pillsbury Breadstick dough (12 count)

12 hot dogs (I think it should work with sausages too)

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Unroll all 12 breadsticks from package. Cut each into 3 equal strips. Take 3 strips, one at a time and wrap around 1 hot dog starting from the top of the hot dog. (Each hot dog has 3 thin breadstick strips around it). Leave a small space towards the top of the hotdog to make mustard eyes. Continue wrapping all dogs then place on a lightly greased baking sheet. Bake for 10-15 minutes or until lightly golden brown.

2. Remove and let cool for 5 minutes. Use mustard or ketchup for the eyes.

Bat Bites
Aren’t they cute?

Bat Bites

Recipe Time

Prep Time: 50 Minutes

Nutritional Information

Amount per serving

• Calories: 130
• Fat: 10g
• Saturated fat: 4g
• Protein: 4g
• Carbohydrate: 7g
• Fiber: 1g
• Cholesterol: 15mg
• Sodium: 154mg

Ingredients

• 1 (4 oz.) package cream cheese, softened
• 8 ounces soft, mild goat cheese, at room temperature
• 1/4 cup pesto
• 2 tablespoons coarsely ground black pepper
• 2 tablespoons poppy seeds
• 8 pitted olives, sliced
• 32 peppercorns
• 32 triangular blue corn chips or free-form wing shapes made from leftover tortillas from Ghost Chips $

Preparation

1. Mash together cream cheese, goat cheese and pesto. Chill for 40 minutes.
2. Shape mixture into 16 2-inch balls, about 1 heaping tsp. each. Roll in black pepper and poppy seeds to cover. Press two olive slices into balls for eyes and place peppercorns in centers for pupils.
3. Insert chip on either side of ball for wings; serve.

Candid Talk with Yolanda Isabel Regueira Marin

Hello everyone! Thank you for visiting my blog. It is my great pleasure to introduce to you today the lovely, talented writer and blogger Yolanda Isabel Regueira Marin. I met Yolanda on Google+ and it didn’t take me long to discover that she is a wonderful person. I visited her blog Love, Pain and Other Catastrophes and quickly became a fan. Read on and you’ll see why.

In her words…

I was born in Madrid Spain and immigrated to Australia with my parents when I was four years old  I speak and write Spanish fluently and dabble in Italian.  I have grown up surrounded by Spanish culture and traditions and have integrated them into my life in the land downunder.  I guess you could call me a Spanaussie.

I live in beautiful Sydney, Australia and am a Licensed Conveyancer.  For those of you who don’t know what that is … I practice Property Law and all that it involves.

I have many interests one of them being the theatre both performing and attending.  I am a member of a community theatre at which I perform.

I enjoy photography, trying capture the place … the moment, through the lens of a camera.  Hand in hand with this is my love for travel.  I  feel I have learnt so much through experiencing the different cultures and the colours of the many countries I have been lucky enough to have visited.

My greatest passion is writing.  Life is my inspiration with all its beauty and its ugliness.  I have always enjoyed writing, but started my blog as a way of externalising my thoughts and emotions. Whilst I enjoy writing prose, poetry is my first love.  I love the freedom of expression it allows.  Writing allows me to immerse myself in another character or travel to another world.  It feeds my soul and lets my imagination take flight.  It is as essential as breathing.

I live, I love, I breathe …. a mixture of unique and ordinary.  A little bit mad, but sometimes very sane.  Life has brought moments of overwhelming joy and dark despair …. I travel through this journey that is life, with one eye open and the other closed to unnecessary reality.

“We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars.” Oscar Wilde

Take my hand and join me in this journey that is life.

Yolanda has aways had a flair for the dramatic.

Okay, lets start the Q & A…

1) If you win the lottery what would be the first thing you would do with the money? (no mushy answer, haha!)
Really, no mush damn … lol It would depend on how much money I won. If I won an outrageous amount I would definitely leave work and dedicate my time to my writing and other things that I enjoy doing. I’m sorry, I have to get a little mushy … Please don’t stop the interview!! I would help my daughters out financially and as I have intentions of doing some work with charities once I retire, I would start that a little earlier. I have always wanted to contribute to and work with ill and/or abused children.

 Okay, that’s it! I’m writing a long letter to pope Francis requesting you be canonized as a saint.

2) Do you speak Spanish?
Yes, I do. I read and write in Spanish as well. My father in particular was adamant that my brothers and I would learn the language. He would make us sit down in front of a small blackboard every day after school and give us lessons. He was not quite as diligent with my younger brothers. Of course, I hated it at the time, but I am now very grateful that he took the time to teach us. I also went to Spanish lessons when I got older and speaking Spanish at home obviously helped. Although I speak Spanish well, my English vocabulary is more extensive and I would consider English to be my first language.

I believe it’s great to have a second language.

3) What is the most demeaning thing said about you as a writer?
I have been very lucky, I have not had too much criticism of my writing and the little that I have had has been constructive and I have learnt from it. The only incident I can recall happened about two months ago, when I was told that my writing was ‘dribble’, that my poems were ‘a pandering bunch of crap’ and that I ‘had only published one technically good poem’. It hit me in the gut and it hurt at the time, but everyone is entitled to their opinion and you cannot please or cater to everyone.

     I, like you, believe that everyone’s entitled to their opinion and I understand that not everyone is going to like every piece you write, but there’s a right and wrong way to give a critique. There’s no reason for someone to be rude or mean. Of course it hurts.

4) What are you passionate about? (in addition to writing)
My two daughters, they are my greatest achievement and my greatest love. Ooops, sorry I forgot about the ‘no mush’ rule ☺

I’ll let it go this time. ;D

I am passionate about the theatre, both attending and performing. It takes me away from reality and transposes me to another place and sometimes another time. Come on, who wouldn’t love it? You get to dress up and pretend to be someone else just like most of us did when we were kids. I will let you in on a secret, I have never really grown u, ha ha. On a more serious note, it has taught me discipline, expression and articulation when speaking.

Yolanda with her niece in a performance of Jayne Eyre

I also love to travel … Another great teacher from which I have learnt about different cultures, traditions and experienced the beauty of different landscapes and architecture. Hand in hand with travelling is my love for photography which allows me to capture the experience, the moment, the place and share these with others.

5) Where do you get inspiration for your blog posts? Do your experiences, songs, other writers, or dreams inspire you?
All of the above. Inspiration can be found everywhere if you leave yourself open to it. In Life, Love, Death, Nature and so much more … a newborn’s cry, a lover’s touch, a sound, a memory, an experience. I will leave it there, I am rambling. ☺

6) Have you ever hated (or regretted) something you wrote on your blog?
No, I don’t think so. Those of you who have read my blog know that it is personal. I am very honest and open when I write. I write from the heart and gut. My blog may not be for everyone, it was started for me and along the way, I have been told, it has touched other’s lives. There is no greater compliment than this. So no, there are no regrets. Whatever I have written was ‘right’ at the time.

I hear you. Well, actually I read you. You know what I mean.

7) Do you consider yourself a writer, blogger or both? Why?
This is the most difficult question because of what my definition of a writer has always been. I have always considered a writer to be someone who writes for a living, however meagre that living may be. What I have learnt from the writing communities that I am involved in, who are full of talented writers and some who are passionate about writing, is that if you write regularly you are a writer. If you have had your work published, you are an author. It makes sense, don’t you think? I am a poet and a blogger. A writer? I am still trying to get my head around being a writer. I have been called a writer by others and I have started delving into writing flash fiction and short stories. Maybe, I am a writer, I will leave that to the readers ☺

You are a writer, poet and blogger.

8) What is your favorite theme/genre to write about? Why?
I enjoy writing about life, the good, the bad and the ugly, and romance. The same three descriptions apply to romance too, lol. Whilst I have a vivid imagination the words flow more easily when I have lived it or have had exposure to something. Upon saying this, any form of writing irrespective of what theme/genre you write in, this would apply to. When writing, you have to dig deep and draw from inside. The more we get out there, live, experience and feel, the more we have to draw from.

     I absolutely agree. You do have to get out there and LIVE life. Experiment, take risks (calculated, don’t go nuts) and have fun.

9) If you got an offer to be a travel writer for a popular magazine making lots of money, would you leave your current job and go for it? Why/why not?
Is this a serious question? I am typing my resignation as we speak , lol … To combine my love of travel, with my love of writing and throw in some photography would be the ultimate career. To then be able to share these experiences with others, how exciting and satisfying. So, if there are any travel publishers out there … Hell, any publishers I’m your gal!! ☺

 You go girrrl! Ha,ha!

10) What do your loved ones think about your blogging/writing? Do they read it?
My family have always been aware that I write poetry, but some were surprised when they found out I had started writing a blog. Mainly because of how personal it is and how much of me it exposes. When I have written particularly raw pieces, my daughter used to ring and asked if I was ok. She is better now as I have explained to her that it is not always about me. They are all very supportive and all follow my blog. They have told me that they enjoy it and many posts have touched them. If they really hated it, I would hear it … We are very open in my family, lol.

That’s awesome Yolanda! 

11) What makes you laugh?
Myself, I can laugh at myself very easily, lol See, he he. Children, a good comedy, life … I laugh a lot and it has gotten me through some tough times. Laughing is the key to wellbeing and so much more fun than giving in to sadness.

So true! Sometimes I’m asked why I’m always smiling and laughing. Well, it keeps you young. It is the best medicine.

12) What makes you so sad you could cry?
Ok, here we go … mush again. The plight of so many people in war torn countries, living in extreme conditions. The poverty, famine … With so much wealth in the world, why does it still exist? Especially the children that never get a chance to reach their full potential. Abused and terminally ill children. When I feel like crying about my pain, I try to think about how great my life is, compared to others. This does not invalidate my own pain, we all experience sadness in our lives. I have gone off on a bit of a tangent, he he. I am pretty emotional, a sad movie or book will have me sobbing.

     I’m writing the letter to pope Francis as we speak. Ha,ha. But seriously, the things you mentioned are heart-wrenching and the       answer to your first question is GREED.

13) What character from a novel (protagonist/antagonist or other) do you see yourself in? Why?
Can I say two? Elizabeth Bennett in ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and Scarlett O’Hara in ‘Gone with the Wind’. They have always stood out for me. Elizabeth Bennett because she is independent and outspoken for her time, but still feminine and caring of the people she loves. Scarlett O’Hara because whilst she comes from a life of privilege and some would say is spoilt, once thrown into chaos … She is passionate, strong and a survivor. She does what needs to be done for herself and her family. I admire strong women.

     I could see you in both these characters. Great choices.

14) What is your guilty pleasure?
Not too guilty, I don’t believe you should feel guilty about pleasure. Every morning I have a cup of coffee in bed. I get up a little earlier to be able to start the morning with this little bit of pampering and relaxation.

 Hmmm. This makes me wonder…who prepares this cup of coffee? (Re-thinking the letter to pope Francis)

15) Do you think your life would make an interesting memoir? If so, who would play you in a film of your life?
My life has been pretty average with all the usual ups and downs. There are some parts that others may consider interesting, but at this point I don’t feel I have led an extraordinary life. Maybe that is still to come ☺ If a film were made I would want Cate Blanchett to play me. She is such a talented and versatile actress and could even make my life seem interesting, ha ha.

     Why did I know Cate Blanchett would be your choice? Ha,ha! By the way, your life is very interesting, which brings me to my next question.

16) Tell us briefly about your recent vacation in Hawaii.
Aaaah Hawaii … back at work two weeks and it already feels like a dream ☺ It was a fun vacation. I did a 7 day cruise of the Hawaiian Islands, which was great and allowed me to see Maui, Hawaii – The Big Island and Kauai. The landscape of these islands is breathtaking and though I took many photographs it was difficult to capture the grandeur of Haleakala Crater or Waimea Canyon. I met some lovely people on the cruise and had a few party nights, he he. Waikiki was vibrant and busy with lots to do. In Waikiki, Pearl Harbour was the highlight. It was interesting, emotional and a must if you’re visiting. Hanauma Bay is great for snorkelling. Last, but certainly not least, I did some major retail therapy, lol.

 So much for not having an interesting life. 

Yolanda Isabel Regueira Marin in Hawaii

Okay, officially tore up the letter to pope Francis! Ha,ha!

Check out the links below to contact this very interesting lady.

http://lovepainandothercatastrophes.blogspot.com

http://about.me/yolreg

http://yolreg.tumblr.com

https://twitter.com/yolreg

Yolanda I. Regueira Marin
performing in Murdered To Death

SUPERSTITIONS

Hello and welcome to my blog! Today is Friday the 13th. Burrr. What was that chill? Must have been a draft. Anyway, like I was saying, it is Friday the 13th and for some people this is an unlucky day. For me it’s a day like any other. I’m one of those people who claim not to have any superstitions. Of course I avoid scheduling anything significant on this day, not for my sake, but simply because I know there are others who may not attend a social event planned on this day. For instance, my first book signing event was scheduled by my publisher’s publicist for today, but I promptly changed it to tomorrow.

Oh! Who am I kidding? I purposely changed the date of my book signing, not because I thought a Saturday would be better, and not because I thought less people would show, but because I was afraid. There I said it! The number 13 is unlucky enough, but add Friday and it spells disaster. However, I want to make it clear that I’m not a superstitious person, I simply respect the unknown (clearing throat).

So what is the origin of Friday the 13th?

There are different theories, but according to folklorists, there is no written evidence for a “Friday the 13th” superstition before the 19th century. One theory states that it is simply the putting together of two older superstitions: that 13 is an unlucky number and that Friday is an unlucky day.

Why is the number 13 considered unlucky?

In numerology the number twelve is considered the number of completeness, as indicated in the twelve months of the year, twelve hours of the clock, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve apostles of Jesus, twelve signs of the Zodiac, etc., in contrast the number thirteen was considered odd and uneven, infringing on this completeness.

Why is Friday considered an unlucky day?

Friday was the day Jesus Christ was crucified.  According to some, Friday the 13th of October 1307, hundreds of Knights Templar were arrested and killed in France, an action apparently motivated financially. On August 13th, 1821, the Aztec Empire comes to an end. On July 13, 1821 notorious Confederate general and Ku Klux Klan Grand Wizard Nathan Bedford Forrest is born in Tennessee. On October 13, 1989, the Dow Jones experienced the second largest drop that it had ever experienced. Need I say more?

Do you know what the fear of Friday the 13th is called?

Friggatriskaidekaphobia  (try using this word in a game of “Hang man”)

So, are you a superstitious person? Before you say no, answer the following questions:

Do you wish upon a star?

Do you hesitate to open an umbrella indoors?

Do you carry a “Lucky” rabbit’s foot?

Do you say, “God bless you” when someone sneezes?

Do you knock on wood?

Do you feel a sudden chill when you break a mirror?

What are some of your superstitions?