Category:

Dec 28th

12/28/2013

In England, people through the ages have held special sites in England as sacred. To this day, Christians, Buddhists, pagans and curious visitors with no religious beliefs of any kind are drawn to ancient sites.

On Dec 21st 2013, revelers gathered at Stonehenge to celebrate the shortest day of the year—the Winter Solstice. More than 3,500 people watched the sun rise at 8.09am at the Wiltshire site, where new buildings cater for visitors. Despite the nearby business enterprise, Druids and pagans chanted, danced and lent their heads on the huge rocks. It is the only time the meticulous layout of the stones appears to align. At dawn, the sun casts a line of light directly connecting the altar stone, the slaughter stone and the heel stone. The Winter Solstice is regarded as more important than summer as it was the time when Bronze Age clans would slay cows, finish fermenting their wine, and mark the start of a new year. Something about the old ways appeals to us even now.

Similarly, St Nectan's Glen in Cornwall is an astonishingly beautiful, even magical spot. The fairy glen has been cut by water and erosion over unknown millennium. A waterfall drops into a natural bowl and then emerges through a circular hole cut by the endless stream. Moss and lichen cloak the sheer sides, along with precariously perched trees, so the whole place has a mysterious, otherworldly atmosphere. Once revered by pre-Roman Celts who venerated the spirit of the water, and later associated with the 6th Century Saint Nectan, it is still visited today by thousands of people from all over the world. The Arthur myth too has been bolted on and folk thereabouts believe the king and his knights came to the glen to be blessed, before heading out in search of the Holy Grail.

I find inspiration in old sites, especially in Cornwall. In my book, Tidal Surge, one of the characters paints Tintagel Castle from the beach, right before the tide sweeps in and catches them unaware.

Many people leave little souvenirs of their visit to sacred sites—single coins wedged into tree trunks, old train tickets from the journey, photos and keepsakes of loved ones.

When the area around St Nectan's Glen was sold last year to a private buyer, worries were raised about continued public access. However, the new owner vowed to keep the spot open. Now, an area has been cleared and a new tearoom, gallery, and education center built in a style sympathetic to the surrounding woodlands. As before, the public have free access to walk up through the glen, with a charge to see the waterfall. The money will be used to maintain the 35-acre site. It's well worth taking a look at the business site for St. Nectan's Glen. I think they've used sensitivity in the handling of their business.

It's hard to reconcile the blend of enterprise and nature. However, if visitors are drawn to any natural beauty, they need facilities and perhaps a place to sit and eat.

Here's a link to a 5 min video of the waterfall and surrounding area containing very rare footage with original music by Christian Cello. If you start at 1.47 sec. you go straight to it. Soothing music accompanies the trickling of water.

What are your views on private enterprise taking advantage of historical sites? Would a cup of tea on a cold day sway your opinion?

Dec 23rd

12/23/2013

These days, amongst millions of published novels, a writer has to hustle their books to shift them. Even big book publishers use new tactics to ensure a novel reaches plenty of readers. Recently, I read about a major publisher issuing meal invitations to guests along with a copy of their latest book. Although they weren't buying loyalty, the publisher used marketing to achieve sales in a more focused way.

It's a hard business, writing novels. After years of working out a good plot and building believable characters, editing, going over and over your words until they are the best you can make them, you have to market the books as best you can alongside millions of other authors. How can a writer reach more readers? That's the question authors toss around. Nobody has the answer.

Nothing beats fiction writing as an enjoyable, legal pastime. I guess that's why so many people are self-publishing their efforts. At Solstice Publishing, we authors get together on a facebook group. Leaders pass on tips for reaching more readers, and writers share ideas.

Here, several of us have joined together to answer questions about the way we write and share our background. My link came from Edith Parzefall, the wonderful German author with whom I wrote the published Higher Ground series. http://edith-parzefall.de/ The titles for the post-apocalyptic novels include Wind Over Troubled Waters, Knights in Dark Leather, Golden Submarine & Long Doom Calling, which you can see on the sidebar along with the novels I wrote alone, Still Rock Water and Tidal Surge.

You might be interested in how we handled the collaboration between England and Germany. We worked very fast and emailed each scene to the other before she wrote the next one. At the start, we picked characters. We tried to keep them distinctive, although we went over each others work constantly.

I’d made a start on the first book and Edith jumped in and continued. She knew my style because she edited my first book Still Rock Water. She’s much better at action scenes than I am, so I was glad she chose the men. I did all the individual profiles, but Edith chucked them out the window as their personalities grew. All the characters, based on those from the Moonstone series, get another chance at redemption and of course experience karma. Chuckle! Now for the Q & A.

What am I working on?

At the moment, I'm editing the third book in the Moonstone series. The way I do it is to write the first draft, and set it aside for at least six months. Then, I send it to a couple of other writers. Using their feedback, I go over it with a fresh mind and sort out the plot. Why do I always make the stories so complicated? Anyway, once I'm happy, I read the whole thing out loud, which helps to find word echoes and inconsistencies. Finally, I submit it a chapter at a time to the novels list at the Internet Writers Workshop. After a final read out loud, I'll submit it to my publisher, Solstice Publishing.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

The main way my story differs from another writer's is in the word choice and that unique voice we all possess. Beside that, nobody else would write about a similar subject. The story is based on a star moonstone ring with links to the past, a unique character, and her set of beliefs. After all, who would give a perfectionist heroine a series of tests during visions that anyone would have difficulty with?

Why do I write what I do?

I believe that the basic good in each person will emerge in the end, despite the hardships—or maybe because of them—life throws onto the path. I like to puzzle out how a certain personality will handle a particular situation.

How does my writing process work?

When I have an idea, I start writing, filling in points and details as they present themselves. With my first book Still Rock Water, I removed thousands of words at the beginning before I had the real start to the story. But nothing's wasted. Everything forms the background for the character. The joy comes from the creation of a story.

Next week, three of my chosen authors will share the way they write.

Authors Mel Massey, KC Sprayberry & Carl R. Brush. Let me tell you a little about them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mel Massey is a novelist and the author of Earth’s Magick. She has studied Cultural Anthropology and the History of Religion. Her husband, SGT. Maroni with 988th MP Company serves in the U.S. Army at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. She is also the mother of her own two adorable monsters. She spends most of her time talking to her imaginary friends.

https://www.facebook.com/melissa.masseymaroni

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

KC Sprayberry loves reading, but not as much as she loves writing stories for young adults and middle-graders. Her interest in telling her stories goes back to her high school years, where she excelled in any and all writing classes. After a move to the northwest area of Georgia, she dove into this pursuit full-time while raising her children. While she spends many days researching areas of interest, she also loves photography and often uses it as a way to integrate scenery into her work.

blog: http://outofcontrolcharacters.blogspot.co.uk/http://outofcontrolcharacters.blogspot.co.u

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Carl R Brush has been writing since he could write, which is quite a long time now. He grew up and lives in Northern California, close to the roots of the people and action of his historical thrillers, The Maxwell Vendetta, and its sequel, The Second Vendetta. A third volume of the trilogy, Bonita, set in pre-gold-rush San Francisco is completed and awaiting publication.

You can find Carl living with his wife in Oakland, California, where he enjoys the blessings of nearby children and grandchildren.

Journals in which his work has appeared include The Summerset Review, Right Hand Pointing, Blazevox, Storyglossia, Feathertale, and The Kiss Machine. He has participated in the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, and the Tin House Writers’ Workshop.

Blog: Carl R Brush http://www.writerworking.net/

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dec 21st

12/21/2013

www.express.co.uk

After more computer problems caused a two-day delay in posts, I'm back, shaken and stirred. Not only did I hand out money I can little afford to a technician to set Ciboxer to rights, I learned that in April next year, Windows XP will no longer be supported. I'm considering the purchase of a reconditioned Windows 7, which is half the price of Windows 8. Although the cost is hard to bear, the computer is one of my main reasons for motivation. It keeps my mind active and enables me to write and publish books.

You might not be at my stage of life, but, believe me, focusing on a goal is just as important as keeping the mind vital. Another is working out a daily crossword.

One hundred years ago the first proto-crossword appeared in the New York World newspaper on December 21st 1813. Since then, millions of people have chewed pencils, jotted down letter clues on a separate sheet of paper and stared into space.

Apparently, the crossword is the secret of keeping readers happy. The newspaper can alter their politics and even get their facts wrong, but they should never mess about with the crossword. Each time a clever puzzle-setter has tried to vary the style, readers have responded with anger—or stopped buying the paper altogether. Many people turn straight to the crossword and toss the rest aside unread.

www.express.co.uk

72% of British adults solve the puzzles, with around three in 10 attempting a crossword at least once a week. My husband and I do it together every day. He makes a start as part of his daily routing and then hands it on to me. If incomplete, I attempt to fill in the missing words. We slap hands when it's finished—a team effort which brings us closer.

I'm new to the world of crosswords, never finding the time or inclination before. In fact, I never played games—and I guess a puzzle falls under that heading.

Physical newspapers are declining, but the humble crossword puzzle might save them by being one of the few features to benefit from taking physical form. By the time the copies arrive at the kiosk, the news may be out of date but the grids are there—original, interactive, brimming with challenge—waiting to be filled. This could be the one reason to keep printed newspapers alive.

Indulging in this game may not set the world to rights, but it keeps every mind alive no matter what your age and is particularly good for the elderly—like me and my man.

Do you set your mind toward solving the crossword puzzle?

Dec 15th

12/15/2013

www.financialexpress.com

In the latest news, a gardener in intensive care died of alcohol withdrawal, despite attempts to save him. They discovered he had imbibed a daily pack of strong lager prior to the accident.

I read an article several weeks ago about a change in the UK people's drinking habits. I can't say this refers to adults, because sadly some children begin drinking as young as 8 years old. Many of the established pubs in England are closing, as more people are buying their alcohol from supermarkets at cheaper prices. On the face of it, this seems sensible, although they're missing out on socializing with friends in a convivial atmosphere. But the bad news is that the drinking public consumes more at home than they did previously.

The inquest revealed the facts of the gardener's death. During a crash on his bicycle, the man broke 11 ribs and cut his left kidney when he crashed into a wheelie bin, tumbling over the handlebars. He survived but doctors at St George's Hospital in Tooting, south London, grew worried when the 51-year-old became delirious. Despite treatment with vitamins and minerals to combat alcohol withdrawal, he died a week later of a cardiac arrest.

www.deccanchronicle.com

The pathologist reported evidence of past overuse of alcohol. His heart was double its normal size, which could be due to high blood pressure and also alcohol. His liver was twice the expected size despite half the liver being removed. That was due to chronic alcohol misuse over a considerable period of time.

The cause of death was reported to be cardiac arrest due to multiple injuries, with a secondary cause of 'established chronic liver disease with ongoing steatosis and cirrhosis, and acute confusion and delirium due to alcohol withdrawal syndrome'.

When social drinking changes into a solitary personal addiction, there is usually an underlying reason. We probably all know someone who is taking this short-track to death. Usually, there's not a thing anyone else can do to change their ways. I've gone over and over my daughter's death in my mind. I'm left with the nagging feeling I should have helped her in some way. But deep down, I know everyone must learn their own lessons.

Here's an excerpt from my novel in progress, which shows a mother's self-blame. It's in the form of a vision.

Exhilarating freedom washes over my mind. At last, the tumbling journey stops and I gain balance.

In the night-time blur below, I concentrate to pick out details. Houses spread along dark streets. Occasional lights send a glimmer through the trees resembling stars in the night sky.

I must be in an overseas country, separated by half a revolution of the Earth. Will I prevent a crime? Assist a child?

In an overwhelming rush, I'm sucked below.

My psyche oozes right through a solid roof to hover inside a kitchen. Overhead light bounces off the shiny table. The smell of boiled vegetables struggles to overcome the scent of air freshener in the stifling atmosphere.

I zap into a woman's mind. The first knowledge I grasp is her name from her husband's echoing voice after he left the room.

Now I observe through Mora's eyes. The skin of her inner arms hangs loose with dents resembling the surface of the moon. Her elbows lean on the table with her head resting in her hands.

She doesn't feel my presence while I absorb her sorrow and regret because of the recent loss of her daughter in another part of the country. Unable to travel because of her walking disability, she wonders how she could have made more effort. The clock chimes twelve times, but she's not tired.

No use succumbing to her grief. I must remain impassive if I'm to work with her. This is what I'm here for. My empathy rises with the softness of a gentle breeze lifting damp hair from the back of the neck on a hot day.

Her husband, James, enters the room, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. We straighten to face him, quivering hands brushing our hair. Although he's sympathetic, the loss is not of his own flesh.

"Here you go." His Australian accent soothes us while places a mug alongside. The sweet aroma of milky tea rises in the steam. A hesitant hand strokes our shoulder. With a sigh, he sits opposite.

James is the perfect person for her to discuss her self-blame with. But she needs a nudge. I whisper, 'Look at his caring manner. He considers your feelings'.

We sip our drink.

Memories flood into her--raising her daughter, teaching her to talk, and welcoming her home after school. Once her daughter set out on a life of her own, time passed faster. An indrawn breath. Seventy years old next birthday. Already her child has died before her.

I ease a suggestion into her mind. 'Those who remain must go on'.

A cloud of regret drags us down.

Mora lost touch because of the distance separating them. She didn't discover what was happening during their brief contacts.

We swallow tears.

Mora retreats into memories. Her daughter drank so much she damaged her liver. Oh, the wicked waste of a precious life. What did she do to cause this flaw in her child? The blame rests with her.

'Each person takes responsibility for their own life', I whisper, soft as a feather.

We nod, unable to let go of the past.

How can I help Mora stop this endless remorse? There's no turning back time, but can she go forward? That's what I must achieve. 'Your husband needs you. If you retreat into self-judgment, and lose the joy in your life, he'll follow your lead and give up too'.

He glances up. A smile flicks over his face. Unwilling to respond, we sink into a numb state.

'He loves you, right here, right now. Nobody lives forever. True love is hard to replace. Regard him as a stranger you've just met, rather than the man you take for granted'. We glance up to study him. Hunched shoulders, neck leaning to one side in the grip of advancing age, fragility replaces his once proud strength.

Shock at his potential loss jolts us.

'He's waiting for you to make the first move'.

Releasing a soft breath, we return his smile and blink away self-accusing opinions. I read the depth of her emotion. She loves him, needs him, now more than ever. A rush of warmth rises into our cheeks and filters into every part of our body.

When she reaches out to share her grief, I lift away.

Dec 10th

12/10/2013

blogs.independent.co.uk

A panel of experts has found that changes are needed to improve the treatment of laboratory animals at one of the UK's leading animal research centers, the Imperial Collage. The report boiled down to the need for more communication between animal care staff and scientists, who failed to work together efficiently to prevent animal suffering.

It breaks my heart to hear about the needless agony of animals. I'd do away with all such experiments if I could. Just Google 'animal experimentation' images to see the horror of it all.

Around the world, people are still fighting wars, taking others into slavery, abusing children, suffering injustice, fleeing from their country to seek refuge elsewhere, preying on others, and committing crimes.

What can a person who is lucky enough to be living free do about changing the social circumstances in a foreign country? As far as I can see, we can only offer sympathy to those who are oppressed and concentrate on our immediate surroundings. As in: Love thy neighbor.

Gone is the time when I could have made a difference. Only my writing will endure. Even that's not certain. The cloud could vanish along with technology and paperbacks could be swept away in a flood. The end of the year when I've blogged every day is drawing to a close. At the moment, I'm undecided about carrying on with a daily blog of views on news.

But I've lived a glorious life.

As an Australian teenager in the 50s, I watched spellbound while Elvis Presley sang about the warden throwing a party in a county jail in America. Even prisoners could break free to sing and dance in the jailhouse. Teenagers everywhere stepped out of their social constrictions and became a driving force to change social order from the strict moral code. From then on, youth took on importance.

I've travelled in a luxury caravan with my family around Australia in the 70s, looking for a perfect spot to live 'back to the earth' and found what I sought at my own front door. I've lived an artistic life-style, branched out on my own, travelled the world, moved to England and settled in a small cottage overlooking a field. Even now in the pink morning mist, paddocks sweep up to tree-covered hillsides and horsed graze in peace.
Hard times and good blend in my memory to make the perfect concoction.

What assessment can you make of your life?

Dec 9th

12/9/2013

www.123rf.com

According to the IT firm Logicalis, the average UK teenager owns six digital devices and posts pictures and information online.

With most using mobile gadgets, it may not be long before youngsters expect always-on connectivity as a right, the poll says. Some 28% of the 1,004 13- to 17-year-olds questioned feel ICT is key to their future career.

The poll showed that 84% of the teenagers polled own a smartphone, 78% a laptop and 51% a tablet device. The top digital devices are:

    Smartphone

    Television

    Laptop

    Games console

    MP3/iPod

    Digital camera

But what of the future? Maybe some of the newly emerging workforce can expect a job in IT, but that's now where production comes from. Some of the teenagers questioned will need to work with other parts of their body besides their fingers and brain. Will we have an even more highly segregated society between physical and office workers?

This is how I see the future in the first draft of a book I wrote last year called The Golden Casket. It's set in 2027 and gives the background of Tallulah McBride, whose diary entries feature at the beginning of each of the Higher Ground series. Note: The Handie is the digital device.

The secretary handed her a note. Tallulah grasped it with a shaking hand.

"I want you to gather information on these men," Badia said. "They're on the list to attend the same function as Prince Abjan. Print out everything you find."

At last. This task would interest her more than making coffee. Tallulah hurried to her desk and concentrated on her screen, fingers flashing over the keyboard, clicking on appropriate articles and saving them to file.

The outer door slid open. Tallulah glanced over. The prince strode in. Two attendants glanced around the room, nodded to Badia and withdrew.

Following the other woman's movements, Tallulah stood and bowed. Her head remained low until the swish of the door told her the prince had entered his office. She focused on her task again. The hours passed by. A deep voice inside the computer announced lunch break and she glanced over at Badia, who studied her Handie.

"You can take your break in the staff room on the lower floor if you like. Or you may prefer to wander around outside."

"The staff room sounds good," Tallulah said. "Are you--?

"Yes. I'll come along with you." Badia stood, covering her Handie with the sleeve of her dress. Swishing her hair back, she led the way to their rest room and picked up her satchel.

What do you predict for our future?

Dec 8th

12/8/2013

www.britishmuseum.org

In the news stories today, we're back to the old lure of gold. What makes us love it so? Mankind's attitude to gold is bizarre. Chemically, it is uninteresting in that it barely reacts with any other element. Yet, of all the 118 elements in the periodic table, gold is the one we humans have always tended to choose to use as currency.

The gold artifacts featured on my blog today are part of the treasure unearthed from the Sutton Hoo burial ship belonging to a 7th century British king and can be seen at the British Museum. I'll link part of my novel-writing to the British Museum at the end. All my books are based on the magical qualities of an ancient star moonstone ring set in pure gold. Caught by the lure of gold, my creativity explors other dimensions.

Gold is thought to derive from meteors. The biggest producers: China, Australia, US, and Russia.

One of the noble metals that do not oxidize under ordinary conditions, gold is used in jewelry, electronics, aerospace and medicine.

After analyzing all metals seeking suitability for currency, it turns out that the reason gold is precious is precisely that it is so chemically uninteresting. Gold's relative inertness means that after creating an elaborate golden jaguar, the artist or king could be confident that 1,000 years later it would be found in a museum display case, still gleaming and in pristine condition.

en.wikipedia.org

If we amassed every earring, every gold sovereign, the tiny traces gold in every computer chip, every pre-Columbian statuette, every wedding ring and melted it all down, it's guesstimated you'd be left with just one 20-metre cube, or thereabouts. But scarcity isn't the whole story. Gold has one other quality that makes it the best contender for currency in the periodic table. Gold is ... golden.

All the other metals in the periodic table are silvery-colored except for copper.
But copper corrodes, turning green when exposed to moist air. That makes gold very distinctive.

Here's a short excerpt from my co-written forth book in the Higher Ground futuristic series, Long Doom Calling. Cerridwen has just dived down under the murky waters to the British Museum and surfaced clutching treasure.

Dressed again, Cerridwen sat beside Trevly, the bag in front of her. To one side, Brunhild smeared some of Hasid's special salve over Boris's chafed chest.

Aron settled at Cerridwen's other side. “Tip it out.”

She glanced at him and smiled. “You do it.”

“Fine.” With trembling fingers—he had no idea why—Aron shook the contents out.

Sasha, already wearing several rings, gazed at the other pieces, then back at her hands.

Aron whistled. Bracelets. A ring. Some kind of head gear. Sasha snatched a necklace and ran her fingers over the gold.

“The ring,” Cerridwen whispered. She picked up the one with the blue stone and held it against the light before she slipped it on.

Despite his sudden apprehension, Aron smiled.

Dec 6th

12/6/2013

A major storm has hit northern Europe during the last two days, leaving at least three people dead, causing transport chaos and threatening the biggest tidal surge in decades.

Already, a lorry driver was killed when his vehicle was blown over in Scotland, while a man died when he was hit by a falling tree in England. Britain's Environment Agency said tidal surges could bring significant coastal flooding. The Thames Barrier was being closed to protect London. Thousands of households along vulnerable coasts have been evacuated as seawater floods coastal areas of eastern England and North Wales.

In Denmark, a woman died after a lorry turned over in high winds. The Oeresund road and rail bridge between Sweden and Denmark - which links the Danish capital Copenhagen with the Swedish city of Malmo and features in the hit television series The Bridge - was due to close from 1500 GMT.

In the low-lying Netherlands, the Eastern Scheldt storm surge barrier has been closed off for the first time in six years. Dutch authorities said they had issued the highest possible flood warning for four areas in the north and north-west of the country.

In Germany, the port of Hamburg is bracing for a direct hit and a massive tidal surge. There are fears it could be as powerful as the flood that killed more than 300 people in the city in 1962.

The news of these very real events is terrifying to those people who live close by. Fortunately, I live safe inland on higher ground. The weather's changes have caused meteorologists worry for some time now. Environmentalists around the world have predicted that the scenario will worsen unless mankind changes their way. Unfortunately, this is a slow process during which world representatives work to hash out sanctions.

As an author of fiction, I feel somewhat burdened, embroiled and culpable, not only with the title of my second book, Tidal Surge, which is set in the present day, but by publishing the Higher Ground Series. The futuristic novels, set after the Great Flood, follow the lives of a group of characters. Mankind has been swept backwards to live a more-or-less primitive life with only memories, broken articles poking above the soil, and ruined cities hinting at the past. Four books tell of adventure--Wind Over Troubles Waters, Knights in Dark Leather, Golden Submarine, and Long Doom Calling. You can see the covers on the sidebar and click on them to link to the books. The heroine guides a group of followers from Saint Eyes (St. Ives) to Long Doom (London) to find an ancient ring in the hope of setting Britland on the right track.

I believe in a Universal Consciousness into which highly-tuned people can gain access. This explains why inventors, artists and scientists can discover the same idea simultaneously. Perhaps my writing partner and I captured thoughts about the future of mankind. I hope we're wrong.

Nov 30th

11/30/2013

I don't feel well today. A not-so-common cold has invaded my body with a headache, runny nose, coughs--you know the symptoms.

So, unable to think straight, I'm sharing the beginning of Still Rock Water, which you can see on the right sidebar.

Chapter One

My God, I'm flying. Or hallucinating. Blank it out. Close your eyes.

I'm so scared. My fingers reach out for reassurance. Nothing. Since emerging from the tunnel, my senses are spinning and the bed no longer supports my body. Wait. Tunnel. Death's a possibility. Can't be. I wasn't sick. Perhaps I died in my sleep. If I keep my eyes shut, maybe I'll wake up. Counting doesn't work. How long should I wait? Five minutes, an hour? I can't see the clock anyway, so how would I know? Impatient, I wriggle, or try. I can't feel my legs.

I ease my eyes open. White fluffy mist. At least I'm not surrounded by a casket. I reach out but don't make contact with anything solid. I won't close my eyes again. Now I'm curious. Right, I'll look down. I panic at the absence of anything beneath me. No bodily reactions. Hold it together. I can do this. At last, I focus through the blur below. It's as if I'm looking through a telescope with a haze around the edges.

An old car sits sideways behind another, with traffic driving around them on a motorway.

If this is heaven, it's very much like earth. Then, I'm falling—diving. I struggle, but a powerful force pulls me right through the roof where I land without feeling. Inside the car, I'm as helpless as I am in real life. It's scary. I don't want to be manipulated like this. Get me out of here.

Thick hands grip the steering wheel. A diver's watch clamps a hairy wrist. Cars slow outside the window and a woman peers into my car.

Where are the almond-shaped fingernails I've always taken care of? Overwhelmed by shock, rising panic and rapid heartbeat, I'm sitting in the driver's seat of a jalopy. A faint sound of thunder echoes inside my head. The taste of iron and smell of oil sicken me. I struggle, but the body doesn't move. Wait. Thoughts slam into me.

'Accident. Think, man, think'. Rigid with shock, I—we centre on a digital clock. Nine-zero-zero. Morning.

I've got to work this out. I'm me, but I'm also part of a strange man. His name is David. Multiple personalities? I've heard of that happening. I've suffered enough distress to cause the effect. Although I can't move, perhaps I can wish myself away. I concentrate, but it does no good. All David's panicked thoughts and body reactions pump through me.

He twists to the back seat. Worry rises, gripping his heart so hard he finds it hard to breathe. His four-year-old son Tim remains upright strapped into a child-seat—eyes closed with his head slumped forward. David leans back and touches Tim's shoulder, then checks for the faint pulse under his ear. He grasps the tiny wrist, and looks for any movement under the delicate eyes.

I'm staggered. Something tells me I should help him, help them both, but I don't know how. David's the one with the body. I'll just watch and wait. At some point I might escape.

With shaky hands, he reaches for his mobile phone and dials the emergency number. Following instructions from the voice in his ear, he climbs over to sit beside his son. The boy's head must not be moved in case of injury, and David must breathe for Tim until an ambulance arrives.

With the reassuring operator's voice crackling around my mind, I'm feeling everything David does, panic, worry and confusion. Maybe I can influence him rather than let his emotion drain me. With something like a heart-felt prayer, I will the child to breathe—assist the father to remain calm and help his son.

The child's head remains slumped forward, and David mustn't move him. With great care, he blows from the front but he can't reach the boy's mouth. A strong sense tells me whatever I do will be of some help. But what if, by participating, I'm trapped here forever without a body of my own, living through someone else's consciousness?

Terror squeezes David's heart. “I love you, son. Don't die.” He groans and his eyes blur. The operator tries to reassure him.

It's no use avoiding the situation any longer. It's as real to me now as my own life. I can't allow the child to slip away before help arrives. I urge David forward to lift the child's lip from the side. With empathy rising in me like a song, I assist with the breath of life.

By twisting his head, David's tender breath through the side of Tim's mouth brings results. When the blue eyelids flutter, David's heartbeat quickens in relief. After another breath, Tim opens his eyes and coughs. David murmurs, “Hello, little man. Are you okay?”

“Yes, Dad,” Tim blinks and looks around. “I heard your voice through a long sort of tunnel. It was so bright ... and I saw a happy fairy.”

Compassion swells my heart and lifts me away. I'm floating free.

* * * *

Liliha opened her eyes in her own bed again. In the dark, her fingers slid over the ridges on her patchwork quilt.

Nov 28th

11/28/2013

io9.com

Stephen Hawking spoke recently at the Science Museum in London to reveal his disappointment after the God Particle, otherwise known as the Higgs Boson, was discovered. The famed physicist explained that the find made physics less interesting. During his speech, he also claimed that humans only have 1,000 years left on Earth.

That's the bit that fascinates me—the future. You'll see four futuristic novels on my sidebar, where my writing partner and I take on the perspectives of survivors after the Great Flood in Britland. Wind Over Troubled Waters is the first.

Stephen Hawking publicly revealed his thoughts on the landmark discovery of the God Particle—the particle scientists say is responsible for mass in the standard model of physics.

Hawking also gave his prediction for the end of the world. "I don't think we will survive another thousand years without escaping beyond our fragile planet. I therefore want to encourage public interest in space," he said.

Stephen Hawking was born on Jan 8th, 1942, as was I. That makes me feel very close to him. I imagine us on a cloud waiting for the moment of our birth, discussing what we'd do with our lives. I'm so proud of what he's achieved—although I don't understand half of what he's theorized about. But back to the subject.

Higgs boson essentially holds the universe together. It gives particles mass, which allows them to bind together and form things, like stars and planets and my home and yours.

blob.zap2it.com

More broadly, countless Higgs boson particles make up an invisible force throughout the universe called a Higgs field. Without it, the universe as we know it could not exist and I wouldn't be able to share stories from my imagination in the form of books.

To make the particle easier to understand, the Chicago Tribute published an article in 2012. They spoke to David Miller, a professor of physics at Purdue University and part of the multinational team of scientists on the Higgs project.
He said he understands the subject's complexity but believes people can at least appreciate the importance — and power — of understanding the world around us.

"We're the only species that can ask the question, 'Why?' and also has the tools to answer it," Miller said. "Any person can go out at night and look at the stars in the sky and wonder what place we have in the universe. We're a tiny speck, but it appears that from our little planet we can not only understand our whole universe, we can understand its evolution from the big bang."

The human brain is astounding, as is the whole creation. I'd like to believe we are all part of the Creator.

<<Previous

Author

Francene Stanley, author of many published novels. If you like my writing, why not consider purchasing one of my books? You'll see them on the sidebar below.
Born in Australia, I moved to Britain half way through my long life.