Tag: fiction

Simply Yes She Said to Me That One Fine Winter Day

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I’m a bit tired and don’t think I shall spend much more time on the computer this day. Leftover sausage and lentil stew for dinner, hurrah! And more Olympics-watching for Dani and I! We shall soon find out who wins the ladies’ figure skating gold! But for now, thought I might as well spend a few minutes of my time writing a bare few words on my latest read.

10. A Haunt for Jackals by J.L. Odom. A great read. As previously reported, read a new book recently (By Blood, By Salt) and was so struck by its uniqueness and high quality that I couldn’t help but immediately source the second book. This is that second book and I am very sorry to say that the third book is not yet available so I must wait for the conclusion (or just continuation?) of this series! Ahhh! But anyways, A Haunt for Jackals was a fantastic book, even if it was even more grim than the first book, if that was possible! This book is a very…how shall I describe it…muddy and bloody book. I think that description is apt. So I read this one a bit slower than I originally thought I would, simply because I had to be in the right mood for it. But once I slipped into the world again with Azetla and Tzal and others, well…the pages just rolled by. The world is so richly textured and the characters feel so real, I simply delighted in the reading experience every time I opened the book. There is definitely trauma in this book, especially with the history of Tzal being unveiled. It was…hard to read at times. Be warned. Still yet, there is beauty in this book. I’m grateful for this book, even though I must confess I was a bit surprised by a revelation at the end that I thought was too obvious to be true! But we shall see what the next book holds. Sad I have to wait!! Oh one more point. This book is definitely more of a military book than I am used to reading. Not sure if that’s my thing, but I have to say the battles were thrillingly told and even for someone as militarily inexperienced as I, was not bored. This author knows how to spin a tale.

A Different Kind of Music

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She sits on the porch in the fading light of sunset, a mug of coffee cradled in her hand. She knows it may possibly be too late for coffee but she cares not. The scent of coffee sparks her soul. The darkness draws closer and she looks out over the fields to enjoy the golden softness of the heads of grain before the curtain falls. It is good to rest this night. Her muscles are slowly untensing after the long day walking to and fro and hither and yon. A hot shower will be most welcome shortly, but not yet. Firstly the sunset must be enjoyed for the moment is not to be missed on a night such as this. The yellow light slowly turns to orange and threatens red as the sun slips ever further down the curve of the prairie sky. The clouds hug the horizon promising her very favourite type of sunset, the type where the garments of the heavens drape loosely about its frame. All the better to showcase the breathtaking beauty that is ever present but only rarely shyly seen. But enough of the sunset chatter, she thinks to herself as she breathes deep. She brings her other hand up to the coffee mug and she drinks. The wind blows across the treeless pastures and causes her to shiver. The sun winks and is gone. She lets herself sit a moment or two longer, slowly rocking back and forth in her chair. She plays a finger through her hair about her ear and considers. The thick book on the table next to her calls her name. But first, hot shower and cozy pajamas and then back on the porch to curl up with aforesaid book and a tall glass of something cold and dark. And she may even light a candle. It’s that type of night, a night for the prolonging of the beautiful and a lingering in the light. But first she must move her tired muscles. She slowly rises and turns to the house. Her hand on the doorknob, she looks back one more time to take a mental photograph of the way the porch railing silhouettes against the twilight. The night is not yet over, she promises herself. But now, shower time.

Notes

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It’s a Tuesday night. It’s warmer. Why. I want our nice cold winter weather back! Alas, I suppose I will just have to grin and bear it. For now. So while I bemoan the unseasonably warm temperatures and pine for winter once again, I will write a few words on my latest.

7. The Winds of Change by Isaac Asimov. I’d forgotten I’d read this before and pulled it off my shelf thinking it was a new read. By the time I had a funny feeling that I had indeed read this before, I was already about halfway through and decided to just finish it! And it…was fine? Either I’m starting to outgrow Asimov a bit in my advanced age or this is one of his weaker collections. Either way, the short stories were reasonably entertaining in the moment, but not much more than that. Some of them were downright clunkers! Ah well, still better than a lot of sci fi being published at the moment!

8. By Blood, By Salt by J.L. Odom. What a stupendous book. Oh how I do delight when I find a book that so thoroughly surprises me as this one did! I bought this one off a recommendation and kind of forgot about it until a few days ago when I was perusing my shelves looking for a new read. Saw this and shrugged and thought why not try it? It looked a little grim and daunting and I wasn’t entirely sure I was in the mood for such. Still yet? It won my heart. I shall attempt to not spoil this one as I really feel much of the beauty of this book is in the discovery. But it is a fantasy, I guess you could say. A work set in a place and time not quite our own. Yet there are similarities – obvious and not disguised ones – to cultures and personalities of our own human history, and while I first wondered if it was perhaps a bit too pat in its appropriations, I soon found myself marveling at the deep and intricate world the author had constructed. This may be a debut novel, but the writing feels confident and self-assured. The author knows where she’s going with this. One of my only qualms is that this book is not the end! I have already sourced the next book and eagerly await it arriving so I can drop once more into this world. Some may think her themes and touchpoints too obvious, yet I feel they work. I do wonder where she’s going with this and I’m pleased that I can’t quite tell. I get whiffs of some of my all-time favourites (particularly some resonance to Till We Have Faces) and I’m frankly a little shocked that this is the author’s first published book. The writing is grounded, detailed and feels utterly real. The characters are a bit foreign at times yet…with the world and history that they’ve lived, is that not surprising? I mentioned at the start, but this is indeed a grim book. Not much light-heartedness, quite a bit of violence and trauma. If you’re looking for a bloodless adventure, this is not the book for you. Yet sometimes the shedding of blood is necessary, is it not? I can’t wait to read the second and see how the story of Azetla continues. Stunning work, truly.

Fondly She Says

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They sit around the table talking of all the delicate things of life. They speak of loving from a distance and friendships severed and high drama now converted to a steady well-banked fire. On the table is laid a feast with one large pot of meat and sauce and other smaller bowls with various accoutrement and at the end sits a plate of sliced bread still slightly steaming and a small dish of butter invitingly placed nearby. It may seem slightly unnecessary to take the time to describe the food and its placement on the table yet does it not add to understanding the back and forth of the hands that go here and there as various bits of this and that get added to bowls as the conversation carries ever on? I am attempting to paint a scene and sometimes I prefer to let my gentle readers fill in the dialogue for themselves if only they see the staging well described before them. So yes. Back to the table at hand. The four friends talk in a way which indicates kinship or union of some kind, even if it can also be seen that they do not know each other as intimately as family might. Yet there are smiles that linger on one face long after an encouraging word has been said and no one is looking in his direction. What is it to share your heart with another and know that it is being seen as true? This is rare, is it not? I know I crave such. But now I leave the table and glance at the tea kettle that already is near at a boil. Four cups on the counter with tea bags placed within. A glance into the living room where sofa and comfy chairs sit and I can imagine them sitting there with cups cradled gratefully in hands, steam rising to caress joyous faces. They sit as I knew they would and then of course the continued chatting about life and death and the divine amidst the mundane of which we everyday breath and see. There is nothing grand to be said about this whole evening of course, it is just a small homey scene. Yet perhaps are not those the grandest? I think so.

Fare Thee Well

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She stood at the window gazing with calm equanimity across the chaotic void. The last ship had launched and the fiery remnants of its wake still glistened and yet her face did not display any trace of tears though she knew she would never see her love again. She stood for several long slow beats of her heart feeling her body pulse to the rhythm of the station’s reactor. There would be time to mourn later, of course. There would be nothing but time and she would struggle to know how to fill it. But for now, for this moment, she wanted to feel her union with him as a still present reality and to admit to separation would be akin to standing over her own grave. She refused to think of the long years that stretched before her. Instead, she felt the press of his hand on hers and the lingering touch of his lips. She remembered the small smile that graced his face as he had turned one last time before walking down the gangway. She let his final words ring in her ears. They would meet again, to be sure. But it would be on the other side of space and time. She would see his face again in a place which she now saw only vague outlines of in her dearest dreams.

And now comes the long march. Now comes the cold dark of the unknown years which stretch afore her. She must fill the void with the little graces and beauties that she had spent so many years cultivating in fertile soil. Now comes the refining fire and the test of faith. But the void is too vast for her to fill with the finite scribblings of a weary heart. Yet still it must be filled.

Juliet let her shoulders relax and she sighed a mortal sigh. And in the light of the star filled sky she felt tears begin to fill her eyes.

To Be Raised

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She writes of what she knows, of cliffside walks and fireside conversations and books that end with a sigh on the lips and a prick of the heart. It is challenging for her to write of battles and fiery declamations or of back and forth duels or action set pieces. She at times wishes she had a more exciting life on which to draw rich inspiration for she knows not what it is to crawl in the mud in the trenches of a war which long ago ceased to have any meaning or forward drive. Think of the scars on her soul and the weariness of heart that would have resulted from such a campaign and think of the poetry that would of necessity sprung forth.

But one look into the eyes of her bosom companion persuaded her that perhaps it was for the best that her life up until now had really been rather boring. When she looked into his eyes and saw the pain that seemed to leak through at the most odd moments, she, well – she knew she would have broken long before. And even if the best art comes from the most broken amongst us, who can say that she would not have been one of the broken ones who only brings forth crumbling potsherds and ashy rags, crumbling crying on the rug afore the fire? A few are marked for greatness and for gold shining forth from that ancient forge. But there are too many shattered skeletons nearby that belie the idea that beauty needs only a little fire to metamorphosize into the divine.

Remember this, she says to herself softly. Remember this. And then she reaches across the table and takes his hand and squeezes it gently as she kisses him with her eyes. She thinks of her notebook on the coffee table and her half-written scribbling of a girl walking through the meadow grass as the last of the evening sun shines through the winter branches. That girl walks in beauty and knows it in the moment. That is a precious gift and shall not be squandered.

Remember and hold on to beauty, she whispers to him now. I do he responds soft. But it’s not quite as hard as you think, for I am also one who is held. And the arms around me are made of sterner stuff than even my nightmares dare to be. His smile broke through and he lifts his hands in mock surprise. Even I too though mortal am reminded by these words of my immortality. Does that seem quite odd to you? That’s the paradox of resurrection. That’s a slender sapling growing up through the ash. That’s a scorched seed falling slowly through the wind. That music you hear? That’s an echo of the song that even now my heart yearns to sing in full. Someday, she says. Springtime comes.

Beginnings

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The last party I attended, I lasted twenty minutes before I started reciting poetry at the top of my lungs. That was admittedly a low point but I argue that I was baited into such. Every time Rachel shares the memory, her inability to keep a straight face testifies to her guilt. That poetry incident is unrelated to the present tale, but I thought it would set the stage nicely for the relationship between Rachel and I. It’s complicated really. (Aren’t all relationships such, even the ones that are unburdened by any sorts of romantic feelings one for the other?) But like any enduring friendship, ours had its high points and low points. The high points include in their number such efforts as the great Christmas narrative retelling of 2023, the pizza party at the coffeeshop that somehow devolved into a long-winded argument on the merits of Augustinian theology, and the near daily reminders to write something beautiful. The low points? We’ll get there. For what’s a great story without a really, really, bold-italics-underline really, great low point? So to cut to the chase, things have changed. Of course. The drama.

Not that long ago, I promised Rachel that I’d never write again. Obviously I’ve done a great job at keeping that promise. But here my fingers go, darting across the keyboard and providing fodder for scores of psychotherapists in their attempts to disentangle my waking dreams. You may wonder why on earth I would ever make such a foolish promise, me to whom writing comes more easily than breathing (pardon the stale cliche), whyever would I decide it was a good idea to cap my pen and shut my laptop, that the time had come to hang up my cowl? Again, to refer to the low point discussion, we’re getting there.

But let’s reverse a bit. We must retreat to where I can tell you this tale in the peace and quiet and right now my thoughts are screaming at me. I’m honestly unsure whether this is a good idea, but I dare not stop now that the dam has been breached. I suppose we could make this a participation game. Maybe that would make this feel more of a real relationship, even though I am fully aware I am imprisoned in my own head and that these words exiting into cyberspace and manifesting themselves in front of your eyes and being interpreted by your own psychosocial persona will communicate a story to you quite a bit different from the looping tale that is taunting me in my dreams even now. So any relationship between me (narrator, possibly lunatic, author of sorts) and you (a reader or perhaps listener, someone who exists but other than that of unknown quality and character) will of necessity feel a bit forced and mercenary even. Still now, friend? Can I call you friend? Would you like to hear a bit more about the friendship between Rachel and I that led to such a cataclysmic end? I promise you it is not a romantic tale (as much as the suspicion may rise) and I assure you that there’s nothing fantastical about what I’m about to spill. You could call this a theological journey of sorts, and if that word scares you, I will not attempt to urge you to stay with me. Stay or go, it’s all the same for me. I’ll keep writing. The question is – will you keep reading?

Ceremonial

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In that moment at the table he lifts his head and looks directly in her eyes. She blushes and stammers a response to his question and then waits with indrawn breath for his reply. He pauses. His head inclines to one side. And then he smiles. In that smile his eyes change from grey to green and she feels as if the earth has tilted and she doesn’t quite have as sure of a footing as she thought she did before this moment. And to cover for her confusion and her loss of place, she grabs for another piece of garlic bread and proceeds to stuff her face. The smile that has been slowing spreading now erupts into a hearty laugh. She likes hearing it and she at once decides to make it her life goal to provoke it as often as she can. As she is still chewing and pondering the newness of this life, she watches as he twirls some more pasta around his fork and join her in consecrating this moment that has made them anew. There are ceremonies and then there is ceremony, and this is most certainly the latter – a type of ritual that she isn’t sure will or should feature prominently in the tales they will later tell. Or maybe they will. For who else can tell their story and say that in the moment they knew their forever that they both couldn’t talk because they were eating spaghetti and garlic bread? And now Isabel laughs out loud and says, “My love – can I call you that now? I just wanted to say, this spaghetti sauce is divine. And the meatballs are better than the ones I had in New York.” And he takes a sip of wine and his rejoinder comes, “I hope so. For you’re stuck with my cooking forever now.” Her breath catches as she considers anew the promises they have made that night. It is startling to realize how the infinite can be compressed to such a small solitary point, a point of such concrete firmness that it is almost bewildering to realise that this communion is held together by a presence outside the two of them. In that reassuring thought she lifts her glass and calls for a toast. He agrees. And their words spiral up and around like smoke upon the November breeze and their words turn into a prayer. They are blessed and they know it well. He lifts out a hand and takes hers in his. And it is very good.

Snowbound

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A quick book review.

79. A Winter’s Love by Madeleine L’Engle. Well, certainly not my favourite L’Engle I’ve ever read. But not entirely terrible and slightly redeemed by the ending, as I was hoping would be the case. Spoilers for this one may follow, so read further at your peril if that kind of thing will bother you. So. This was a book I saw mentioned in one of L’Engle’s memoirs (she mentioned writing it during a certain period of her life) and I had never heard of it so decided to pick it up. An adult novel, it’s one that feels both very real and also a bit surreal and dreamy at the same time. Like the best of L’Engle’s fiction, she interweaves the spiritual and the real together in such dreamy spirals and writes about characters that feel so real you believe they simply must exist in some reality somewhere. There is a solidity in her writing and yet also a floaty dreamlike sense to the whole thing as she attempts to understand the emotions inside us that we so often don’t understand ourselves. This story is a story grasping at what makes a person breathe and love and step forward once again, and as always, L’Engle’s prose is beautiful to behold, a masterpiece in and of itself. But the story. Ah well, the story is one of my least favourite kinds of stories, the kind that I winced at once I realised what would take up the bulk of this book. It’s the story of a woman (one Emily Bowen) who has lived many years with her husband and young children (Virginia and Connie and the ghost of wee sweet Alice) but now in a fraught time for their family, her heart pulls her in another direction and she begins to yearn after an old family friend who seems so much more solid and real and desirable than her husband. Oh joy. This is a real story though. And as L’Engle weaves in and around the lives of the various characters – as I mentioned, all of them seem so real in their own rights! – we begin to understand a bit of this moment that we have been dropped into and find ourselves seeing how the puzzle pieces of these people fit together. Gertrude and Kaarlo and Abe and Sam and Mimi and Virginia and Connie and Emily and Courtney and all the side characters (even Beanie who somehow L’Engle manages to humanize and make me wonder if I can forgive and understand him) bring this tale to life and I am frankly still awash in the emotions this one stirred up. I was even a bit amused to find a flashback sequence in which Courtney rages against Kempis’ Imitation of Christ, a book I just finished reading a bare few weeks ago!! While I wasn’t the hugest fan of it, I found myself amused to see that I disagreed with Courtney (and likely L’Engle) in the thrust of this one, and wondered if it’s partly the framework and perspective from which I sit. L’Engle has a bit more of a humanistic and individualistic outlook at times and of course this would clash against the humble servitude which Kempis preaches. Anyways! Just one of those happy little coincidences. That all being said? I was very prepared to loathe this book in its entirety, depending how it ended. I suppose I should have had faith in L’Engle though. The book does not end with Emily running to her lover, as much as she makes many decisions that made me wince and shake my head, even to the end. No, in the end, Emily chooses to stay true to her vows and oaths and press forward in her marriage to Courtney and her life with her family. A sigh of relief.

There is much in this book I haven’t talked about and many characters who I’ve barely mentioned in all their richness. But I’m grateful for L’Engle using her exquisite skill to bring forth themes that frankly sing in their brilliance and truth.

See How This Wind Calls to Me

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This beautiful Sunday afternoon, the wind sings and sighs outside my window and it is almost time for a gorgeous walk, says I. But first? Well let’s talk about a few of my latest books – briefly oh so briefly! – and then I shall be off, hopefully returning later this evening with some creative writing if I am so blessed with the time and desire and inspiration for such.

74. The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion – Vol. 1 by Beth Brower. Utterly delightful read. I suppose I should not be surprised. I’ve seen these talked about for the past good bit now and have had the strong feeling that I would enjoy. They chronicle the adventures (sometimes misadventures) of the titular young heroine in 19th-century London and there are simply so many things in this volume that resonate with my silly self. Emma is a book lover, a observer of the weird and the beautiful, one whose heart longs for justice and has a good ear for a delightful turn of phrase. I was pretty sure I would like reading this one, but I confess I’m a bit surprised by quite how much I enjoyed this. The author has a wonderful command of the language and I’m almost convinced it was actually written by a 20-year-old woman. Yes, the language doesn’t quite seem like it comes from someone living in the 19th century, but it’s close enough that I can set that aside. There are numerous lines in this that simply sing and there are many times in this book where I laughed or nodded along with Emma’s exuberance and/or absurdity. Let me share one line that particularly touched me – “The lamps were lit, light coming from the houses, and there walked I, alone, and not upset to be so.” Beautiful. There are a few events in this book that brought me close to sympathetic outrage and I confess that I now feel far more invested in the future ongoings of young Miss Lion’s life than I have any right to be. The characters in this one are brilliantly drawn and the emotions sharply poignant, and if one could argue that all seems a bit black and white in Emma’s eyes, well is that not the experience of youth? I am stunned by how much I loved this one. Already halfway through Vol. 2 and a bit perturbed that I do not have Vol. 3 yet sourced.

75. Scott Pilgrim’s Finest Hour by Bryan Lee O’Malley. A fine conclusion to the Scott Pilgrim saga. A book that does a marvelous job of taking us to a conclusion that feels both right and earned and I can actually chronicle that both Scott and Ramona have grown and somehow matured during the course of these adventures! I do like how well Ramona’s arc is shown in these – very different from the movie – and how she actually feels like a real person and that we actually see how well she and Scott are suited for each other! And the last few pages? Simply profound and beautiful and I do say they make me almost emotional every time I come to them. And so.