The Story Behind the Story with author Ivan Holiday Arsenault of Daytona, Florida, USA.

 

Let’s welcome Ivan back to the Scribbler.

For all you fantasy and sci-fi lovers, he has a new book and he’s here this week to share the SBTS and an excerpt.

He’s been a guest before and if you missed his previous visit, please go HERE.

Read on my friends.

 

I am a former American Mensa member with a passion for adventure and a lifelong love for the open road. Since 1986, I’ve ridden my 1979 Harley Shovelhead, embracing every mile as part of the journey. My diverse career spans service as a Private Military Contractor and former Blackwater member, along with training U.S. Army soldiers on Heavy Tactical Vehicles in Iraq and Afghanistan in 2008. In 1986, I invented the CRV Child’s Riding Belt, a device designed to aid in the rehabilitation of paraplegic children, which earned me a nomination for an Honorary Ph.D. from the University of Alberta. Beyond my professional achievements, I am deeply passionate about the realms of fantasy and science fiction. I have a special appreciation for Harry Potter, Tolkien’s works, Dungeons & Dragons, cosplay, and Comicon, where I fully embrace the magic of imagination.

 

Title:  Merlin Ragnarr – Curse of the BloodDrinker

 

Synopsis:

 A sixteen year old freshman, the half human / half god - son of Thrud Thordottir, conceals his identity while studying at the esteemed Şeiðrune School of Viking Sorcery. Tragedy strikes when Merlin's girlfriend and her twin sister become vampires, victims of a plot orchestrated by the malevolent Darkmind, who previously attempted but failed to force him to unlock an evil Grimoire.

 

Swamped in guilt, Merlin Ragnarr embarks on a quest for a cure. He visits the lair of Valsorra the Vile, the mother of all dragons, who informs him of a banished Norse god, who has been living on Earth for eons, posing as Lucifer. Armed with a magical compass guiding him through the Mirror Realm, Merlin's journey takes him to Mississippi's crossroads where he traps and eventually kills Lucifer, and his blues playing demon.

 

On his return to the Mirror Realm, a Mongolian necromancer named Sokkhora Sain, a god-cursed ghost locked in the maze, battles Merlin but later offers knowledge of an Egyptian blood amulet, which could suppress the twins' vampiric tendencies. In exchange, Merlin must find Sokkhora’s long-lost love, Mjöll.

 

Back at Şeiðrune school, with a group of allies - Mouse, Jackyl, Jenna Bug, and Angus, Merlin navigates the mystical Mirror maze, retrieving Sokkhora's demonic Katana and a Jade pendent, he is able to reunite the necromancer with Mjöll.

The reward for his efforts is the knowledge that the amulet lies in circa 1590 Scotland, where Merlin, accompanied unexpectedly by his cockatoo Sidney, lands in ancient Scotland.

Merlin allies with Tara, a teen healer accused of witchcraft, and faces adversaries, including a Viking warlock-turned-vampire named Gerhardt Wolfthorn. A treacherous turn sees Merlin betrayed by Tara's friend, Randall, who reveals the theft of the original amulet by Wolfthorn. In an intense confrontation, Merlin defeats Wolfthorn but suffers the loss of an innocent, Ella, who becomes collateral damage.

 

Further complexities arise as Merlin discovers that King James VI is exploiting the witch trials, exchanging the souls of the condemned for occult secrets, using a book called the 'Key of Solomon'.

Facing capture and threats to his companions, Merlin hunts down a royal galleon, confronts a demon- possessed king, and saves both Sidney and Tara. Before returning to his time, Merlin is forced to navigate a delicate emotional landscape with Tara, who briefly contemplates destroying the compass to keep Merlin in her era. But, cunningly he convinces Tara to turn over his compass, and returns to the school.

 

The amulet's power allows Frost and Raven to control their newfound vampiric instincts, offering a semblance of normality. Yet, Merlin, to his surprise, learns he's to chaperon the girls during summer vacation, and as a final twist, before leaving for Norway with the Blackwell family, he gifts his mentor, Magus Lin Po, the arcane katana – only to discover, it once belonged to the mentor's lost brother.

The Story Behind the Story:

This novel is book #2 of my Merlin Ragnarr series—a standalone story in its own right—and I believe it represents my best work to date. It took me three years to complete, a journey that has not only refined my writing but also deepened my connection to those I’ve lost. Friends and family members who have passed away live on as characters in my novels, keeping them close to my heart. Through these stories, I create a space where I can continue to interact with them, ensuring their presence remains part of my life.

At 66,890 words, this young adult/urban fantasy novel embodies my lifelong passion for the genre. That passion began with a cherished possession from my childhood: the very first Dungeons & Dragons dice bag I received at 12 years old. Now, at 65, as a Tolkien aficionado, devoted Potterhead, and admirer of Viking Magick, I bring a unique, reflective perspective to this story.

While the larger saga continues to unfold, The Curse of the Blood Drinker stands complete as its own rich narrative, while laying the groundwork for future adventures in the series.

 

 

Website: Please go HERE.

A couple of questions before you go, Ivan:

Scribbler: Where is your favorite spot to write?

Ivan: In my Arcane Officer! lol

Scribbler: Are you messy or neat?

Ivan: I’m a neat person with a messy office.

Scribbler: Your beverage of choice?

Ivan: Joe Muggs coffee shop - The Frappe That Shall Not Be Named



An Excerpt: 

Merlin Ragnarr – Curse of the BloodDrinker

Merlin lowered his hood, sporting a triumphant smirk that only fueled the Devil's tempestuous rage. Clawed fists pounded the pentagram’s invisible barrier as Helblindi’s primal fury shook the ground of his mystic prison.

“Are you angry because you’re trapped?” Merlin taunted, his voice a blend of confidence and mischief. “Or because it was I who trapped you?”

Frothing through his fangs like a rabid dog, Helblindi bellowed, ramming his horns against the impenetrable barricade.

 “You didn’t trap me, you little shit! You tricked me!” His voice reverberated with murderous malice, “And when I get out of here, you insolent little mongrel, I’m going to roast you alive in the eternal flames of Hell!”

Knowing the devil’s rage stemmed from injured pride, Merlin hoped it would fuel his determination to broker a deal.

Boldly the young sorcerer positioned himself nose to sternum with Helblindi.

 

“That Beelzebub crap may scare your weak-minded minions, but it doesn’t scare me, so let’s cut the crap. Give me the vampire fix, and I’ll cut you loose.”

 

"Fine!" The Devil sneered, fangs snapping in annoyance. “Now release me.” “Not until you tell me first.” Merlin stated.

Helblindi slammed his horns and hands against the impenetrable curtain. "You really think I'm going to trust a filthy Æsir mongrel like yourself?"

A powerful jolt from Splinter sent the Devil to his knees, as Merlin raised his eyes to the flash of chain lightning in the distance. The incoming storm mirrored the escalating intensity of their confrontation.

 “Bastard, son of Thrud!” Helblindi hissed, digging his claws into the earth at his knees. Merlin retaliated with a swift neck strike, delivering a second powerful jolt. “Tell me!” A mouthful of blood spattered the ground as Helblindi raised a malicious grin.

“I’ll tell you this. Your wench will gorge herself on blood till the day you spike her!” Helblindi’s insolent snicker transformed into a gurgling gasp as Merlin drove Splinter into his chest.

The dying Devil fossilized into a charcoal statue as the almighty hand of the Cosmos ripped his black soul from within. Merlin booted the satanic sculpture, reducing it to a mound of ash. “I had no choice!” He grumbled under his breath, his frustration unmistakable.

“Helblindi would never have talked, and there was no way in hell I could trust him. He’d have ghosted me the second I cut him loose. I just gotta find another way.”

Book 1 of the series. 

You novel sounds like a winner. Thank you, Ivan, for being our guest this week, We wish you continued success with your writing.

And another HUGE THANK YOU to all our visitors and readers.

Feel free to tell us what’s on your mind. 

 TY.

The Story Behind the Story with Author/Poet Hollay Ghadery of Ontario, Canada.

Let’s welcome Hollay to the Scribbler.

We are most pleased she has accepted our invitation to share the SBTS of her newest book. A very busy lady and an award winning author I know you will enjoy learning about.

Read on my friends.

Hollay Ghadery is a multi-genre writer living in Ontario on Anishinaabe land. She has her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Guelph. Fuse, her memoir of mixed-race identity and mental health, was released by Guernica Editions in 2021 and won the 2023 Canadian Bookclub Award for Nonfiction/Memoir. Her collection of poetry, Rebellion Box was released by Radiant Press in 2023, and her collection of short fiction, Widow Fantasies, is scheduled for release with Gordon Hill Press in fall 2024. Her debut novel, The Unraveling of Ou, is due out with Palimpsest Press in 2026, and her children’s book, Being with the Birds, with Guernica Editions in 2027. Hollay is a co-host of Angela’s Bookclub on 105.5 FM, as well as HOWL on CIUT 89.5 FM. She is also a book publicist and the Poet Laureate of Scugog Township. Learn more about Hollay at www.hollayghadery.com.


Title: Widow Fantasies

Synopsis:

Fantasies are places we briefly visit; we can’t live there. The stories in Widow Fantasies deftly explore the subjugation of women through the often subversive act of fantasizing. From a variety of perspectives, through a symphony of voices, Widow Fantasies immerses the reader in the domestic rural gothic, offering up unforgettable stories from the shadowed lives of girls and women.

The Story Behind the Story:

Widow Fantasies has its origins in the seven year mark of my marriage. It was at this point when I began to daydream about planning my husband’s funeral. I felt completely depleted and depressed running a house, raising a handful of young kids, holding down a full-time job, and trying to find time to write or do anything for myself. My husband was there, but wasn’t really contributing—at least not without being asked, sometimes multiple times. He didn’t do much of the background work to keep our family running. In fact, I was often in charge of his affairs too: taxes, scheduling appointments, doing his paperwork. I felt less like I had a partner and more like he was another dependent. I was more than happy and ready to take care of my kids as a mother, but was not so thrilled to be constantly mothering my spouse.

I spoke to a therapist and apparently my daydreaming—my fantasizing—about being husband free was not uncommon. Many women in oppressive heteronormative relationships have these fantasies, and they even have a name: widow fantasies. Thinking about how women use fantasies to escape the subjugation of their lives gave rise to all the stories in this collection. The exploration of my feelings also led to a conversation with my husband. Obviously, it was a good, healthy conversation because we’re coming up on 16 years together and he is now an equal, if not the biggest, contributor to our domestic partnership. (He is also the biggest supporter of this 
collection of stories.)

Website: Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Hollay:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?


Hollay: I am neat. I cannot think in disorganized spaces! My brain is messy enough. I cannot have my external world reflect my internal one.

An Excerpt:

Georgette’s outside the grain elevator, stance braced as if preparing to stop a train. One of her arms is outstretched, the other is holding her phone to her ear. Her wiry grey-blonde curls spring out from beneath her bandana and she’s talking fast, but from the lip of the front lawn ten feet away, Leyla can’t hear what she’s saying.

The wind picks up and smacks Leyla with a treacle gust of fresh hay from the fields. The chickens squabble.

Lani, swaddled against her chest, grunts and lets loose a lamb’s cry, her little chin quivering.

Leyla’s eyes dart around the yard. She bounces in place, patting Lani’s bottom to calm her. Kent’s truck is still parked by the hay wagon where he left it. The little school bus is bumbling
away from the end of the lane. Ava and the twins wave from the back window. Beetle, in barking pursuit, propels himself up the dirt hill that leads into town, black legs flying like licorice whips.

Everything looks fine, but Leyla’s sure she heard Georgette shout.

She feels it first: the sweep auger, which usually hums, is thumping. It was stuck for the second time this month, and Kent left to fix it after breakfast. He needed to climb into the grain bin and kick it loose. He’d done it a dozen times before.

That was at 6 a.m., so over an hour ago. In her mind, she sees the stove-top clock, splattered with bacon grease. She feels Kent’s arms wrap around her waist while she pushes the bacon around with a fork. His warm, minted breath on her neck. The coffee pot gurgling and how he said he’d be back for breakfast in a few minutes. How she had to close her eyes against the urge to shrug off her own skin.

The wind blows an empty bag of chick feed across the lawn and Georgette howls into the phone.

“My son!”

Years from now, what Leyla will remember most about that morning was how her breasts had been milk-swollen for days and it was agony to have Lani pressed against them. She’ll remember how, the night before, Kent had heated cabbage leaves for her to put in her bra as relief and how, even then, she’d wished he’d go away.

She’ll remember running barefoot across the lawn toward Georgette and the grass being so dew-slick that she slid trying to stop. She’ll remember that when the wind hit the maples, they shook like wet dogs.

Thank you Hollay, for being our guest this week.

We wish you continued success with your writing endeavours.

And a BIG THANK YOU to all our visitors and readers.

The Story Behind the Story with author Susan E. Wadds of Ontario, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome another newcomer to the Scribbler.

 Susan was introduced to me by a mutual friend and we are more than happy to have her as our guest this week.

She is sharing the SBTS of her novel and is treating us to an excerpt.

Read on my friends.

 

  

Finalist for the 2024 Canadian Book Club Awards and Winner of The 2016 Writer’s Union of Canada’s Prose Contest, Susan Wadds’ work has appeared in carteblanche, The Blood Pudding, Room, Waterwheel Review, and many more. The first two chapters of her debut novel, What The Living Do, (Regal House Publishing, 2024), won the Lazuli Group’s Prose Contest, and were published in Azure Magazine. A graduate of the Humber School for Writers and a proud member of The Writers Union of Canada, Susan is a certified Amherst Writers and Artists (AWA) workshop facilitator. She lives on a quiet river on Williams Treaty land in traditional Anishinaabe territory with an odd assortment of humans and cats.

 

Title: WHAT THE LIVING DO (Regal House Publishing, 2024)

Synopsis:

Sex and death consume much of thirty-seven-year-old Brett Catlin’s life. Cole, ten years her junior, takes care of the former while her job disposing of roadkill addresses the latter. When a cancer diagnosis makes her question her worth, suspecting the illness is payback for the deaths of her father and baby sister, she begins a challenging journey of healing and self-discovery. Encounters with animals, both living and dead, help her answer the question, who is worth saving?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

There’s a pervasive belief in many cultures that illness is somehow deserved. We ask, Why is this happening to me? What did I do wrong? Is this God’s punishment? Or even, I don’t deserve this. As though the body has betrayed us by falling ill.

But what if we are carrying a guilt so deep that a cancer diagnosis confirms our suspicions that we don’t deserve to live?

I came face to face with this belief with my own 1991 cancer diagnosis; that some meanness in my past had caused cells to mutate. As I worked through aspects of my past and psyche through various forms of therapy to uncover the source, it began to dawn on me that my illness might not actually be my fault.

In this novel I intended to illustrate this arc in a more dramatic way than being selfish or inconsiderate, so I gave my character an early tragedy. The deaths of her father and sister are burdens of guilt that created a barrier to anyone getting too close. Instead of a power position such as lawyer or doctor, I wanted her in a genuinely tough work role, so I put her on a roads’ crew side-by-side with misogynistic men. To further boost her need for distance, I gave her a much younger partner.

As for where the images and ideas spring from—I lived for years on and off in the Slocan Valley in the Kootenay Mountains, where a sweet Doukhobor cabin I first lived in burned to the ground. Luckily no one was at home when it happened, but having that experience gave me the idea to dramatize such a thing.

The aspects concerning Brett’s work partner, Mel, come from my years with Chippewa, or Ojibwe, and Cree people, including my former husband and son. So much of what that character imparts to Brett is what was directly said and taught to me. I wanted to honour my son’s family and ancestors.

Website- please go HERE.

A question before you go, Susan:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Susan: I’m messy as hell. I often write along with others from visual or situational prompts. I facilitate several workshops a week in the Amherst Writers & Artists method, which requires me to take the same risks. In other words, even if I don’t “feel” like writing, I’m bound to do it. In that way, most of my first draft scenes get written. The rest of the slog through the editing and revision processes are done at a messy desk that also needs revision. And when it comes down to the final push, I take myself far away from distraction or responsibility. A retreat or artist residency to devote myself only to the manuscript. One of my devices is to send the manuscript to my Kindle and read it as though it isn’t mine. I can pause to make notes directly onto the Kindle and then take it back to a messy desk to do the final edits.

I drink coffee in the morning and water throughout the day. I do not listen to music when I write. I need quiet—too much noise already in my head. Once my writing day is done, I do love my red wine.

Excerpt from What the Living Do (pages 78-80.)

 

What Norah told me was that she was an only child because her mother had MS, and that all she longed for was a swarm of children laughing and fighting and scrambling around in the dirt. She’d gladly give up her consultant job for a shot at being a mother, a housewife—anything for a family. I spewed my usual, “The world’s going to shit. How can you justify bringing another human into this hellhole with no future?” And she’d laughed, poured me another drink, and fast-forwarded through the credits to start the next episode. “Don’t be an idiot, Brett,” she said. “Children are what make it all worth saving.”

I have to tell her. Right now.

I motion to the server. “Bring us two margaritas. Shaken, not frozen. No ice. Lots of salt.” The server nods and slinks off, her hips too narrow to bear children.

I will tell her when the drinks come. Maybe after we’ve finished the first one.

“So,” Norah says, happy now, forearms supporting her as she leans toward me. “Bring me up to speed. What’s new?”

“I have cancer.”

She doesn’t know. Josh didn’t tell her because Cole didn’t tell him. Men are so mystifying. Of course she’s pissed off that I didn’t tell her sooner, but she won’t abandon me. It’s easier to support someone when the thing that’s wrong isn’t their fault.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving,” I say. “Maybe it would be better for everyone if I get my sorry ass out of here.”

“Leave? For where?” Norah’s tongue slides along the glass of her margarita. “You mean after you have the surgery?”

“You know I’ve always wanted to go to Bali.”

“Yeah, yeah, but that scumbag Mark didn’t want to go, right?”

A crumb of salt lodges in my throat. “Right,” I say, coughing a little.

“Oh, right,” she says, looking down. “I am sorry, you know. I was hurting. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s all right,” I say. “Really.” Indicating her glass, I say, “Should we do this again?”

She’s grateful, I can tell. Which makes me feel grateful. I order another round.

“So, you won’t go? You’ll stay, right?”

I shake my head too vigorously and the plasma screens distort the way a fairground distorts from the Zipper ride. Blinking, I whisper, “Cole loves me. I’m trying to let him.”

“Let him?”

I continue to whisper. “Yes, let him. And between you and me,” I say, tipping my body over the table, “it scares the crap right out of me.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” she says, meeting me there at the center of the table. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Love is a scary, scary thing, Norah. A very scary thing.”

She laughs, that high tinkling sound I’ve missed so much.

Pushing myself back against the seat, I raise my frosty glass. “This may be the last time I get drunk as a real woman,” I declare.

“Oh, Brett, you mustn’t say that!” Her glass stalls in the air. “You’ll still be able to have sex, won’t you?” Her voice drops low. “You can still have sex now, right?”

“I can since I’ve healed from the LOOP or LEEP or whatever. And apparently even if I have the works taken out my husband won’t even know!”

We clink. “You got married and didn’t invite me?” Her eyes have lost their focus. I follow the path of her fingers as she pinches up some salt and pitches it over her left shoulder. I lift my glass again. “You’re drunk, Norah. Plain and simple. Like a skunk.”

“Look,” she exclaims, pointing with her knuckle at a forty-something guy in a ball cap at the bar. “He’s into you. He knows you’re a real woman.”

The guy has a three-day beard and a pretty sweet profile, a Keanu Reeves look-alike.

“He’s not even looking this way,” I say, although I’m aware that he has been.

“Are we going to talk about it?” says Norah, suddenly sober and dead serious.

Over her head well-padded men in blue and white and red and black chase each other with sticks up and down a wide, slick surface. The sound system blasts a batch of singers singing about being really happy. “Happy!” they insist.

“I think we need another round.” When I speak again it isn’t quite a mumble. “It’s not right to bring children into this world, Norah. It’s not safe.”

Pinching up more salt that’s fallen from my drink, she casts it over her shoulder, her lips mouthing some habitual incantation, gestures so automatic she doesn’t notice my amusement. “We can keep them safe. We just have to watch for signs. You can’t stop the wheels of life because some bad things happen to some people some of the time.”

Happy.

“Signs? Bad things happen in this world. Bad things happen to children. Children get hurt, Norah. No rabbit’s foot or horseshoe or rain dance is going to prevent that.”

She swats at the air. “It’s not like that here. We have things in place. Safeguards. We’re civilized.”

My laugh is harsh. “Those safeguards are illusions. Wake up, Norah. Bad shit happens. It happens here, there, and everywhere. This world is a barbed-wire maze of bad shit.”

Happy.

“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine? We don’t live in a third-world country, Brett.”

I fall back against the hard wood of the booth. “It can happen. In a heartbeat.”

She waves her empty glass. “I don’t believe you. I think you are afraid for different reasons. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay; I still want a family. I don’t care what you say, I’m not giving up.” These last words quaver at the end. As she tips the oversized glass to her mouth, she tilts her head as if to pour back tears as well.

“I need a cigarette.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says after guzzling her drink. “You hate smoking.” She sends a knuckle out toward Keanu. “Maybe he smokes.”

This sounds like a wonderful story, Susan. Thank you for being our guest. We wish you continued success with your writing.

And another BIG thank you to all our readers and visitors.

Feel free to tell us what’s on your mind.

The Story Behind the Story with Arts NB's Literary Art's Award Laureate and Author Valerie Sherrard of Miramichi, NB, Canada

 

We are beyond happy to have Valerie join us once more.

Valerie is the recipient of the prestigious Lieutenant Governor’s Award for high achievements in the Arts. 2024 Literary Arts Awards Laureate.

Her dedication to the art of writing is an inspiration for all of us.

If you missed her previous visit, please go HERE.

She is visiting today to share the SBTS of her newest novel.

Read on my friends.

 

 

 

I’ve been writing books for young people for a couple dozen years now. I started writing seriously in my early forties, though I’d always wanted to create books. Having worked with young people for years, it was a natural choice to write for children and teens. I enjoy producing work for all ages, from picture books for young children, to young adult for teens, but my ‘sweet spot’ is middle grade. To date I’ve had 34 books published. I chose the traditional publishing route as that felt like the best path for me, and I’ve been happy with the results.

This year, I was thrilled to be honoured with this province’s Lieutenant Governor Award for High Achievement in Literary Arts.

Today I’m introducing my latest young adult novel – about which Kirkus reviews says: ““[The] first-person narration will ensnare readers immediately, sustaining their interest as this compact, strongly paced story navigates red herrings and subplots. … A fast-paced page-turner that explores moral gray areas.”

 

Title: An Unbalanced Force

 

Synopsis:

Ethan Granger isn’t sure what his father does for work, just that it’s lucrative enough to support their family’s privileged lifestyle, and that it often requires him to go out of town for business.

When Ethan catches his dad in a lie, it raises unsettling questions he can’t ignore.  Before long, this seemingly small fib reveals a clandestine and potentially illegal operation he’s been keeping from the family. Ironically, Ethan uses all the deceitful tricks his father taught him to find out the truth.

Hiring a private eye, sneaking into his father’s office, following him on his “business trips” — how far will Ethan go to expose his dad’s lies? What if the truth forces Ethan to make a choice that could throw his whole world off balance?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

This is one of my novels that grew from an idea for a title. Taken from Isaac Newton’s first law of motion, the phrase An Unbalanced Force drew me. While it generally relates to objects, I thought it would be interesting if applied to situations. In this story, the main character is faced with a decision that could create an unbalanced force that impacts his whole world.

 

 

Website: please go HERE.

Link to Valerie’s Arts NB  Award.

Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Valerie:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat? 

Valerie: I do most of my writing in my office – a small and somewhat crowded room off the kitchen. I prefer coffee and quiet while I write but welcome the sights and sounds that come from a bird feeder that hangs just outside my window. It’s a cozy arrangement, except for one thing!

My desk possesses a magnetic force for attracting clutter. This force is powerful enough to overcome all efforts to keep it tidy. I often come into my office in the morning expecting a nice, organized workspace, only to find there’s been an overnight accumulation of chaos.

 

Excerpt from An Unbalanced Force:

 

Chapter One: Ten Years Ago

 

When I was seven years old, my father saved me from certain death.

That is a truth that lives in me. It forms itself into the shapes and colors of my world, and rises with me every morning, as faithful as the sun.

I am here today, and not reduced to what is politely referred to as “remains” because of my dad.

For a number of years after that day, I had a great need to hear the details again and again. Often, I coaxed the story from my mother while she cooked dinner or folded clothes or when the two of us were running errands in the car.

There was something about hearing it told to me—something about the story itself that seemed strangely solid, as though it was a trophy I could display on a shelf. How or why words formed themselves into a kind of possession I can’t explain. They just did.  

 “You had just turned seven,” my mother would begin. And then, without fail, she would pause.

I wonder, looking back, what those pauses meant. It may be that she was giving me time to transport myself to that day in memory. Or, perhaps those few seconds were for her—a chance to steel herself against the emotions she was about to relive.

“We were living in the south end of the city,” she would say when she was ready to continue. “You remember the place, Ethan—the beige two-story house with white shutters at the windows. Your room was blue with beautiful white clouds painted around the top of the walls. The previous tenants left it that way and you never wanted us to change it.”

I have vivid memories of those clouds. As night fell, they seemed to swell and billow in the dancing shadows cast by a nearby streetlight. They weren’t part of the story, but Mom had her own way of telling it, and I never tried to hurry her.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the yard by yourself. Not ever.”

Sometimes Mom would look at me then. Look right into my eyes, as if she needed to reassure herself that I was actually there, that my disobedience hadn’t stolen me from her. Other times, she’d hurry on to the next part.

“And of all the places you could have wandered off to, you decided to make your way to the only empty house on the block.”

That big old empty house was like a seven-year-old-boy magnet. I’d discovered the place not long after we’d moved to that neighborhood and had already been there more times than I could remember.

“I don’t know what could have possessed you to do such a thing, but you actually went into the house!”

Reproach has crept into her voice at this point of the story and I’m not one hundred percent sure it’s all for me. Has Mom really never considered that I had probably been on the vacated property lots of other times?

Maybe not. To get there, she’d have to admit she was a stay-at-home mother who often had no idea where her kid was.

And then she’d tell the rest of the story—as she knew it. Mom’s version was soft and gentle, free of the terror of that afternoon. I wrapped it around mine like a bandage.

But half accounts will not do today. 

The empty house was faded brick, a tired looking place. In the heat of the summer it had a stillness that other homes—homes that are lived in, did not. That stillness gave it an air of mystery. It summoned me with its breathless, heavy silence.

It drew me in.

The windows on the lower levels were loosely boarded up, with spider-webs and bits of leaves and such in between the wooden slats that had been hammered in place. Whoever had nailed the boards on hadn’t taken many pains at the job. Otherwise, it’s doubtful the fingers of a seven-year-old boy could have pried off the single slat of wood that half-heartedly covered a small basement window at the back of the house.

Brushing aside the detritus I pushed my face close to the pane of glass and squinted through the film of grime that covered it. Except for a hulking shape I later discovered was the furnace, the basement was nothing more than a dark haze from where I squatted.

Oh, but it promised more if I could get myself onto the other side of that pane of glass.

The window was an old aluminum slider, seized up with dirt and inactivity. It moved an inch or two in response to my tugs and then refused to budge any further. I pulled and strained to no avail and was close to giving up a few times but the prize of getting into the house kept me going.

And then, quite to my surprise, the window yielded with a sideways jerk. Seconds later, with my heart nearly bursting, I had dropped to the floor inside and was tiptoeing through the deep grey shadows. The air smelled like dirty socks and swamp water and something sharp I couldn’t identify.

A quick scan of the room told me there was nothing worth exploring down there so I made my way up to the main floor, relieved to find the door at the top of the steps unlocked. There wasn’t much more on that level than there’d been downstairs—an old sideboard and a tall child’s chair with fold-out steps, which saved the day when I was ready to leave and found I needed something to climb on to reach the window I’d come in. The final object downstairs was a cracked mirror leaning against a wall in an open hallway closet.

I went from room to room. I walked around the perimeter of each one. As I moved about, a peculiar feeling grew in me which I can only describe as a sense of ownership. This feeling gained strength and seemed more real with each subsequent visit. I reveled in the thrill that I was alone and no one knew where I was.

I was in my house.

On the day of the incident—which happened after at least half a dozen visits there, I discovered the purpose of a pole that had been left in an upstairs bedroom closet. It was a plain wooden pole except for a metal hook on one end and I’d taken to carrying it with me, sometimes thumping it on the floor as I walked around, other times brandishing it like a sword.

On this particular foray I’d been exploring upstairs when I noticed, for the first time, a framed rectangle on the ceiling of the second floor hallway. I knew it had to be a passage to the attic and quickly realized the pole was the key to opening it. I fetched it and spent the next few minutes poking the pole’s hook at a metal loop until, suddenly, it took hold and a drop-down ladder descended.

For several seconds I could do nothing but stand and stare, trying to take in the incredible luck of finding a way to expand my explorations.

Then I climbed up and into the attic. There wasn’t the slightest chance that I could have done anything else.

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