4Q Interview with Santa Claus.

After many months of tracking down this famous figure, the Scribbler was finally able to get Santa Claus to agree to answer 4 questions for the 4Q Interview.  The query was submitted to the admin division of SC Enterprises, North Pole, on July 15^th, 2014. We received a last minute email only an hour ago.  The note was apologetic for its delay, albeit a cheerful assertion of Mr. Claus’ demanding schedule. It went on to thank us for our patience and delight in participating on the Scribbler.

It was difficult to consider only four questions for one of the world’s most famous people.  We decided to pose a dozen and let Santa choose.  Here they are. 

4Q: Are elves real?

SC: Ho, Ho. Ho! You don’t know how many times I’ve been asked that Allan.  Is gravity, space, time or magnetism real? They’re totally unexplainable but certifiably so; that’s what elves are. Centuries ago, these supernatural beings were made known to civilization through Germanic and Nordic mythology and all kinds of elves exist. It’s true that they have magical powers. They’re especially beautiful figures. And they’re clever. Oh, whatever would I do without them?  

In our ultra-secret complex, we have over twenty thousand of the rascals, they breed worse than rabbits. The logistics sometimes can be a tad overwhelming.  Thank goodness they are all happy, there are never any conflicts. Lucky for the Missus and me the elders keep everything in order.  I always say the more the merrier, especially since we just secured the Toys-B-Us account. We’ll be making all the toys for the 14,329 locations as well as our own 100,000,000 pieces I give away. All profits will be invested in the elves retirement program, of course.

Oh yes, they are very real. I remember JR (Tolkien) and I having a long talk about this eighty years ago or so when he began writing. An interesting man that had odd ideas of his own elves and my goodness but his characters are popular toys today.  As far as the elves that only I can see, I can’t describe them to you. They need to remain part of your imagination. I can tell you this for sure, they are mischievous and quite short. Ho, Ho, Ho! 

4Q: How is it Santa that you can truly know if every boy and girl is good or bad, who should get gifts and who shouldn’t?

SC: Well now that’s a good question coming from you. You were a bad little bugger sometimes. I still showed up though, didn’t I? I knew all about Mary McLaughlin’s plastic dinner set and what you did with it. The worst thing you did was when you shot John, your next door neighbor, in the buttock with the BB gun I left you one year. It was only for your mother punishing you properly and taking it away from you that kept you on the list.

There really aren’t any bad children Allan, only parents that don’t teach their children right from wrong. I mean, have you ever heard of someone having to teach a kid to be bad. Ho Ho Ho! They do that on their own. No, we have to teach them to be good.

And to get back to my elves, they and I have mastered time manipulation of course, because how else would I get all those gifts delivered in one night. Phew! There is about 2000 that all they do is check up on children all year round. They are part of the Lollipop and Derogate Division of the Elves Union.  On a good day, an experienced elf can visit several thousand homes and deliver verbal reports to the Head Decider and she in turn reports to me.

Most tykes are just mischievous. I have found that the worst imps are from Kent and Albert counties in your home province of New Brunswick. Especially the ones that grow up to be authors, they have these weird imaginations getting themselves into all kinds of trouble. My goodness but I think it’s from too much sugar.

There are not many that don’t get presents. 

4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory Santa.

SC: Hmmm! I don’t think I ever was a child Allan; at least I have no memory of being one. No, nothing comes to mind.

I do however have a thought to share with you and your readers. When kids stop believing in me, they normally stop believing in magic and mystery. That’s kind of sad. I love it though that some adults never stop believing. You see them with antlers sticking out of the windows of their cars or a fake Rudolph red nose on the grill, or a huge inflated replica of me on the lawn, or they’re working in the food kitchens, or buying gifts for people they don’t even know. Ho Ho Ho! 

4Q: What do you do in the off season Santa, or is there an off season?

SC: Oh yes, there is definitely a time away from the hustle and bustle of the North Pole. Ho Ho Ho! The Missus and I have a condo on the island of Bequia in the Caribbean. Down there, I’m just the nice fat guy next door that needs to trim his beard.  I go by the name of Ralph and the wife is Suzie. We live next door to an author you might know, her name is Susan and I especially love her last name Toy, it holds special meaning for me, of course. Great gal, quite the storyteller. I have a sailboat as well, a 27 foot CS27 that we meander about the coast with. I drink cold beer on Friday nights when the missus (she’s the red wine drinker) and I have our weekly happy hour. Although we can’t have children, we still practice making babies as often as we can (wink wink). Ho Ho Ho!

 I collect Christmas movies which shouldn’t be a surprise I guess. My favorite one is Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase. I love it when Clark gets tongue-tied with the pretty lady selling lingerie. Another funny part is when his cousin Eddy shows up with no money and an especially long Christmas list. And the old guy with the wig cracks me up each time.

I’m part of a jazz trio. I play the doghouse bass with two of my cronies down there, Jaspar on the piano and Merle on the saxophone. We have gigs most Sunday afternoons all over the islands, quite the following actually. We call ourselves Digger (that’s Merle’s nickname) and the Dots. When she’s in town, we always have Kitty LaRoar join us, such an angelic voice. We diddle with the old classics, especially Cole Porter’s collection of jewels.

I do a little gardening, actually as little as possible but the missus likes her flowers. I have short naps two or three times a day. I forget about chimneys, pass keys, good and bad, elves under my feet, reindeer in their stalls, the chilly weather, the logistics, gift wrapping and signing my name a million times.

I never wear anything red when I am on holidays. The elves have strict instructions Not-To-Peek-In-Our-Windows. Sometimes I like to be mischievous too. 

Thank you Santa Claus for sharing your thoughts on the Scribbler.  All the best for the future of Christmas when we celebrate the birth of Christ.  Oh and by the way, next year I want…….

 

 

 

 

Next week on the Scribbler, you will meet Louise Boulter of Moncton, New Brunswick and have the opportunity to read her touching short story - Date Night.

Guest author - Maggie James. An excerpt from Second Captive.

Maggie James is a British author who lives in Bristol. She writes psychological suspense novels. 

The first draft of her first novel, entitled His Kidnapper’s Shoes, was written whilst travelling in Bolivia. Maggie was inspired by an impending milestone birthday along with a healthy dose of annoyance at having procrastinated for so long in writing a novel. His Kidnapper’s Shoes was published in both paperback and e-book format in 2013, followed by her second novel, entitled Sister, Psychopath. Her third novel, Guilty Innocence, like her first two, features her home city of Bristol. She has recently published her fourth novel, The Second Captive.

 

Before turning her hand to writing, Maggie worked mainly as an accountant, with a diversion into practising as a nutritional therapist. Diet and health remain high on her list of interests, along with travel. Accountancy does not, but then it never did. The urge to pack a bag and go off travelling is always lurking in the background! When not writing, going to the gym, practising yoga or travelling, Maggie can be found seeking new four-legged friends to pet; animals are a lifelong love! Her links are below.

 

Following is the Prologue of Second Captive.

 

Copyright ©Maggie James 2014.  Used by permission

 

PROLOGUE - Beth 

Present day 

‘Hey, check out that tart! Can you believe the state of her?’ Sniggers erupt from the two teenage boys nearby, who nudge each other as they stare at me. I avoid eye contact, praying they’ll find another source of amusement. Ahead is a pedestrian crossing, where an elderly woman waits to cross. She’s older, wiser, won’t judge me. I shuffle towards her.

‘What a nutter! The bitch has got slippers on!’ The mocking hoots of the teenagers follow me, straight into the ears of the old woman. Her eyes scrape over my clothes, grimace at my footwear, before she spots my jogging bottoms, slashed and dark with my blood. Disapproval tugs the corners of her mouth. I shrink, chastened, into the doorway of the nearest shop, until she stops staring.

Not that I blame her, or the boys. The cuts to my knees must look bad. As for my feet, I don’t own any shoes; the soft pink slippers are my only form of footwear. Wear them, or go barefoot; that was my choice. The rain started ten minutes after I left the cottage, rendering my feet cold and wet. Sore, too. The thin leather soles aren’t suitable for walking the distance I’ve travelled. What must it be, two, perhaps three miles? The Clock Tower is straight ahead of me, its red brick a distinctive Kingswood landmark. Past it is The Busy Bean. The coffee shop where life as I once knew it ended two years ago, when I was eighteen.

The doorway provides shelter; I tell myself I’ll move on once the rain isn’t so heavy. The idea of taking an umbrella didn’t occur to me before leaving the cottage; it was a soft September morning as I eased myself over the windowsill, the sky a uniform blue. Weather isn’t something I’ve concerned myself with during the last two years. You might say I’ve led a sheltered life during that time.

As well as my feet being sore, my calves ache; I’m not used to walking so far. Weariness seeps through me, threatening to reduce me to tears, another humiliation I don’t need. To the casual observer, I must look weird enough already, what with the fluffy slippers and the bloody knees. Not to mention the jacket I’m wearing, the sleeves of which are long enough to cover my hands. It’s Dominic’s jacket. Like shoes, a coat isn’t something I possess. I’ve not ventured outside the cottage for two years; it’s likely I never would have again, but the need to find Dominic proved too urgent.

Liar, a small voice in my head chides me. He’s not who you need right now. Instead, an image arises in my brain: a woman with long, dark hair piled on her head in messy disarray, her eyes tender with the smile they hold, the love in her expression warming me to the soles of my cold, wet feet.

The rain has eased to no more than a drizzle. I should move on, but I’m frightened. Everything’s louder, bigger, brighter, than I remember. My horizons have shrunk to the confines of a damp basement, and I’m unprepared for how terrifying the outside world is. Were there always so many cars on the roads? All these people thronging the streets? A child starts screaming, the sound magnified in my ears. Panic grips me. I can’t do this.

It’s not too late, I tell myself. Go back to the cottage; take refuge in the familiarity of the basement. Where mouthy teenagers can’t mock. Where old women don’t judge.

In my head, the woman with the messy hair smiles at me again. ‘Come home,’ she says. My panic subsides.

I turn towards The Busy Bean, its heady coffee aroma meeting me several yards from the open door. The rich caffeine scent, a smell I’ve not inhaled for a long time, teases my nostrils; I close my eyes with pleasure. Dominic is a staunch Earl Grey man. And what he drinks, so do I.

I walk towards that delicious aroma, as though I intend to stride through the door and order lunch, grabbing my usual table towards the back, when I stop myself. The soaked slippers, the obviously-not-mine jacket mock me, echoing the teenagers; I’m too wet, too weird, too wacky, to venture inside. The windows are wet and smeary as I peer through them. None of the baristas looks familiar, but then serving in a coffee shop isn’t usually a long-term job option. Nobody is likely to recognise me, but I still can’t go in. They’ll expect me to order something, and money, like shoes, isn’t a commodity I possess. I don’t have a handbag, or a purse, any coins or credit cards. I did have, once, but Dominic disposed of everything I owned. Ah, my blue leather wallet, the loss of which still hits me like a wrecking ball. A memory surfaces of the woman with the messy hair, smiling as I unwrap her surprise present.

My stomach growls, no doubt alerted by the coffee and cake smells. In the last thirty-six hours, my only food has been a hummus sandwich; I need to eat, and quickly.

I turn away, and there, opposite me, leading off the High Street, is the road towards Downend. I cross towards it. Saplings are growing along the pavement, their branches sprouting new life. My fingers trail over the bark of one of them, enjoying its roughness beneath my skin, such a contrast to the soft foliage above. As I explore, reacquainting myself with the luxury of doing so, a terrier approaches, sniffing me. I bend down, allowing myself to stroke its wiry pelt, before yanking my hand away, remembering. Dogs are dirty, carry disease. Dominic said so.

I start walking again. Every step is a reminder of my sore feet, my aching calves. I ignore my body and retreat into my head, my thoughts fixed on my destination. And the reception I’m likely to face. The reason I’ll give for my two-year absence. My mind spins back to my parents, to my old family home, which is where I’m heading. The woman with the messy dark hair is my mother. My father, with his heavy jawline, his greying hair, his jowly chin betraying the fact he’s going to seed, joins her in my head. Along with Troy. My brother.

Whatever I say, it won’t sound convincing. My best bet is to tell them I’ve been staying with friends, provoked into leaving by my father’s constant nagging. Either get a job or go to university, Beth, for God’s sake! The two choices he sees as a fit path for my future. My mother will be hurt, of course, disappointed by my apparent selfishness, but better that than revealing the truth. How would I ever find the words?

One thought has always tortured me. Why no one found me. Troy must have told my parents what he saw that night. Why wasn’t it enough for the police - because of course my mother would have called them - to track me down?

I turn into Draper Street. My eyes fall on the house where I grew up, where I lived all my life until the age of eighteen. Before I went missing. Tears mist my vision. My chest grows tight.

I walk towards the door. My fingers rub against what’s in the pocket of my jogging bottoms, its small yet solid coolness hard against my touch.

‘Wish me luck,’ I tell its former owner.

My hand moves towards the bell, before stopping. To press my finger against it is an irrevocable action, bringing the inevitable question: where have you been for the last two years?

My wet feet, my aching legs, the desperate hollow in my stomach, leave me no choice. More than that, the yearning to have my mother’s arms wrap around me, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, sweeps through me with tornado-like force. ‘Beth,’ she’ll murmur against my hair. ‘You’ve come home. At last.’

My finger pushes the doorbell, releasing the familiar one-two ding-dong chimes deep into the belly of the house.

I wait.

Nobody comes.

Anxiety invades my brain, conjuring up unthinkable scenarios. My family have moved away, abandoned me, leaving me standing here with my ice-block-cold toes and my empty stomach. Then reason asserts itself; my mother’s car is in the driveway, the familiar faded red of the Fiat’s bodywork proof that she, at least, hasn’t exited from my life. I press the bell again, its chimes a plea for her to come.

Footsteps sound in the hallway, moving towards the door. It’s solid wood, so I can’t see who’s behind it until it opens.

Teak gives way to space, and to my mother.

I’m home. At last.

 

 

Thank you Maggie for sharing this exciting beginning. Readers - watch for Chapters 1 & 2 of the Second Captive in the following months to come.The novel can be purchased at amazon by clicking the following, http://smarturl.it/thesecondcaptive

 

Her links are as follows;

Maggie James – author of psychological suspense novels

Website and blog: www.maggiejamesfiction.com

Facebook: Maggie James Fiction

Twitter: @mjamesfiction

LinkedIn: my profile

Goodreads: my author profile

Google+: my profile

 

 

 

 

 

Next week, the South Branch Scribbler features the 4Q Interview with none other than the most famous man in the land - Santa Claus. St. Nick answers four questions. Don't miss it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A short story by Allan Hudson. The Food Bank.

This story was first published on commuterlit.com. I actually delivered food to a food bank once. While none of this happened, it could have.

 

The Food Bank.

Food is a necessary staple of everyone’s life. Because of that I toss my loose change in an old cookie jar daily, a bust of Woody Woodpecker I bought in a yard sale, sans cover. Stationed on my night table by the lamp he faces the closet; the ceramic peeping-tom watches me change my clothes all the time. At the end of each month, he and I probably save up sixteen to twenty dollars. Whoopee! But today is cause for celebration; I counted this month’s take after breakfast and found a couple of misplaced toonies for an all time high of $23.44. I am elated. There will be eight more Mr. Noodles to dole out.

Today’s my day off, Wednesday, the end of January only one day away. My to-do list lying on the kitchen table nags at me, do these, do that, do this, do that, but I grab the pencil sitting next to it and tick off number one, “Donation time!!!!” The Maritime Megamart with over two acres of supreme shopping pleasure is where I’m headed. It’s not far so I decide to walk. I retrieve my wool pea jacket from the closet, gloves from the basket on the upper shelf, boots from the rack. Just before I’m ready to leave, I remember the frosty abstract art on my bedroom window. It’s likely colder than it looks I think, deciding to use a scarf.  A Tip Top Tailors suit hanger holds a bevy of colored wraps, snaked about each other; the brightest and flowered ones belong to my wife. I opt for my favorite grey and black checkered one pulling it from the tangled mess. When I do so, a beige scarf falls to the floor.

I’d almost forgotten about it. It belongs to my son.  It’s thick and dotted with flecks of dark brown, if it was stretched open it would read, “Burton” in orange letters. He won a bunch of gear in a snowboarding competition four winters ago. There had been two identical scarves, he gave one to me. I don’t know where mine is now, I gave it away. The memory it evokes is forceful and gives me shivers; the irony of finding it today causes bumps about my flesh. I have to sit down, my mind races with the memory of my first and only visit to the Food Bank. It was the end of January three years ago that this ritual began.

I work in the maintenance department at the Jollywell Hospital. Every year since I’ve been there, our department puts out bins in the lunchroom at the first of December to be filled with non perishable food items. Not for Christmas as our supervisor explained, every one gives for Christmas, we would give ours in January when it was needed more, made sense to me. Someone taped a loose leaf to the side of one bin. It was a bit crooked with nicely shaped letters from a black marker, “For the Homeless and Hungry.”  The bold lines were a revelation for me, I’d never been hungry; as my ample girth would suggest because I’m a bit overweight. I bought more. I even volunteered to deliver the bins. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.

Maneuvering four overloaded blue receptacles into my Ford wagon early one Saturday morning around eight, I set out with the elation of doing a good deed, of representing my co-workers, of benevolence. It took me some time to find the building, it wasn’t well marked, which seemed odd at first but I realized a fancy sign wasn’t important.  The main building ran parallel to the street, curved sheets of corrugated steel formed walls and ceiling, crusted snow lie in some troughs, the virgin white softening the dull galvanized grey. A smudged and dented garage door about twelve feet wide on the left faces the road, the entryway of patched asphalt is neatly shoveled free of snow and ice. A cleared walkway leads to an extension, an add-on with a gable end facing the street, it looks like a store front except it has no window, only a dark green door, a lighted doorbell the shape of an angel, black four-inch high digits that said 41 and a white sign the size of a license plate, which I couldn’t read from the driveway but I knew it said The House of Plenty.

I backed my car up to the building, off to one side. There were neither windows nor any sign of entrance around the garage door; the whole building had an air of anonymity.  I saw a few cars, older models, parked in front along the street. Two men, separate from each other, were on the other side of the roadway having a smoke. A shopping cart from a local grocer stood alone near the walkway entrance, it was rusted in spots, had a missing front wheel. I could see that it contained mostly returnables, some poor man’s daily wages I thought. It dimmed my mood just a bit. I lifted the lightest of the bins from the back seat and headed for the entrance of uninviting green.

The door squeaked a little as I opened it, an early warning system maybe. I pushed my way in with my rump, carrying the bin to enter a dimly lit room. Directly in front of me, six feet away, was a wall extending ten feet to the right. The balance of the room stretched out towards the rear for about twenty feet where there were people waiting. The only thing that matched the low wattage of the bare overhead bulbs was the look on the faces I encountered. It was too quiet. My good cheer vanished like the rabbit in the hat.  I rudely stared at the small crowd, my curiosity so intense when I realized these people were here for food. I had come in the wrong door.

The area made an attempt to be bright; white benches along two walls, dark brown fabric padding the seats, the pale blue walls too institutional for me. The temperature was just below comfortable; no one took off their jackets. A faint scent of Lysol was the only welcoming feature. No one spoke, most were just studying me. I wondered what they must be thinking; am I some kind of saviour, am I just a good guy or maybe they resent that I can give, instead of ask for, I can’t tell. None of the expressions change. The only sound was when some of the standing in the back shuffled and a floorboard squeaked.

My eyes focused on a woman at the front of the bench closest to me. She was bundled in a pink ski jacket decorated with long use. Her disappointed face was wrapped with a white scarf in stark contrast to her coat because of its newness. Perched on her lap of tight jeans was a small girl of perhaps four whose hooded coat was neat and pink also. The child’s head rested on her mother’s breast, her little body, only clad in faded jeans and sneakers, shivered slightly in the coolness of the room.  I had to look away, it was too sad. I quickly eyeballed the remaining patrons.

They‘re about equal of both genders, more middle-aged than young, all of them too thin. I recognized the older man that sits in the back on the floor; I’d seen him many times downtown trying to be polite as he asked strangers for some change. He wraps his many coated arms about his drawn up knees. Four or five plastic bags squat at his feet like trained pets, probably everything he owns. His head and beard are grizzly grey, unkempt and stringy. I have no idea how old he is nor his name. I doubt he’s going to be able to carry away much when I realize he’s here for the warmth, it’s a line up he won’t get thrown out of.

The two young men that sit on the bench to my right, I can only think of them as punks, are out of place; like that joke about an NAACP tee shirt at a Klan gathering. Open jackets reveal tattoos on their necks. The flames and trident’s make me suspect they’ve been in jail. They stare at the floor. I try not to judge them but with both wearing new clothes, I want to throw them out.

Farther along the same bench sits an elderly woman. When I meet her eyes she haughtily turns them away.  Her cheeks are too red from an abundance of blush, the rouge unable to brighten the pale, creased skin.

A burgundy pillbox hat like the one Jackie Kennedy used to wear, is pinned neatly to her head. A luxurious fur coat bundles her slight torso. She wears black silky gloves with gemstones crested upon the back. Hat and coat are about fifty years old from my best estimate, the gloves, I’m not sure but they’re shabby too. She lifts her chin. I’m struck by the pride I witness in her bearing. I understand what the posture means; the neat, aging costume tells me she wasn’t always poor. 

 I try and focus on my mission; this wavering of feelings is unsettling. Setting the container on the floor I address a man that stands to my left in the corner. He’s chest level with a sliding panel that looks about twenty inches high and three feet wide on the wall in front of me. I try on my best smile.

“Where would I take this... this bin?”

I feel guilty somehow about saying food or donation.

The man was bearded and wore workman’s clothes, clean but worn. His somber face seemed kind as he nodded the peak of his John Deere hat at the buzzer to the left of the sliding door. It was unlit and painted the same blue as the wall, playing find me if you can, I hadn’t noticed it.

“Thanks” I said and thumbed the switch. I had to wait a few minutes.  I’m usually a talker in a crowd but there didn’t seem anything proper to say; people didn’t come here to meet people. My thinking was disturbed by the cautious opening of the white colored panel. I was confounded by the image it exposed; so much that I didn’t respond to the opener’s presence or request. The portal was like a television set in the wall, the scene so different to the room that I was in.

It was brightly lit with shelves of various cans, boxes and bags of food along the walls I could see. People were scurrying about with armfuls of items, others sorting them on tables. They were joking and laughing. I looked quickly around embarrassed at first by the sounds of merriment next door but then I thought, why not? I guessed that these workers are volunteers, people unselfish of their time; they’re not hungry so why shouldn’t they be content. It just seemed so odd, the imbalance of emotions, the uneven see-saw of have and have-nots. My amazement was shorted when a loud voice suggested.

“We’ll only be open at ten.”

I was momentarily taken aback thinking he mistook me for a requester. I frowned at the older man; he was bald with white fringes overlapping his small ears. Round silver framed glasses were stuck on the end of his nose. He had a silver bushy moustache. He lifted his matching brows in question. I pointed to the container at my feet.

“I have some bins from the Jollymore, where would you like me to take them.”

His can’t-you-see-I’m-busy attitude changed with a thankful smile smoothing out the man’s long face.

“Go out to the garage door and give it a good thump or two and someone back there will help you.”

The cover slid back smartly, I was back in the gloom. As I was bending my knees to pick up the bin, the toes of the little girl’s shaking feet I see in my peripheral vision disturbs my concentration.  I look up at the trembling child. The voice is frail but flowery.

“Can we go home soon, I’m cold Mommy”

The woman opens her jacket and folds the ends about the little girl. She doesn’t speak words of comfort, perhaps there are none? I’m acutely aware of the bundle of wool and polyester around my neck with a flash of the dozens more at home. It suddenly weighs a hundred pounds. My son just gave it to me. I decided he’d understand, knowing him, he’d do the same thing. Unwrapping the scarf from my head I step towards the woman.  She watches me as I extend my hand while pointing at the wrap with my other.  She reddens as she looks me in the eyes. I only see uncertainty, nothing to do with the scarf. She accepts my gift to hastily twist it about her daughter’s lower body.

The other people are watching us and I begin to blush. I want to escape so I don’t wait for acknowledgment. Hurrying to my bin, a stranger conveniently opens the door to enter. I quickly dart around the man as he shuffles in. Before the door clunks shut I hear,

“Thank you Mister”

The sincerity of her platitude waifs like warm breath in the nippy air, floating, lingering for only a moment. My neck is cold. Her words fill my heart. Pinpricks flourish along my neck and spine as I think of the crew indoors, the hungry, misplaced and the lonely. I vowed then to feed as many people that my skinny budget would allow. I would never volunteer to deliver the bins again.

 

If you can find it in your heart do give at least one food item this year to someone that may be hungry, please do it.

 

Next Friday, watch for an excerpt from an exciting new novel by guest author Maggie James of the United Kingdom.

 

 

Thank you for visiting my blog. Please leave a comment and tell your friends about the South Branch Scribbler

 

Guest Author Katrina Cope of Australia

Katrina Cope lives  in Queensland Australia. She is a published author with the Sanctum Series Books. Her links are below.The following was taken from her website.

 

 

I grew up in a small country town with plenty of time to let my creativity run wild. This was fueled with a large amount of time spent traveling to different areas of the world, coming in contact with many different personalities and cultures.

The last eight years has been spent running a small business with my husband and raising three young boys and writing in any spare time.

After finishing my first book, it came to light just how much I love writing and I now write a great deal more. My boys are growing up, approaching the teenage years quickly, allowing me more time to write and asking for the next book.

 

 

The Sanctum Series – The truth behind the deep and dark side

 

Have you ever read something in a book and think, ‘That is not possible’? If you did, was your next move to Google it? I know that would be my next move. We have such a great privilege in these current times to have access to so much information at our fingertips. We don’t have to be experts in the field or do hours of research at the library, to find out the basic information we need. 

Why do I bring this up? Well, at them moment I am working on a book series called ‘The Sanctum Series’. It is written primarily for preteens and older, and is a spy thriller/sci-fi adventure series. The series has many humorous moments between the different personalities and many twists. As the series continues, it ramps up the action, and the plot thickens. It is a perfect mix for males and females.  

What makes it different to the rest of the books in these genres? Well, it touches on some of the evils in today’s society. As it is for 10-year-olds plus, it does not go into great detail, but just the amount that they are already exposed to in their ordinary school lives.  For example, being a spy thriller, naturally they fight terrorism. It also has homeless kids 12/13 year olds that were mentioned to be using drugs (not in great detail). For some reason, some adults think this is impossible. Okay, so I get that people find drugs a bit taboo, yet there are drugs passed around many schools with our not-homeless preteens being exposed to them. By the way, any brief reference in the series is done from a non-supportive view and the users are cleaned up very quickly. But what surprised me the most, was that the first book received criticism about where the main heroes of the series originated. Our heroes were rescued from being homeless on the streets at a preteen age.  

Although my children are not homeless, and I do not believe they have any school friends actually living on the streets (some may be ‘couch surfing’), I didn’t find it impossible to believe that children this age would be homeless and on the street.  

There are many people in the world, some ‘normal’, some not so much, and some taking unusual to the extreme. People can snap from stress and pressures, and live their lives equivalent to a horror novel. For example, there have been at least two chefs, one in the US and one in Australia, who have cooked their wives. I mention this particular horror because my husband is a chef, and I am far from being cooked. 

Okay, now you get my point, let’s get back to the homeless children. Looking at statistics in Australia. A survey is completed every five years the last being 2011. Within this survey, .5% of the population were classed as homeless in its different forms. 17% of these people were under the age of 12. (http://www.homelessnessaustralia.org.au/index.php/about-homelessness/homeless-statistics) Admittedly, most of these children are with one or more parents; however, there are the odd few that are doing it alone. Often they slip under the radar of the general statistics. One site for Australia covered this briefly stating when discussing homeless young people. “Typically 13 is the age most leave home. I’ve come to believe that this age has something to do with their sense of self developing to a point that they can fathom leaving their family of origin and standing on their own two feet.

If a child does become homeless before the age of 15, in almost every case it is because of sexual or violent abuse. The child leaves because it is safer for them to live on the streets then to live at home. We have seen them much younger, 9 or 10 usually is the youngest though Gish was first homeless at age 6.” (http://www.homeless.org.au/children/) 

I have not pinpointed Australia’s statistics to belittle Australia. It is a lovely country, and I love living here. Nobody wants to find such terrible news about his or her country. I am sure if we all dug deeper into our countries we would find similar findings.  

In writing this, I am not having a go at some of the critics. I am just asking people to be more open-minded when it comes to the unusual and desperate situations that some people find themselves. And, if in disbelief – Google it. 

These evils produce raw emotion. I wish they were not in our society and would love to see them cleared up. The reason I used these evils from the society in my series was to show what the preteens were being rescued from, and how far they would come with the right guidance. The preteens come further than rescuing themselves; they help fight against the problems in the world.  

Now that I have covered why I wrote the dark side into the books, upon reading the series you would find that it is not so deep and dark and has many humorous moments. If you like sci-fi, check out surrogate robots and Scarlet the cheeky AI. You will never look at AI’s the same again.

 

 

Thank you Katrina for being part of the Scribbler. You readers will get a taste of the Sanctum Series in the new year when Katrina will be sharing  excerpts from her three novels. Here are her links.
http://katrenee11.wix.com/katrina-cope-author
http://www.amazon.com/Katrina-Cope/e/B00F00JF9M/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7265107.Katrina_Cope
https://twitter.com/K_CopeFunRead
https://www.facebook.com/Author.Katrina.Cope

Next Friday I will be posting one of my favorite short stories. The Food Bank. Reminds me to give more.

The following week join us at the Scribbler and meet Maggie James of Bristol, United Kingdom, author of psychological thrillers. She will be sharing an excerpt from her novel, The Second Captive.