Guest Author Mohana Rajakumar of Qatar

Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar is a South Asian American who has lived in Qatar since 2005. Moving to the Arabian Desert was fortuitous in many ways since this is where she met her husband, had two sons, and became a writer.  She has since published eight e-books, including a momoir for first time mothers, Mommy But Still Me; a guide for aspiring writers, So You Want to Sell a Million Copies; a short story collection, Coloured and Other Stories; and a novel about women’s friendships, Saving Peace.  

Her coming of age novel, An Unlikely Goddess, won the SheWrites New Novelist competition in 2011. 

Her recent books have focused on various aspects of life in Qatar. From Dunes to Dior, named as a Best Indie book in 2013, is a collection of essays related to her experiences as a female South Asian American living in the Arabian Gulf. Love Comes Later was the winner of the Best Indie Book Award for Romance in 2013 and is a literary romance set in Qatar and London. The Dohmestics is an inside look into compound life, the day-to-day dynamics between housemaids and their employers. 

After she joined the e-book revolution, Mohana dreams in plotlines. Learn more about her work on her website at www.mohadoha.com or follow her latest on Twitter: @moha_doha.

 

 

 

 

 

                              Love Comes Later

 

                                                Prologue

Abdulla’s mind wasn’t on Fatima, or on his uncles or cousins. Not even when he drove through the wrought iron entry gate, oblivious to the sprawl of family cars parked haphazardly in the shared courtyard, did he give them a thought. Despite the holy season, his mind was still hard at work. Mentally, he clicked through a final checklist for tomorrow’s meetings.  I can squeeze in a few more hours if Fatima is nauseous and sleeps in tomorrow, he thought, rubbing his chin. Instead of the stubble he had anticipated, his whiskers were turning soft. A trim was yet another thing he didn’t have time for these days, though longer beards were out of fashion according to his younger brother Saad, who had been trying to grow one for years. Beard length. Just another change to keep up with.

 

Change was all around him, Abdulla thought. The cousins getting older, he himself soon to become a father.  Abdulla felt the rise of his country’s profile most immediately in the ballooning volume of requests by foreign governments for new trade agreements. By the day, it seemed, Qatar’s international status was growing, which meant more discussions, more meetings.

 

He slid the car into a gap in the growing shadow between his father’s and grandfather’s houses. It would have to serve as a parking space. The Range Rover door clicked shut behind him as he walked briskly toward his father’s house, BlackBerry in hand, scrolling through his messages. Only then did the sound of wailing reach him, women in pain or grief, emanating from his Uncle Ahmed’s house across the courtyard. He jerked the hands-free device out of his ear and quickened his pace, jogging not toward the majlis where the rest of the men were gathering, but into the main living area of Uncle Ahmed’s, straight toward those unearthly sounds.

 

The sight of Aunt Wadha stopped him short. Disheveled, her shayla slipping as she howled, she was smacking herself on the forehead. Then came his mother, reaching her arms out to him with a tender, pitying look he hadn’t seen since his pet rabbits from the souq died. But it was Hessa, his other aunt – Fatima’s mother, his own mother-in-law – who sent him into a panic.  Ashen-faced, her lips bleeding, she was clutching the evil eye necklace he had bought Fatima on their honeymoon. At the sight of it, the delicate gold cord in Hessa’s hands and not around his wife’s neck, Abdulla felt his knees buckle and the BlackBerry slip from his hand.

 

“What has happened?” he said. He looked from one stricken face to another.

 

Numbly, he saw his female cousins were there. At the sight of him the older ones, glamorous Noor and bookish Hind, both women in their own right whom he hadn’t seen in years, jerked their shaylas from their shoulders to cover their hair and went into the adjoining room. In his haste, he hadn’t said “Darb!” to let them know he was entering the room.

 

“Abdulla, Abdulla...” his mother began, but was thrust aside by Aunt Hessa.

 

“Fatima,” Hessa screamed, staring wildly at him. “Fatima!”

 

Rather than fall onto the floor in front of the women, Abdulla slumped heavily into the nearest overstuffed armchair. Fatima...

 

They left behind gangly nine-year-old Luluwa, Fatima’s sister, who resisted when they tried to take her with them. His father, gray-faced and tired, entered. Abdulla slouched and waited, the growing dread like something chewing at his insides. His father began to talk, but on hearing “accident” and “the intersection at Al Waab” he remembered the Hukoomi traffic service SMS. Then he heard “Ahmed”, and a shiver of horror ran up his back. The driver had been Ahmed, his uncle, the father of his wife.

 

Later that night in the morgue, in the minutes or hours (he couldn’t keep track) while he waited to receive her body, Abdulla flicked his Zippo lighter open and struck it alight. Holding it just so, he burned a small patch on his wrist just below his watchstrap. Even this couldn’t contain his rage at the truck driver who came through without a scratch, at his uncle, or at himself.

 

The morgue was antiseptic, mercilessly public. The police advised against seeing her, insisting that he wouldn’t be able to erase the memory of a face marked with innumerable shards of glass.

 

Surrounded by family and hospital staff, he couldn’t hold her, talk to her, stroke her slightly rounding stomach, the burial site of their unborn child. Any goodbyes he had hoped to say were suppressed.

 

He would mourn the baby in secret. He hadn’t wanted to tell relatives about the pregnancy too soon in case of a miscarriage. Now it could never happen: the need to visibly accept God’s will in front of them would prevent him from crying it out, this woe upon woe that was almost too much to bear.

 

Fatima’s body was washed and wrapped, the prayers said before burial. His little wife, the round face, the knowing eyes he’d grown up next to in the family compound, and the baby he would never see crawl, sleep, or walk were hidden to him now for all eternity. The secret she was carrying was wrapped in a gauzy white kaffan, her grave cloth, when he was finally allowed to see them. The child who would have been named after Abdulla’s grandfather if a boy, his grandmother if a girl, whose gender would now remain a mystery.

 

At the burial site, as was customary, he fell in line behind his father and uncles. Ahmed, the father, carried his daughter’s slight form.

They placed her on her right side.

 

Men came to lay the concrete slabs that sealed the grave, so her frame would not rise up as it decomposed in the earth. Abdulla regretted not stroking the softness of her chin or the imperceptibly rounding curve of her belly. I am burying my wife and our unborn child, he thought, the taste of blood filling his mouth from the force with which he bit his cheek to stem the tears. Their secret would be lost within her lifeless womb. News of a double tragedy would spread with the sand under doors and into the ears of their larger circle of acquaintances. Someone would call someone to read the Qur‘an over him. Someone would search out someone else for a bottle of Zamzam water from Mecca.

 

None of it would stop the acid from chewing through his heart.

 

 

 

Loves Comes Later is available at amazon.com where it has received 36 five star and 38 four star reviews. An exceptional novel of love in mixed cultures.Thank you Mohana for sharing the beginning of your novel.

 

 

 

 

Next week you will be able to read my short story, Reaching the Pinnacle. Jeb Davis and his granddaughter plan an overnight camping trip. They hike to the top of Mount Carleton. Sitting around the campfire, the young lady tells her Grampy what is on her heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Guest Author Vashti Quiroz-Vega Of South Florida

 

Vashti is a published author and an award winning blogger. Since she was a child, writing has always been a passion. She is a writer of fantasy, thriller/suspense and horror. Please visit her website to discover more about this very keen author.
http://about.me/vashtiqvega

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Time to Mourn and a Time to Dance

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

 

 

 

Who falls in love with a ghost?

 

I recall when I first laid eyes on Abigail. She wasn’t attractive in my eyes. Her skin was pallid like an ivory mist. Her limp, pale hair reflected just a glint of sun. Her lips, barely blushed beige, were thin and ill-defined, but when she looked my way with her heavy-lidded green eyes, she captured me. I couldn’t look away. I should have looked away.

 

I had a task to do––so I watched. She had a sweet way about her that lured me into her world. Was it possible to take part in her world? I observed her. She did caring things for those around her and had a generous heart. Oddly, she never seemed to expect anything in return. She was kind to animals and nature. She enjoyed singing, although she wasn’t very good at staying in tune. I spent hours, days, and then weeks observing her––trying to find something that would make my errand easier. I could not. What about this creature held me captive?

 

Abigail was virtuous, but also an odd and clumsy creature. I lost count of how many times I had to swiftly cover my mouth, fearing that my laughter would betray my presence. Once, she picked up a tarantula spider. It appeared to prance happily in place on her palm. She gazed at it wide-eyed and giggled with glee. Then she dropped it. The spider shattered when it hit the ground. She wailed for hours.

 

Another time she witnessed a small boy feeding bread to a swan. She ran to them and picked up a piece of bread lying by the boy’s feet. She attempted to feed the swan at the same time the boy did, but instead she clumsily struck the swan’s beak, making it irate. She gasped as the angry bird took the boy’s arm in its beak and pounded the small limb with one of its massive wings. Abigail screamed for help and managed to pull the boy away, but not before the swan had broken his arm. The boy ran away to his parents, red-faced and howling, his arm dangling by his side. She dropped to the ground and created a puddle with her guilt and sorrow. She did not eat for days. That’s when I finally approached her.

 

“Why do you starve yourself?” She jumped and stared at me. “Do you wish to die?”

 

“No, I wish to live.” Her eyes were wide and her pale lips trembled. “I hurt a small boy and deserve to suffer.”

 

“You did no such thing. The bird hurt the boy, but his arm is healing well. He plays happily as we speak, regardless of the cast he wears. You have no need to go on grieving.”

 

“How do you know this?” She looked at me askance.

 

Thinking quickly I responded, “I was told about what had happened to the boy, and I just saw him minutes before I ran into you.”

 

She stared at me, brows crumbled and eyes squinted, and then she smiled. “I’m glad to know this, thank you. My name is Abigail.”

 

“Then you must nourish yourself, Abigail.”

 

I looked around. A red fruit hanging happily from a nearby tree caught my eye. I picked it and handed it to her. She extended her hand slowly and took it. She bit into it quickly, repeatedly holding the ripened, sweet fruit with both hands. She devoured it in no time. As she swallowed the last morsel, I wiped a bit of dribble off her chin. She giggled and her cheeks turned the color of an orchid rose.

I laughed. “My name is Azrael,” I’m not sure why I told her. I reveal my name to few.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Azrael. Would you like to take a walk?” She wore a large grin on her face. I nodded. “Oh, good! This forest is quite beautiful. I enjoy hiking here. The smells, the sounds––fascinate me!”

 

I smiled at her, and we began our stroll. “This beautiful place can also be quite dangerous. Doesn’t that scare you?”

 

“No.” Her face was as innocent and pure as a daisy.

 

We continued walking. She stopped to smell wildflowers, drink water from a small waterfall that emptied into a noisy river, to point at birds she recognized and insects. I thought today would be the day, but torrents of crystalline water gushed, white fluffy clouds whipped across intense cerulean skies, daffodils vibrant as stars quivered and danced. It was much too lively a day for death to intrude.

 

“I must leave now.”

 

“So soon, Azrael?” She sighed heavily and her body slumped.

 

“The sun will set soon. Perhaps you should go home before it becomes dark and you can’t find your way back.”

 

She nodded with a frown. “Goodbye. It was very nice exploring the forest with you. Thank you for a lovely time.” She departed.

 

I rushed in the opposite direction. When I was sure to be far enough away, I crumbled to the ground.

 

“Why? Why must I end the life of such a creature?” I cried to the heavens. “There is no malice in her. She is a lamb!” I felt a deep burning ache in my chest. Large drops fell from my eyes. I touched my cheek and looked with amazement at my wet fingers. A voice in my head reassured me that my task had good purpose. I rose from the ground and left the forest. *

 

The next day I visited the small forest outside Abigail’s home again. It was alive with her presence. She moved rhythmically to the sounds of the birds chirping, ducks quacking, water flowing, and the whistling of leaves caressed by the wind. I hid behind a large tree and watched her sway, twirl, and pirouette. She moved gracefully––until she stumbled, plopped to the ground in a seated position, and then began to laugh wholeheartedly.

 

“Are you alright?” I walked toward her trying to conceal my own laughter.

 

 She whisked her head toward me and grinned. She jumped to her feet and pranced to me. “I knew you would come!”

 

Her enthusiasm filled me with joy. “I couldn’t stay away.”

 

She giggled at my words. “Come, I want to show you something.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me along a different path from the one we had walked the day before.

 

“Where are you taking me?”

 

“You’ll see . . . ”

 

We arrived at an open area. “All right, stop right here,” she said. I gathered my brow. She paced forward and stopped in front of something, then waved me over. “Come, but be careful.” I took apprehensive steps toward her and after a few steps, I saw it. The hole.

 

“What is this?” I asked.

 

“This is a natural sinkhole,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Isn’t it magnificent? It’s almost perfectly round. It’s beautiful, surrounded by vegetation and––”

 

“Enough!” I yelled. She jumped and recoiled. I didn’t see beauty in this hole, hidden away in the middle of the forest. I only saw peril and fatality. “Many have lost their lives here in the depths of despair.” I pointed at the hole. She stared at me, her green eyes wide and questioning. “Who do you think I am?” I asked in a thunderous voice. She trembled. Her mouth hung open. “You don’t even know me, but yet you venture to bring me here? To this evil place?”

 

“Evil?” she said.

 

“Yes, evil!” She gasped and flinched. She shook her head and covered her opened mouth with both hands. “I didn’t know,” she whispered through her fingers.

 

I sensed the pain and horror of the victims whose bones lay broken, discarded and forgotten at the bottom of the hole. A veil of blackness enshrouded me. I couldn’t see past her death. I stomped toward her. I grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground. The thick odor of corpses long dead exposed my psyche to influences that led me to do what I was created to do––kill.

 

I released her neck. She coughed and wheezed. She collapsed to one knee. I picked her up by the shoulders and dangled her over the hole.

 

Her eyes opened wide. She glanced down into the pit and screamed. “Please don’t hurt me! I don’t want to die!” She gazed at me with imploring eyes.

 

Her words touched my heart once more. She wanted to live. I swung her over my shoulder and hurried from that awful site. I placed her down gently on lush green grass near the edge of the forest. I looked at her. Her hair was a sunburst on a blooming honey locust; her skin, opal cream; her verdant eyes, glistening jewels. I wiped the moisture from them, and her luscious cherry lips quivered. Had my vision been so impaired that I had thought this creature less than perfect?

 

“You are a good man,” she said hoarsely, no doubt from damage inflicted by my tight grip. She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite make the expression.

 

“Go home now. Do not return to that hole. It is an evil place.” I helped her to her feet.

 

She stepped away, then hesitated and turned toward me. The look of gratitude on her face surprised me. She ran to me and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said and walked away.

 

Abigail’s kiss on my cheek lingered and set me ablaze. I stood there like a statue, fearful that any sudden movement would end the moment too soon.

 

We continued to meet every day at the small forest near her house. We took long walks. Abigail danced, talked, sang and was excited by every small creature she ran across––from a butterfly to a snake. I enjoyed our walks. I relished her company. No creature has ever been so exquisite. I never wanted to leave her side. I had forgotten, if only for a brief moment, who––or what––I was. I was the opposite of her.

 

One day I returned to our usual meeting place and found her sitting still on a rock. It was not like her to be so subdued.

 

“Hello,” I said.

 

She lifted her eyes and looked at me inquisitively. “I thought I would not see you today.”

 

“Really? Why?”

She shrugged. Her body was slumped and her face slackened. She seemed strange, unfamiliar. *

 

“What is the matter?” My heart pounded.

 

“I feel weary, that’s all,” she said, but I knew it was more than that.

 

“Are we going for a walk today?”

 

“No, I don’t feel up to it.”

 

“Have you lost your will to live?” I asked.

 

She looked at me sideways and then scowled. “I do not want to walk. I do want to live!”

 

Sparks of life flew out of her eyes. I grinned at her. She tried to stay serious, but burst out laughing instead. I sat by her side. She leaned her body toward me and rested her head on my chest. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

 

I was overcome with emotions new to me. How did I get here? Why has this strange girl grown so fond of me? What does she see when she looks at me? Does she not see the blackness in my eyes? Does my long, sable, tangled hair not look suspect? I am large in stature and powerfully built––does this not seem menacing?

 

It would be so simple to place my hand over her small nose and mouth while she slept until she could draw breath no more, or break her neck with a quick flick of my wrist. She would never know death had come for her. But she slept the sleep of an infant over my beating heart. Surely death could wait for another moment, one that would be less filled with upright virtue and pure faith. She believed in me, and she saw goodness in me that no one had ever seen. Most people knew me instinctually and tried to flee from me in fright. She welcomed me into her heart. Yes, death could wait.

 

She awoke. As she opened her eyes, the day seemed brighter.

 

“How long have I been asleep?”

 

“Not very long. Did you sleep well?”

 

She grinned. “I never slept more soundly.”

 

“Now that you’ve had your rest, would you like to go for a walk?”

 

She extended her hand toward me, and I reacted. She caressed my face. I closed my eyes to isolate the gentle stroking. No one had ever shown me such kindness. I opened my eyes and saw the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, and she was touching my face in a way that made my heart beat faster.

 

“I must leave now. I promised my mother I would not stay out late today.”

 

She stood up slowly, and I watched her walk away. She looked over her shoulder once and smiled. That’s when I decided to disable the communication with above. I knew I could not complete this task. Not now––perhaps not ever.

 

I returned to the forest several times after that, but she never showed. After a few days, I decided I could not wait any longer. I missed her. So I went to knock on her door. A burly man opened the door, and I got the expected wary look.

 

“Yes, who are you looking for, son?” He looked at me sideways.

 

“I’m looking for Abigail.”

 

The man’s face turned solemn. “What do you want with her?”

 

“She is a friend. I haven’t seen her in a while. I worry for her.”

 

“There is reason for worry. She is very sick. The cancer has come back with a vengeance. Her life is only about pain and anguish now.” His voice was hoarse, and wells formed in his eyes. “She was always such a sweet, happy girl. She does not deserve to suffer so.” Shaking his head, he turned to go back inside the house.

 

“Wait! Where is she?” My pulse raced.

 

“Oh, you don’t want to see her like this. It is an awful sight.”

 

“I do want to see her. I need to see her. Please tell me where to find her.”

 

“She’s at the hospital,” he said.

 

The hospital was not far. I was there in no time. I watched her briefly from her hospital room door. She squirmed and groaned on the bed. I locked the door and approached her––my heart was breaking. I waited too long. It is because of me she suffers so. I could have spared her this agony. When I reached her bedside, she saw me and smiled despite the anguish she endured.

 

“I knew you’d come.” She tried to remain still but at times she could not, and a moan escaped her lips. I passed my hand over her head and caressed her face. She held my hand with both of hers.

 

“Abigail, do you want to live?” My voice quavered.

 

She shook her head slowly and whispered, “No.” Streams of sorrow meandered down her face.

 

For the first time I expanded my large, black wings and allowed her to see them. “Don’t be frightened.”

 

“You never frightened me. I knew all along you were an angel.” She winced and whimpered.

 

“I am the angel of death.”

 

She gazed lovingly at me. “Give me peace.”

 

I reached for her and held her in my arms. I leaned my head forward, and she caressed my face. I kissed her on the lips. The sweetest kiss I’ve ever known. And she breathed her last breath.

 

 

Copyright © 2014 by Vashti Quiroz-Vega. All rights reserved. Used by permission

Thank you Vashti for sharing this entertaining story. Her novel, The Basement, is a suspense/thriller aimed at preteen-teen readers. Find out more at http://about.me/vashtiqvega

 

Please visit the Scribbler next week to read my latest short story, Reaching the Pinnacle. Grandfather and granddaughter hike to the top of Mount Carleton. Sitting around the campfire, the young lady shares what is on her heart.

 

 

4Q Interview with Author Lockie Young

Lockard (Lockie) Young is a published author having been featured on The Scribbler several times and it is a pleasure to have one of my favorite writers back again to participate in the 4Q Interview. Making the transition from plumber to author was likely not in his earlier plans but as a reader, I’m glad he did. He lives in Albert County, New Brunswick with his wife Trish and is the father of two adult sons. He has a vivid imagination.

 

 

 

4Q: Congratulations on the latest publishing news of the acquisition of your sequel to Ryan’s Legend by Morning Rain Publishing. Tell us about the novel.

LY: Thanks Allan. The sequel is called The Legend Returns and picks up, in the time line of the story, a couple months after the first book ends, as the clock above the school’s chalkboard signals the start of summer vacation. Ryan, the main character, hosts his friend Cory for a weekend sleepover while at the same time struggling with the secret he continues to keep from everyone, including his parents. He discovered a very real live Legend in the first book. Ryan teaches Cory about life as he knows it by the seashore, and Cory, who is a city boy, learns a lot of lessons about nature he never knew before. Things turn interesting when a giant sea serpent shows up in the harbor…or is it?

This sequel is a bit longer than the first book, but it still has the short easy to read chapters, with cliff hanger endings, and is considered at a middle grade reading level. 

 

 

 

 

 

4Q: In addition to the above, you have been recently published in Tim Baker’s compilation of stories featuring his character Ike called The Path of a Bullet. How did this come about?

LY: I met Tim Baker through a mutual friend of ours, Susan Toy. Tim was getting this book together and wanted to include some short stories from other authors as well as his own contributions. He set out a call for submissions, a contest of sorts. He would read the stories and decide which ones made the cut. It’s my pleasure to say that I was one of the lucky guest authors that Tim chose to be featured in his book.

In my short story The Light at the end of the Tunnel, my main character is a ‘Tunnel Rat’ who does a dirty job that no one else wants, but he needs to pay bills. He is soon to find that he will be delivering some very special merchandise to our hero Ike. And here is an exclusive just for you, Allan. I’ve been asked to submit another story for an Ike anthology that Tim is already working on for 2015. I’m busy mashing up a tasty story with Tim’s hero Ike in the starring role. I’ll give you an update on how that goes later this year.

 

 

4Q: Any plumbing anecdotes from your previous career?

LY: I swear, Allan. You are Psychic, man. I just started another project the other day. I always said I could write a book about the many different things I’ve retrieved from plugged toilets over the years, from cell phones dumped by irate girl friends, to mini prescription eye glasses belonging to a 3 year old that was being teased and called 4 eyes. So I started Diary of a Service Plumber. Each chapter will be a service call ‘of note’ that I’ve been on over the length of my 20 year career as a service plumber. I promise to keep it clean and tasteful, but light hearted, and hopefully comical, because I sure laughed at the end of most of them. 

 

 

4Q: We would be interested in your reading recommendations for 2015.

LY: What, you mean aside from your books? And I’m not kidding or sucking up…respect man. I’ve read so many good books lately, and I’m just waking up to the amazing talent we have here in the Maritimes. My recommendation is to read anything by a local author. The big guys like Stephen King and J.K.Rowling have lots of readers. Invest in the local talent and be amazed. Oh, and check out mine and Allan’s books. I definitely recommend those.

 

 

 

 

A sample of Lockie's poetry.

I wrote Do You Remember the Time as an experiment on what I thought it might be like to be slipping into a well known disease, Alzheimer's.

                           Do You Remember The Time

                                                    L.F.Young

 

Do you remember the good old days?

When the hot morning sun

Turned to afternoon haze?

Do you remember that glass of iced cold tea?

Making puddles on table top?

Beaded water drops catching light

Rainbow colors to see?

 

Do you remember the day a long time ago?

We borrowed your dad’s car.

Off to the beach we did go.

Like an old married couple

Windows full open.

Salty sea air blowing through your golden hair.

It seemed in those days we had not a care.

 

I remember these things…I remember them well

I remember the sights…I remember the smells.

I remember the past…but I feel I must tell

I just can’t remember yesterday well.

Do these keys in my hand fit the car in the drive?

I remember to leave, but where to arrive?

Will you please tell me your name?

I wish things would just stay the same. 

                                   

 

Thank you Lockie for being part of the Scribbler. We wish you continued success in the wonderful world of writing. Here are his links;

The Legend Returns:

http://morningrainpublishing.com/project/the-legend-returns-by-l-f-young/ 

Ryan's Legend: http://morningrainpublishing.com/project/ryans-legend/

Website:

http://poems-and-other-ramblings.webnode.com/

Blog:

http://lockardyoung.wordpress.com/

Please drop by the Scribbler next week to meet Guest Author Vashti Quiroz-Vega of South Florida and read her first-rate short story A Time to Live and a Time to Die

 

 

Guest Author Katrina Cope. Jayden and the Mysterious Mountain. Book One of the Sanctum Series

 

 

Katrina Cope lives on the Gold Coast of Australia. This is her second visit to the Scribbler. In an earlier post Katrina shared how she created her characters. It is archived on the side panel. The following was taken from her website. Her links are listed below.

 

I grew up in a small country town with plenty of time to express my creativity. 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.

 

Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.

 

 

Jayden and the Mysterious Mountain. Book One of the Sanctum Series.

 

 

 

 

- Chapter One -

The Stranger of Hope

It was a dark cold night. White clouds of fog filled the streets making it hard to see, even with the lights shining brightly from the windows and streetlights. Barely visible through the fog was the harsh straight line of the grey buildings. Rising from the road level to the front doors of the many apartments were the staircases both large and small, coarsely jutting out towards the road. This was typically characteristic of the streets of the city of Bowdon. The railings of the stairs were heavy with dripping dew from the chilliness of the misty night. Through the stillness came the sound of a rusty cough that seemed to be coming from the front wall of one of the apartments. A moment later, another cough was heard and this time it was apparent that it had come from the direction of a large pile of newspapers, in between the rubbish bins on the footpath. After further observation of that pile, the paper appeared to come to life as whatever lay beneath decided to change its pose, to a seemingly more comfortable position.

Jayden ruffled his own newspaper in an attempt to get warm. It was the atmosphere of these sorts of nights that had become familiar to Jayden. It now seemed like forever since he had slept in a warm bed under a permanent roof. The life he used to have about six months ago was now regrettably more like a dream that tormented him, reminding him of how things could have been in his life and what he believed would never again be a reality.

The flicker of a larger light caught the corner of his hazel eyes, as he lifted his head of messy, dirty brown hair above the newspapers. In doing this, he was able to watch as a tall, sandy haired man stepped out onto the street from his apartment. A blonde, friendly-faced woman accompanied him. She gave off a soft laugh as she smiled, as though she had found something rather amusing in what he had said to her. She reached back into the apartment to grab something she seemed to have forgotten. When she pulled her hand back out to the street, there was a young boy attached and he appeared to be about nine years old. The boy was well dressed in warm clothing and looked contented and relaxed in their company.

Watching the young family leaving their home reminded Jayden of when his own family had been together. There were times that Jayden could recall being happy like this young boy, although he also had many other memories, which were more like nightmares. He recalled how his dad after having too many drinks would quite often become enraged and bad tempered over the most trivial incidents or shortcomings. He would end up ranting in loud abuse, which was often followed by physically assaulting his family. Jayden remembered so many times when it was his mother who would be at the receiving end of this abuse, but if he happened to be in the wrong place at these times or if he tried to protect her, his dad would then turn on him. Jayden had to concoct every reason under the sun to explain the bruises and marks all over his body. The most difficult stories to invent were the ones he saved for when he had suffered from broken bones and had to be admitted to hospital.

His dad was not always like this. There was a time when he was a very loving dad, who went to work in the morning like most other dads and then came home to spend quality time with his family. All this changed, however, when the large company that he worked for collapsed. This occurred when the country went into a recession, which was likened to the Great Depression. Workers were all being put off, including Jayden's dad. Some of the people handled it quite well as everyone is different. ‘But not my dad,’ Jayden thought. Initially, it was just a matter of watching what the family spent and making sure that they were not spending unnecessarily, but then there still wasn’t enough money to pay the mortgage payments on their house. The Bank wanted to foreclose and sell the house only for the amount that his parents owed, even though it was worth a lot more. It broke his dad’s heart when the family ended up losing their home, so he started drinking and that was where it all changed.

‘I wonder where my parents are now,’ Jayden thought, but shuddered when the violent past again flicked back into his memory. ‘Oh well! Come to think of it, I really don’t want to find out.’ The reason he didn’t know where they were was because one night when it all got too much, Jayden ran away and had no alternative but to live on the streets. Even though this was most undesirable and a very hard life to live, he did not want to return to the horrors of the past. ‘I do wish I could find an easier way to live than this,’ he commented to himself.

He looked back across the street to the young family in time to see them drive away in their little sedan. ‘I wonder where they are going tonight!’

There was another cough from the pile of newspapers down the road. He watched the person underneath trying desperately to pull the newspapers together, in an effort to trap some warm air. A shiver ran down his spine because he could feel the air getting colder as the night set in, so he too started to adjust the papers around him for extra warmth. When he was satisfied that he had achieved the best possible outcome, even though he was still extremely uncomfortable and cold, he settled down in the hope that sleep would soon come. He watched the lights in the apartments flicker on and off in the different rooms. Trying to ignore his own harsh surroundings, he set his mind on more pleasant thoughts of the nice circumstances he imagined the people would be experiencing in those warm apartments. Slowly, after what must have been at least an hour, he felt sleep starting to take its hold and he drifted into unconsciousness.

Click! Scrape! Click! Scrape! Click! Scrape! Slowly Jayden’s mind started to register that he was waking up and there was movement nearby even though his eyes did not want to open. Click! Scrape! Click! Scrape! It stopped! After a short pause, he heard a loud “Arghh!” and then the rustling of newspapers. Something had disturbed the man down the road. That did it! Jayden’s eyes were now wide open and he looked down the street at the other homeless man to see what was happening. He noticed a man standing over him, holding what looked to be a cane that he used to jab him in the ribs. The man from underneath the papers let out a loud curse after his rude awakening, only to hear the man with the cane say, “Oh sorry! I was looking for someone in particular and couldn’t see your face. Here is some money for your next meal and for causing you this trouble. My apologies!” After he handed him the money he walked away.

Click! Scrape! Click! Scrape! Jayden watched the man as he searched every dark spot he could find, as though he was specifically looking for something. He appeared to have a slight limp but still seemed to get around quite well. The man had Jayden puzzled. It was usual for someone to come out on the streets searching in every dark corner, especially looking for someone in particular among the homeless. Not only that, the man was alone. Jayden didn’t know whether he should hide further away, or stay, but the idea of the man possibly giving him money for food enticed him to stay.

The thought of money for food reminded his stomach that it had been a long time since he had eaten a proper meal and it gave out a really big groan. The groan must have been heard because immediately the stranger looked across at him and changed his direction over towards him. Click! Scrape! Jayden waited patiently as the stranger approached. He acted as though he was still asleep at first, in the hope that the stranger might think he had been troubled as well and hopefully give him money too. After what seemed a long thirty seconds, the man was finally at Jayden’s side. “Son! Son!” Jayden opened his eyes and looked at the man. He was wearing a business suit and his hair was slightly long, dark brown with flecks of grey. “How old are you, son?” Well that was not what he was expecting; that was for sure, but thinking again about money for food, Jayden answered him, “Eleven.”

He watched as a cloud of concern washed across the man’s face. “Wow!” he said. “You are too young to be out here all alone. Where are your parents?”

“I don’t know and I really don’t care! Life here is much safer than being at home with my family.”

“That sounds dreadful. Are you sure that it was really that bad?” the man asked.

Without any hesitation Jayden answered, “I am very sure. After at least ten trips to the hospital with serious injuries in two months and not enough good stories to explain how I got hurt, I am definitely sure.”

“What is your name?”

“Jayden.”

“My name is Avando, Jayden, and I am looking for some young people like you, in the hope that I can make a difference in their lives.”

From experience he knew that most people shun the homeless as though they are scum and are only homeless because they deserve to be there.

“How do you expect you’d be able to help and why would you even want to help?” Jayden asked with suspicion.

“Well you see, I have done very well through business over the years and I have no one to share in my good fortune. So, I am looking for young people, like you, who I can hopefully provide with all the necessities of life such as food, clothing, shelter and a better way of life.”

“There must be a catch!” Jayden said warily, knowing even at his age that nothing this good comes along without a catch. It could be considered though, that he was a lot more mature than a normal eleven year old because of all his recent life experiences.

“Well, there is one catch,” said the mystery man with the larger sized bumpy nose.

 

 

 

I'm anxious to find out more about the generous older man in this story. Thank you Katrina for sharing the beginning of your story, Jayden and the Mysterious Mountain. Following are Katrina's links and where you can obtain copies of her novels.  

 

https://www.facebook.com/Author.Katrina.Cope

 

https://twitter.com/K_CopeFunRead

 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7265107.Katrina_Cope

 

http://www.amazon.com/Katrina-Cope/e/B00F00JF9M/

 

http://katrenee11.wix.com/katrina-cope-author

 

 

Drop by the Scribbler next week for the 4Q Interview with none other than published author Lockie Young of Albert County, New Brunswick. Lockie has been featured on the Scribbler several times and it is always a treat to have this talented author as a guest. You will want to hear about Lockie's latest accomplishments and a chance to read one of his poems.