The Meador Library in Seabrook was destroyed by Hurricane Ike last year. On Sunday, September 26, the Friends of the Library are hosting an “Ice Cream and Authors” event from 2 – 5 PM. I will be reading an excerpt from Earthbound in the tent at 4:15. Come on out, support the library, get a jump on your Christmas shopping and meet a lot of talented local authors!
The first person who comes to my table and correctly identifies the Earthbound character I am impersonating wins a prize.

rarely go inside the bank. But I was there today, opening a new account. It was kind of like stepping into a Scott Westerfield novel. All of the gentlemen that worked there looked like they could be underwear models. It was almost creepy. The cynical side of me wondered if the bank has a hiring bias towards very attractive young men. Perhaps to entice elderly widows into making larger deposits or using more bank services. I don’t mean to sound disparaging – I’m sure they are all well-qualified. And exercise and personal hygiene are good things. It just seemed unnatural to me that there was not a single average-looking employee in the bank lobby. It made me think of Stepford Wives (bankers?) or Eloi. If so, where are the Morlocks hiding? What might be lurking in the bank vault? If they offered gym membership coupons, should I run?

I had a great time at the library benefit event yesterday. Marianne Dyson did a fantastic job of coordinating this event. Per capita, I did very well – most of the people who visited my table bought something. Unfortunately, there weren’t many capitas. In spite of the disappointing turnout, I had fun talking to the people who did show up, as well as my fellow writers. On the up side, as this was my first event ever, it was a gentle introduction. I got many compliments on my (17th century Irish peasant) Úna costume. I took a few photos at the beginning, but somehow failed to get one of my tablemate, Margaret McManis’ inflatable ostrich costume. She convinced one of the teen volunteers to wear it around near the end of the event. The person’s legs go inside the ostrich’s legs and inflatable legs hang down the sides of the ostrich’s body, so it looks like the person is riding on the ostrich. Follow the link to see her modeling it on her Facebook page. Pam van Scoyoc had a great “your face on the character” photo board (you stand behind the display and poke your face through a hole to have a silly picture of you as a character). I was delighted to have been invited and I’m looking forward to doing more!
I believe the total raised was over $1,300 and a spring event is in the planning stages.

Also, I have set up a coupon code on Amazon so that anyone who purchases Earthbound will recieve a discount and I will donate $2.00 per sale to the library through October 31, 2010. Use this code:  VTSJM4V2

One girl. One horse. Who else is going to save the world?
If Sarah Reeves was a faery instead of a human, it would be a whole lot easier for her to get what she wants: to ride Cheval Bayard in an elite competition; to earn a spot on the Mundane Intervention Team; and for Brendan Greenwood to like her. But Regan, her archrival at the stables is doing everything she can to steal Cheval Bayard out from under Sarah. There are more students than spaces for the Mundane Intervention Team, and competition is fierce. And Brendan inexplicably likes mean-girl Dahlia. It’s enough to make Sarah wonder if she should leave the realm of Faerie and return to the Mundane world, where she might feel like less of a freak. After all, she seems to be the one person who is painfully ordinary in a place where everyone and everything is magic. But when she and her friends stumble upon a terrifying conspiracy, her humanity may be the only thing that can save both worlds.
Black Mare Books is teaming up with Blue Ribbon Equine Rescue to throw a party for the upcoming release of Cheval Bayard.
Where: Blue Ribbon Meadows, 25150 Beckendorf Road, Katy, Texas
When: Saturday, November 13 from 10:00 AM to Noon
What: Book signing, refreshments and silent auction
One of the items in the silent auction is YOUR NAME in an upcoming release from Black Mare Books.
100% of the silent auction proceeds and 15% of book sales will benefit Blue Ribbon Equine Rescue (a 501c). The rescue works extensively with the Houston SPCA to save abused and neglected horses. They normally average around 20 horses available for adoption at any given time. Please consider filling out an application and viewing the horses at the farm who are looking for forever homes.
Start on your holiday shopping early with great items from the silent auction. Autographed books make great presents!

Few things smell as good to me as freshly made cold process soap. Something about soapmaking appeals to the mad scientist in me. I offered to donate a basket of handmade soaps to the silent auction at the Cheval Bayard release party. It was a little more adventure than I bargained for today, though. When I climbed up on a chair to reach the lye in the cupboard above the refrigerator, I almost dropped a box of jelly jars. After I added my lye water to my oils (olive, coconut and soybean), the soap wouldn’t trace. That’s never happened to me. But then I discovered a big lump of lye in the bottom of the jar. I briefly thought about dumping in the chunk and breaking it up with the stick blender. I could have labeled it “Mini-Peel in a Bar!” But I dumped that batch and made another, which nearly set up in the pot when I added the lavender oil. I got a little pre-soap spatter on my cheek (yes, I always wear safety glasses!) and had to put some vinegar on it. But I could only find mirin (seasoned rice vinegar). And I knocked over the jar of lavender EO. I ended up smelling kind of like lavender sushi. But that batch of lavender soap used up the last of my olive oil and I had to take the kids to Phoenicia on the way home from school to get some more. I love that market. Made another batch of unscented soap when we got home. I may throw in some bath fizzies and MP glycerin soaps, if I have enough time.

P.T. Barnum didn’t invent freak shows, but he elevated them to the next level. He was the ultimate promoter and he knew what people liked. Freak show detractors said, “What about human rights? What about the dignity of the performers?” The freaks tended to respond, “Dignity, schmignity. Have you seen our paychecks?” But circuses themselves have fallen on hard times and sideshows with them.
But the freak show never really lost its appeal. It just goes by a different name: Reality TV. Clearly, there wouldn’t be much drama if sensible people were stuck in an unrealistic situation in front of TV cameras. I don’t know what the personality disorder criteria are for participant selection, but they have to put the “fun” in dysfunctional somehow. And so we have Snooki’s booki. I would like to think that Snooki is a persona that Nicole Polizzi puts on for the benefit of the Jersey Shore audience, and that while everyone is laughing at Snooki’s book, Nicole is laughing all the way to the bank. I choose to believe that, because otherwise it would make me sad to think that Snooki really believed that her book was good literature that people would choose to read, right after they finished that Janet Evanovich or Sue Grafton book. And for that to happen, more than one person would have had to have been in on taking advantage of an intellectually challenged person. And that’s just mean. But as David Hannum (not P.T. Barnum) once said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

By
Ashleigh Rowan

It all started well before short-lived humans were around to set things down on parchment. Through no fault of her own – family politics, it was – Titania was sent away from her home in Tir-na-nOg. She was hardly more than a slip of a girl and her mother had some trouble finding someone to take the child on. As it happened, Titania’s foster mother, whose name was Aisha, was a widow woman with a son, nearly a man. Magus was his name, and he and his mother were from the desert country, where folk have strange ways. They settled in the specific place the Morrigan had directed them in the Mundane world, in what is now called England. Titania’s mother, who was called the Morrigan, would from time to time visit her daughter in secret, always bringing her rich gifts, and none could tell how she came or went. Aisha was well compensated and the three of them lacked for nothing.
Magus had much in the way of magical talent, but sadly, no mentor in the Mundane world. All his life, he searched for the source of magic. As the years passed, his experiments caused circles of standing stones, strange beasts that were part lion and part eagle, and fire-breathing winged lizards. Titania grew into a beautiful young woman, and had not escaped the notice of mortal men. The Morrigan, fearing that her daughter might be despoiled before a suitable marriage could be arranged, changed her into a raven and brought Titania back to the land of Faery. She hid the young woman in the stables of an ancient castle, which had stood empty for as far back as any living could remember. It was enchanted such that none could enter the stronghold, but the outbuilding had no such charm. Such was the Morrigan’s desire for secrecy that she shared her plan with no one, not even Aisha and Magus.
Now when Aisha discovered that Titania was missing, she ran to Magus’ workshop, where she found him sitting on his bench. In his hand, he held a black sphere. It was the size of a glass marble, and yet ten strong mortal men would not have been able to lift it. When his mother came crashing through his doors, shouting and wailing, he was so taken aback that he dropped the sphere. It broke through the floor and fell away into the Earth, thundering as it went. Magus peered into the hole, and saw a strange light emanating from it. Gobsmacked, his mother forgot about Titania as she, too, peered into the hole.
Magus quickly tied a rope around his middle and made the other end fast to an iron ring set in the wall. His mother, surmising his plan, cried out to stop him, but to no avail. Into the hole he dropped and found himself in the land of Faery. When he saw firm ground, he quickly rolled aside before he was pulled further down the hole that receded into the dark Earth. He saw a plain and a wildwood, but little else. He untied the rope and set off to ascertain the lay of the land.
The place felt familiar to him, yet he recognized no landmarks. He found a stream and a small waterfall in the forest. He headed southeast, certain he should come upon a rocky escarpment with desert on the other side of it. After a time, he found the scarp and returned to the point he had entered. He knew he was near the spot that a curious ancient castle had stood when he had lived in Faery. There were no signs of its foundations, so he guessed that it had either been razed to the ground and all the stones carried away, or it was yet to be built. He carved his secret symbol at the feet of several saplings at the edge of the wildwood. Then he re-tied the rope and went back up the tunnel.
Aisha flung her arms around his neck as soon as she saw him, for she had begun to fear she had been deprived of both her son and foster daughter. Magus has spent the better part of a day exploring, and yet to his mother it seemed he had been gone less than three quarters of an hour. He recounted his adventure and she told him of Titania’s disappearance. He tore at his hair in grief and bade his mother to stay at the house, should Titania return, while he went to seek the help of the Morrigan. For speed, he changed himself into a crow and sought her first in Tir-na-nOg, but her handmaiden told him she was away, attending to a family matter, but would not say wither she had journeyed.
Magus had a suspicion where she might be and, in the form of a crow, flew to the area he had explored only just this morning. There was the castle, and when he checked the wood, he found two ancient trees bearing his mark high on their trunks. He flew to the castle and perched on a parapet, considering this hole in space and time, until he spied the Morrigan slipping out of one of the stable doors. She looked up, and in spite of his disguise, she knew him. She called to him and he was compelled to come to her, changing into his true form. She handed him a satchel and bade him take it to his mother, and convey the Morrigan’s thanks for her service. Then she bound his eyes and took his hand to lead him. When the blindfold was removed, he found himself behind his own workshop, alone. He went into his mother’s house and told his tale. She was sore aggrieved and took to her room.
Unable to sleep, Magus took himself to his workshop, where he found the door opened and strange footprints upon the floor. A spire of black rock descended into the hole and Magus followed it. He found that in this olden version of Faery, it was dusk. To his horror, creatures most ugglesome were climbing out from the hole in the ground of Faery and some were even capering about in the meadow. They seemed to him to be as reptiles that walked on two legs and he challenged them. One came forward and he beseeched Magus for mercy and offered the allegiance of his people. After treating with the creature, whose name was Gugōl, Magus accepted an invitation to visit the world of these strangers. Translated, the name of this place is Everdark. He climbed down the black spire into the gloom.
The Everdark was the most fearsome and wondrous place Magus had yet seen. Pinpricks of light from far distant stars and ghastly glowing fungi were the only illumination. Rocks floated and collided in the air with direful groans and water ran uphill. Nothing seemed to work as he expected, or by any rule that he could discover, and glad he was to set his feet back in Faery.
No sooner had Magus returned from the Everdark, but he heard a terrible screaming and wailing. One of the creatures was clambering down from the Mundane world, dragging Aisha by the hair. Anger flashed from his eyes in the form of lightning bolts, striking the monster dead. Magus caught his mother before she could tumble into the Everdark. He cast as many of the foul creatures as he could catch back into the hole and covered it with a boulder. Cunning Gugōl was not among the captured. As penance, an onus was laid on Magus and all his kin to pursue the people of Gugōl as long as they should trouble the realms of Faery and the Mundane.
Now, as Magus’ foster sister, Titania was also under this onus. With the help of the Morrigan, a great castle was erected and the fireplace in the main hall covered the hole that lead to the Everdark. An enchantment was cast upon it so that only Magus could enter and return; for all others, the way back to Faery was shut. Aisha, Magus, his cousin Oberon, and Titania stayed in the past realm of Faery and trained at the castle. They hunted Gugōl’s foul people, then cast them into the great fireplace and back into the Everdark. After a year and a day, there was a terrible shaking and trembling of the land. It seemed to be centered upon the fireplace, so Magus again tied a rope around himself and fixed it fast to the hearthstone before leaping into the hole. And well he did, for the Everdark was gone. In its place, the end of the tunnel bucked like a wild horse and waved to and fro as a pennant in a strong wind. It took all his strength and magic to pull himself back up the rope to safety.
For a fortnight, Aisha, Magus, Titania and Oberon searched high and low, but all of the folk of the Everdark seemed to be routed from Faery. So they magically sealed up the castle and inside it Fragarach, the famous sword of Lugh, which could rend any armor, and they returned to their own time.
In his fervor to rid Faery of the people of Gugōl, which are now called demons, Magus forgot about the ones that had made their way to the Mundane world. They had been multiplying for a thousand years while he was gone. The castle, now ancient, was unsealed and Titania and Oberon married and made their home there. They gathered magical horses and equipment and Magus trained warriors and mages to enter the Mundane world and capture demons. And so it went until Magus and Titania were both slain and Oberon died of grief. But their descendants carry on their mission to this very day.

I had a dream night before last that I was on a werewolf prevention committee for a school. We would run a blood test and something like an MRI on prospective students. Our classes were “Guaranteed 100% Werewolf Free!” A girl applied to our school (she was 10ish) and right away we knew she was a werewolf. There was a big meeting about why she had applied and who put her up to it. And now that we knew she was a werewolf, what were we going to do with her?
So, all day, I’ve been thinking about the nature of discrimination. Sure, there’s the good kind of discrimination where you’re able to tell whether that designer handbag on Craig’s List is the real deal or a cheap knock-off. But what about the kind where a group of people are excluded because of some trait or characteristic they have no control over (like skin color, left or right handedness, ethnicity)? Can that ever be good? If so, where does the line fall, and how blurry is it? While I don’t have any actual polling data to back up this claim, I would submit that that parents who are NOT opposed to their children being devoured by werewolves are the miniscule minority. But if werewolves only change during nights of the full moon, is this really an issue during school hours? Does that make it okay for boarding schools to discriminate against werewolves, but not day schools? Do all werewolves even want to devour children, or do our preconceptions and prejudices bestow truthiness on this idea? It makes me wonder how much threat is over-perceived from Others – those not “like” us. It’s certainly smart to be aware of “stranger danger.” But the truth is (at least statistically) that we are much more likely to be killed by someone we know.

 Ellen kissed her husband on the cheek. “Bye, Mark. See you later.”
 “Have fun at your bridge club.” He didn’t look up from his football game on the TV, didn’t hear her sigh as she walked away from him.
 A black-framed picture of a small blond boy hung by the back door. On her way out, she kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them against the photo. It had been a year and a half since four-year old Daniel had died.
 She turned the radio up loud after she started the engine. She needed that wall of noise to distract her from her own thoughts. It was still a few hours from twilight and the heat from the relentless sun shimmered on the pavement in black pools that disappeared as she moved closer to them. A lot like Mark, since The Party.
 Three cars were already parked on the packed-down dirt near the bridge abutment. Kane was at the bridge railing, securing the rigging. Alma and Rodrigo sat on the hood of their car, talking aimlessly with Herky and Chuck. None of them, this new circle of friends, knew about The Party last spring. Ellen liked it that way. She didn’t have to be pricked by the guilt in their eyes when they talked to her. Guilt because her other friends, her old friends, had all been lounging in the pool, chatting away about guacamole sauce and vacations and nothing. Not one of them noticed the little boy slip under the water. It was her fault. She was his mother. She should have been watching. She told herself that she didn’t blame her friends, didn’t hate them. But if that was true, why did she avoid them now? Elyse called her at least once a week, but Ellen always let the calls go to voice mail, never returning them.
 Ellen parked her beige family sedan next to Kane’s flashy red convertible. She had met him six months ago, at this same bridge. It was coming up on the one year anniversary of Daniel’s funeral. She had been standing on the pedestrian path, staring at the thrashing water, thinking of jumping.
 “I’m gonna jump,” he had said, appearing out of thin air behind her.
 “What?”
 “I said I’m gonna to jump. Wanna have a go?” He had an accent that she thought might have been Australian. Even after six months, she hadn’t bothered asking.
 Ellen had stared at him blankly. He smiled at her and fastened a thick rubber cord around one of the bridge supports.  He put on fingerless gloves and slipped into a harness. Kane had slopped a quick kiss on her mouth before he hurled himself off the bridge. The dark cord snaked out behind him, whipping through the chilly January air. He bounced up and down a few times before he dangled at the end of the cord like a black and red spider, just above the water.
 Then he started to climb back up the cord. It stretched and quivered as he inch-wormed his way back to the bridge. Grunting and sweating, he heaved himself over the railing. Ellen glimpsed the outlines of hard muscles as his flannel shirt stuck to the sweat on his back and sides.
 “Ready for a go?” he’d asked, as if he were asking her to dance.
 Ellen shrugged.  “I’m no good at climbing rope.”
 “S’all right. I’ll haul you up. I usually just drop into the water, but I don’t have my wetsuit today.”
 “Yeah, okay. Why not?” It might be a good preview for plunging off the bridge with no cord attached.
 “I’m Kane, by the way,” he had told her.
 “I’m…El-Elyse.” She had given him a friend’s name. The friend who threw The Party.
Ellen hadn’t been to this bridge since the time she met Kane. She remembered that very first jump. She’d stood on the lip of the bridge, toes curling inside her shoes. Adrenalin had made her innards squirm and her hands tremble. Kane had said something to her, but she didn’t listen. She pulled in a deep breath of snow-fresh air and spread her arms. Closing her eyes, she let herself fall.
Her stomach lurched up into her throat. Rushing air pressed hard against her diaphragm and she couldn’t breathe. Her eyelids snapped open and she saw the frothing river rushing toward her. The rocks got bigger. She clenched her eyelids together, certain she would slam into the dark water. A tug at her waist pulled her back up for a few seconds, then she fell again. After a few bounces, she hung above the water. Even in the cold, she could smell the pungent mud on the river bank and the water and the stones. Her heart had throbbed against her ribs and her skin tingled.
Now, the only time she could feel anything was when she was hurtling toward the earth. That’s why she had joined the Bridge Club, why she was here now.
Ellen sat in her car, putting on lip balm and watching Kane. He was just finishing up. His bare back was to her, fresh sweat glistening on ripped muscles. He was easy to look at, easy to sleep with. She hadn’t intended to. He tried hard to please her, but she was beyond his reach. Sometimes, she let him believe that she wasn’t. She had gotten good at faking almost everything in the past eighteen months.
 She opened the car door. The sticky smell of too much honeysuckle drifted up from the river bank, where a large vine of it had overpowered a rusty barbed wire fence. Shaking her head, Ellen locked her purse in the trunk and went to meet the rest of the Bridge Club. They met every Wednesday evening at 6:00 to bungee jump off of one of the many local bridges. Her husband thought she was playing cards. If the weather was bad, she usually went to Kane’s apartment.
“Hey, Elyse!” Alma called to her.
That name again. The once-upon-a-time-friend from a different life. “Hey. What’s Kane got for us tonight?” Ellen asked.
“Like you don’t know.”
Their affair was not exactly a secret. Ellen didn’t care what the others thought, not as long as she got to jump. They didn’t know anything about her. If they didn’t like her, screw ‘em.
“Got a new rig,” Kane said, coming down from the bridge. He tickled Ellen’s back. “Ankle harness.”
“Are you thinking head dips?” Herky asked.
“Seems too rocky here. Maybe Tanner Road Bridge would be better for that,” Rodrigo said, putting his arm around Alma.
“Nah,” Kane said. “Not going more’n a few inches in. Water’s maybe ten foot deep just under the bridge.”
“I’ll do it,” Ellen said. She didn’t care about their bickering. She just wanted to fly.
She followed Kane to the top of the bridge. He wrapped a towel around each of her calves, then strapped on the ankle harness. He told her things about jumping in an ankle harness, but she didn’t pay attention this time, either. A chilly puff of air tugged at her clothes and sent a shiver up her spine. It was just wrong in the summer heat. She was sure she heard a sound, the voice of a faraway child, carried on the breeze. “Mom! Mommy.”
She was finally starting to lose it. No one else seemed to hear it, so she pretended it was nothing. Even so, it flapped like a tattered grey moth inside her mind.
Kane helped Ellen to the edge of the bridge. She was desperate to go, to get that sound out of her head. As soon as she was clipped in, she dove, feet pushing hard off the concrete. The swirling water seemed to make a pattern. As she got closer, she could see a figure. Closer still, she could see Daniel. He was under the water, reaching both arms up to her. “I’m coming, baby!” she shouted, knowing it wasn’t, it couldn’t be him. Even so, she stretched out her arms to scoop him up out of the water, the way she should have done before.
She didn’t feel the rigging give way as her weight hit the end of the cord. She didn’t feel her neck break or her spine shatter as she hit the rocks. All she could feel was her little boy, back in her arms.
“I love you, Mommy,” he told her.
“I love you, too, baby.”
“It’s time to go.”
“Yes.” She didn’t even glance over her shoulder as Daniel led her into the blinding white light.

When I was very young, my mother had a little tan Chihuahua named Peaches. Everybody loved the little dog (my first word was “Peaches”), except for my paternal grandmother. She couldn’t stand Peaches and the feeling was mutual. Once when she and my grandfather were visiting, Peaches got sick in the middle of the night, and even though the vet was good enough to get out of bed and meet my mother at the clinic, the dog still died. I think I was about three, and I have disjointed, pastel memories of my mother coming home very early in the morning, crying, and a backyard funeral with a shady grave.
Fast-forward twenty years. My mother had been battling breast cancer for a couple of years, and Alzheimer’s was just settling in on my grandmother. She couldn’t remember what she had just eaten for lunch, but she could remember her stories from way back when. One of her favorites, that she told over and over, was about the time that my grandfather had taken to feeding a stray dog. She thought it was a waste of resources to feed a mongrel that nobody wanted, so one day, when my grandfather was out in the cotton field, she shot the dog.
The proverbial chill went down my spine. From the first time I ever heard the story, I wondered if she had done something to Peaches. I never asked her directly, because sometimes, it’s better to wonder than to know. But I think this is one of the roots of my fascination with sociopaths.