Monday, April 27, 2009

Magick Monday

If this isn't Magick, I don't know what is. Every year we go and see the tulips and daffodils at Roosengaarde up in Mt. Vernon, Washington. It is spectacular. It has every kind of flower that is in their catalogue and just so breathtaking. We spent four hours there just wandering through the gardens. It reminds me of something that a Victorian Era garden would have had. Where two young betrothed might have walked. Every part of this display garden is just magic to me and inspires such possibilites of fantastic Edens in unforgetable lands.

I just love the symmetry of the straight lines with so many flowers. It was awesome to look out over the sea of flowers the same color and then to pick up ones of different colors here and there. I like that kind of thing.

So yesterday, it was sunny and not too warm. I spent my afternoon attending to MY little corner of the world and loved every moment of it. Something about playing in the dirt is just so soothing. :)

Hope you find equal Magic in your day!


Wednesday, April 22, 2009

New Blood's Price review!

Blood's Price
Colleen Love
Historical romance
Available from Absolute XPress
ISBN: 1-894817
Feburary 2009

Colleen Love drew me in with the first page of Elizabeth's story. Her descriptive writing easily creates a visual that helps me "see" the story in my head...The heat the two of them generate together becomes an inferno. Be careful, you might get singed while reading this book! There is no easing into their relationship, it's explosive from the start.

I highly recommend this book, especially if you're looking for something hot and spicy. I found myself wishing the book was longer.

Overall rating: 5 Hearts
Sensuality rating: Very sensual

Reviewer: Sierra Lee
April 21, 2009

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Horse Tales

Have you ever had an animal touch your heart so deeply, that they can communicate with you? I'm not talking about them standing in front of you with the look of, 'Hey Toots, get over here and scratch the itch I can't reach', I mean something a little more involved, as in psychic abilities. I believe it with all my heart and I will tell you why.

I haven't been up to the barn in a couple of months. We have all been ill with this never-ending bug and it seems as soon as one is finished, the next pounces on your weak immune system. I figured since the horses technically aren't mine, we would be fine to just wait. But I have come to see that perhaps they aren't ours, but we belong to them and the realization of belonging is irrelevant.

The horse in the above picture is named Scooter, he is a Quarter Horse. Since I first saw him he claimed me as his own. I have adored this big guy for so many reasons, his beauty alone wins my heart. But he is so much more. He is a survivor. My friend rescued him and he was only half the size he is now. He was starving to death and someone brought him to her and she healed him, nourished him and loved him. In return, he has learned to trust again, well, all except those who hurt him to begin with.

Last week, I had a dream about him. I figured it was one of those dreams induced by illness and missing going up to the barn. I put it aside and moved on. Well, yesterday, my girlfriend called me and asked if I could come up, she was getting a new horse and she wanted me there to share the excitement. After all was said and done, we went out to the south pasture to see the boys (three geldings). Scooter is one of them. When he saw my daughter and I, he stretched out his neck and started chortling deep in his throat. He singled me out and made sure the other two didn't get close to him or me and started pointing to where he needed attention. Indeed, places he couldn't scratch. He shivered and shuddered with such pleasure I thought he was having a siezure and was going to turn inside out. And you have to watch it because he will forget you aren't another horse and chomp your hiney. Luckily, Daycon was right there and he nibbled on him for awhile. When we finally had to go, he was really bummed out. He wanted us to stay.

I asked my friend about the dream and the connection. She just shook her head because she knows how much I 'dig' her guy. She said of course she believes very strongly in that. Dacon did it to her three times. She sold him a couple of times and he would send her dreams that he was 'done' and ready to come home. She bought him three times. lol But each time after the dreams, she would see him shortly thereafter and he would run and load into her trailer, no worries. Which is very funny, because I can see him doing that. He is a funny Arabian and I couldn't help putting him in my book Eden At Twilight, due out next month through The Wild Rose Press.

But I would like to know, do you have an animal, or have you had an animal that has not been in front of you and communicated with you?


Saturday, April 11, 2009

Happy Ostara

Even though, technically, Ostara has passed (March 21), I just wanted to wish everyone a happy Easter. :)

Happy Spring!

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Welcome Ellen Ashe!!

Hi Everyone!
It is my distinct pleasure to introduce my friend Ellen Ashe!
Thanks for visiting today!

Ghost Walk

~ A short story by Ellen Ashe~

The history of York, we were told- my friend and I- is the history of England. Preserved medieval walls and buildings, the whisper of civil war, kings and queens, plagues and torture, survival and romance, all of it oozed a saga we simply couldn’t get enough of. Narrow streets revealed cluttered shops, tea rooms, and wine bars. Cathedral crypts, dully lit, spoke of long gone civilizations- Romans, Saxons, Vikings, Normans- and museums, too many to count, peeled back the layers of time for all who cared to stop and wonder. A romantic’s dream come true and we reveled in exploration.

As the warm summer day grew dim we stopped by the River Ouse outside a favorite pub, The King’s Arms, rested our feet and dampened parched throats. A tall, pasty complexioned fellow caught our attention. Dressed as an undertaker, tall black hat, his cape swirling around his ankles, he waved his crooked walking stick and called forth all those who wished to hear the stories of lost souls within the city’s walls who could not find rest. “Join me,” he chanted with an air of suspenseful expectancy. “And I shall take you to places where infamy refuses to concede to reality.”

An eager crowd soon gathered. His flare for all things dark and ghostly was quite lucrative; they paid their dues and shuffled about in nervous anticipation. Despite our aching feet, we too, were seduced by his mystical mannerisms; curiosity got the better of us. The few shekels we handed over were well worth the price for nerve tingling entertainment.

We were not disappointed. We tagged along, stopping to listen intently to a sad story of a child locked inside a plague house, to die, not of the disease that wracked the population centuries ago, but of slow starvation. Her little face did not appear in the upstairs window for us, but we didn’t doubt on some foggy nights it did just that. Outside a pub called The Black Swan we held our breath as the tale of a ghostly woman was recounted, trying vainly to warm her cold hands near the fireplace and vanishing as patrons approached to peer into her eyes. Next was The Treasurer’s House, where ghostly dualists fight through eternity on the manicured lawn, swords clashing for the heart of a lady who had long since turned to dust.

Our host was mesmerizing- his deep voice rising and falling- subtle nuances as he embellished these fanciful tales for an engrossed audience. We were of no exception. “He’s good,” I whispered to my friend and she nodded slowly, her eyes wide.

“Fascinating,” said a fellow who had silently come up behind us. We turned in unison to glance at the stowaway, and being warm blooded and female, were taken aback by his sinister good looks. Locks of black hair curled over his white collar and framed swarthy Greek God features. He smiled at each of us in turn, long lashes curling above sultry brown eyes. “Do you believe?” His question was uttered in sincerity.

I found my voice first. “There’s likely a grain of truth to each story,” I said, hoping my palpitating heartbeat wasn’t betraying my attraction to masculine qualities draped in fine clothes- silky cotton shirt, dark trousers, soft leather boots- certainly a stark contrast to our tourist identifying garb of t-shirts, jeans and running shoes.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. He bowed, slightly, and we were instantly charmed by his elegant mannerisms. “My name is Jonathan Wright.”

Mr. “Right”, I mused, speechlessness taking hold. My friend introduced herself but I was then beyond capability of forming words.

This was a blessing, in fact, for he quietly highlighted the next tale of a Grey Lady who had, our formal guide bellowed, been seen on a regular basis haunting The Theatre Royal. “She was boarded up in a wall,” Jonathan Wright said softly, leaning between our shoulders. “Left there to die, inch by inch, for the crime of passion.” I shuddered at this horror, keeping my own stirring passions muted, thankful that dreadful era no longer held power over liberated minds.

We three tagged along behind the troupe to the final stop, The King’s Manor, and I felt uneasy that perhaps our guest might be scorned for hanging on, but no one seemed to notice. We had become delightfully anonymous. And inside the echoing stone foyer we listened politely to the story of a lady in green, her costume denoting the Tudor style, who carried roses from a garden that existed hundreds of years ago.

The Ghost Walk was then concluded; the crowd dispersed, happily arguing over the authenticity of these tales of intrigue. But we three remained in the cold open foyer, as our guest peered longingly at the stairway that led up into a vast room shrouded in darkness. There was more to the story of the lady in green, we guessed, and waited with eager apprehension.

“She loved only one,” he said calmly, his eyes fixated on the gloom above us. “Yet duty saw her bound to another.” He sighed with such emotion that we clutched each other’s arms- my friend and I- wondering how it was he was privy to such depth.

“Murder,” he announced with such vigor we startled. “Both were murdered by the cruel heart of jealousy.”

He turned once more and smiled to us. “I must bid you both adieu,” he said with a nod. “May life and love fulfill all your dreams. Always believe.”

With that, he moved towards the wide staircase and before our eyes, slowly vanished. Ascending footsteps faded into nothingness.

We were left alone, to wonder how it was that lost love could stretch beyond the borders of time, and how we could never again concede to what we perceived as reality. And as we backed away from the cold stone foyer into the busy street outside, the delicate scent of roses filled the air.