tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-177460462024-03-05T09:44:03.328-07:00SuzenymsSuzenyms - Thoughts on Writing and Editing, Art, Dance, or just Life, by Susan MacGregor.Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.comBlogger205125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-85435551076283348022022-06-06T18:47:00.008-06:002022-06-06T19:49:08.071-06:00Can I Get Back To 18 Again?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlNDPWeKfgX4phN0Jereu0jl45UGkFuVFsouqePwNBOvqFst-YiH-Z-boI6xJ7zSZTgQ1STxBGPOiGQ7mfRfhVPuOUWUX0Bhtv-nYVcwoIiX5NsLhA02sO98yfpW5HjlNiE61rtSXo-K8iIQtr04OAP_4qxAqT3hZCsTid2Zyl8tDXU4cqm0/s2560/Person-driving-convertibl-014.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2560" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlNDPWeKfgX4phN0Jereu0jl45UGkFuVFsouqePwNBOvqFst-YiH-Z-boI6xJ7zSZTgQ1STxBGPOiGQ7mfRfhVPuOUWUX0Bhtv-nYVcwoIiX5NsLhA02sO98yfpW5HjlNiE61rtSXo-K8iIQtr04OAP_4qxAqT3hZCsTid2Zyl8tDXU4cqm0/s320/Person-driving-convertibl-014.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I HAD A 'MOMENT' the other day. One of those rare instances you don't see coming because you don't realize how far away you've come from who you once were. Aging is like that. Maybe it's the journey in life that makes you see the distance you've travelled - when you finally take the time to notice it. This isn't about me patting myself on my back. Nor is it about me signaling any kind of virtue. Most of the time, I question what virtues I have. I can't imagine having a moment like the one I just had, if I were still in my 30's or 40's. I think I had to go through some messy decades in order to see how I've changed. I question whether those changes have all been good ones. For the most part, I think they are, but there have also been costs. When a stubborn tree weathers many storms, it doesn't grow straight. It will bend, and in broken places, there will be scars.<p></p><p>I finished watching <i>Nine Perfect Strangers</i> the other night on Netflix. There were good and bad aspects. I don't think hallucinogens are the way to psychological healing or a way to deal with unresolved grief, nor do I like the idea that the show may support that. On the other hand, the psychological drama was good, which was a result of the writing. </p><p>I digress. What I want to talk about is one of the last shots of the last episode, where Nicole Kidman drives off with the smiling ghost of her daughter. It's a beautiful day, they're in a convertible, driving down a coastal highway - probably somewhere along the US west coast. Nicole's character has finally come to terms with her grief. As they drive away, she and her daughter laugh and raise their hands to a perfect, blue sky.</p><p>What struck me about this shot was... once, I was <i>this </i>happy, this carefree. I resented nothing and no-one, I held no grudges, I feared nothing. Once I was 18, and it was a beautiful time, and the present moment was <i>that </i>perfect, and the future seemed perfect, too. </p><p>Where the hell had that happy 18-year old gone?</p><p>I know where she went. She grew up. She had kids. She had a marriage that struggled for years, and then finally made peace with itself (thank God). She had friends who lived their own lives, moved away, and lost touch. Others turned on her because of shared issues. For those friends who didn't support or who betrayed, she held grudges against them for a long, long time. She revisits those grudges, occasionally. There's a certain satisfaction in that, which is hard to explain. (I'm working on getting over it.)There were a few professional failures, but luckily, there were successes that outweighed them. She learned that tenacity and stubbornness will get you where you need to go, and a second 'thank God' for those few supportive folks who helped her along the way. </p><p>There were deaths. Of old friends. Of parents. The death of her mother made her face her own mortality, maybe for the first time. Despite being a spiritual person, death was, and is, still hard to accept. The passing of her dogs broke her heart.</p><p>When COVID hit, she became paranoid for a time, and she's still cautious about it - probably more so than most. She still wears masks. Like many people, the isolation wasn't the best either, particularly as it gave her the time to dwell on past losses, hurts, and betrayals, not a great habit as she was already obsessive about many things. On the plus side, that same obsessiveness and perfectionism helped her Get Things Done.</p><p>God, what a load to carry. I didn't realize how weighted down I was.</p><p>I don't suppose I'll ever be as carefree as I was at 18, but I'd like to head there. I think I've started. I'm not so driven anymore, and I'm not so bitter. I find if I can't out-and-out forgive, I can at least 'forget about it'. I can also look at why I choose to hang onto my resentments. Do I think they empower me? Why do I need to feel empowered? Again - <i>forget about it</i>. As for the deaths, better to focus on life.</p><p>I don't think I'm so different from many of us. The years can weigh heavily. All of it leads to a question. Was there a time when <i>you </i>felt carefree and completely happy? What was <i>your </i>moment, when the world seemed perfect, and sunny, and you were content to be exactly where you were? Have you found your moment again? If you haven't yet, do you think you will? I have hope for the both of us.</p><p>I suspect I have too much history for me to re-live that carefree time exactly, but maybe I can find a good alternative. I suspect it will take some mindfulness to get there. My moments will be simple. More time in the garden, more time to play with my grandsons. More walks enjoying the great outdoors. More time talking to the people I care about, who I know care about me. I wish there were more of those. I'd like to make some time to include a few new ones. Maybe I'll get another dog, although I'm not sure I can live with the eventual heartbreak. The thing is - to live in the <i>now</i>. And then, maybe plan a bit for the future. There's travel.</p><p>Maybe all I need is to rent a convertible and to head out onto a coastal highway, to rediscover 18-year old me. That joy, that peace, that perfect moment. If there's a heaven, for me it would be that. I pray I find it, that I'll get there.</p><p>Happy travels to us all. - Susan.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-35091276617503770232022-01-17T15:40:00.002-07:002022-01-17T15:43:10.277-07:002nd Editions of the Tattooed Witch Trilogy, Finally!<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggHQBDyYW_VnWB_eJZu9p-Mn9aV3A5kEBNgjHkZX26sMsuFL5mpkCRsNDH1hv-j8KAORXW5iu__89B6cWxUIQcRoKQJ9NhvERVeg83b5YOfS2BoExTB3rdssF9LmQuAlYX917MglsgyRv-a2Nb3pWSNndARPAXUbzt43Ib3mpzUBs8FuGTEvQ=s4000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnB2Oc2Ltv3RDyvqh3nxk78owClywnKi-NvMtix29ZjxobhnbVpaHVp7uu4Jv3vpia559jMI9Yuz-Y4YRQuO43Tr78qxNd_sF-uqaMAXyHiGFX3lvsamU9PSkUAWZK9gEbONjPLBw0GTJJgatjhJe4pFfDtkGJGFQpbb2LQZOVxBgd5h31ZP4=s1047" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="1047" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnB2Oc2Ltv3RDyvqh3nxk78owClywnKi-NvMtix29ZjxobhnbVpaHVp7uu4Jv3vpia559jMI9Yuz-Y4YRQuO43Tr78qxNd_sF-uqaMAXyHiGFX3lvsamU9PSkUAWZK9gEbONjPLBw0GTJJgatjhJe4pFfDtkGJGFQpbb2LQZOVxBgd5h31ZP4=w602-h294" width="602" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tattooed Witch Trilogy</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Well, it took about six months of hair-pulling frustration to learn<i> InDesign, Kindle Create</i>, and the ins and outs of <i>Amazon Publishing</i>, but here are the books of my trilogy, finally. These were first published by <i>Five Rivers Publishing</i> in 2013, 2014, and 2016 respectively; I regained the publishing rights; they're now 2nd editions under my imprint, the <i>Three of Pentacles Press</i>. (More to come from the new imprint too, but I don't want to talk about that, quite yet. I'm still deciding how deep I want to dip my publishing toes.) The trilogy is basically the same, except for a few tweaks (naturally, I couldn't leave well enough alone). </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i>The Tattooed Witch</i> and <i>The Tattooed Seer</i> e-books include the first few chapters of the next book in the series, so if you haven't read them, those will give you a sense of where the story goes. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">The links are below. If you have a <i>Kindle Unlimited </i>account, you can read the books for free. Yay! :-) Of course, the books are also available as paperbacks.</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>On Amazon.ca: <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Tattooed-Witch-Book-One-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B09NZDFWNJ/ref=sr_1_5?crid=3OQYAZPU17BIX&keywords=susan+macgregor&qid=1642456409&sprefix=susan+macgregor%2Caps%2C156&sr=8-5">The Tattooed Witch: Book One, The Tattooed Witch Trilogy eBook : MacGregor, Susan: Amazon.ca: Kindle Store</a></li><li>On Amazon.com: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tattooed-Witch-Book-One-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B09NZDFWNJ/ref=sr_1_9?crid=1LWGEGC634C2W&keywords=susan+macgregor&qid=1642456825&sprefix=susan+macgregor%2Caps%2C139&sr=8-9">Amazon.com: The Tattooed Witch: Book One, The Tattooed Witch Trilogy eBook : MacGregor, Susan: Kindle Store</a></li><li>On Amazon.ca: <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Tattooed-Seer-Book-Witch-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B09NZWL2DQ/ref=sr_1_9?crid=3OQYAZPU17BIX&keywords=susan+macgregor&qid=1642456409&sprefix=susan+macgregor%2Caps%2C156&sr=8-9">The Tattooed Seer: Book Two, The Tattooed Witch Trilogy eBook : MacGregor, Susan: Amazon.ca: Kindle Store</a></li><li>On Amazon.com: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tattooed-Seer-Book-Witch-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B09NZWL2DQ/ref=sr_1_11?crid=1LWGEGC634C2W&keywords=susan+macgregor&qid=1642456825&sprefix=susan+macgregor%2Caps%2C139&sr=8-11">Amazon.com: The Tattooed Seer: Book Two, The Tattooed Witch Trilogy eBook : MacGregor, Susan: Kindle Store</a></li><li> On Amazon.ca: <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Tattooed-Queen-Three-Witch-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B09NZTVQM8/ref=sr_1_2?crid=3OQYAZPU17BIX&keywords=susan+macgregor&qid=1642456409&sprefix=susan+macgregor%2Caps%2C156&sr=8-2">The Tattooed Queen: Book Three, The Tattooed Witch Trilogy eBook : MacGregor, Susan: Amazon.ca: Kindle Store</a></li><li>On Amazon.com: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tattooed-Queen-Witch-Trilogy-Book/dp/1988274176/ref=sr_1_3?crid=1LWGEGC634C2W&keywords=susan+macgregor&qid=1642456825&sprefix=susan+macgregor%2Caps%2C139&sr=8-3">The Tattooed Queen: The Tattooed Witch Trilogy Book 3: MacGregor, Susan: 9781988274171: Amazon.com: Books</a> </li></ol><p></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">All three books have had good reviews, but as these are 2nd editions and the first editions are no longer available, I can't include those star reviews here. If you'd like to leave a review on Amazon.ca or Amazon.com, I'd appreciate your support. Thank you. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">Currently, I'm in the process of setting up a new website. When that's done, I'll mention it here. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">I'm also back to editing <i>On Spec</i> manuscripts, so I may resurrect <i>Letters to the Slush Pile</i> here, or I may turn them into a YouTube channel. Lots to do. I'll keep you posted.</p></blockquote><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">In the meantime, stay warm, stay Covid safe, and here's to a happy and fulfilling 2022 for all of us!</p></blockquote><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">All the best! - Susan. </p><p></p></blockquote><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></blockquote><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote>Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-492339648179688232021-11-16T17:45:00.004-07:002022-01-17T14:20:08.910-07:00BACK FROM THE DEAD, AND SOME NEWS!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehBP0LCDc_tGd_5mT1xXpH0ZHr-2jZsCmCWm9tEyoHgXgPC3AYI_VSDvQFWlqwhsSg38pE7bD6IGXvYUsS2mJhU0mL7na-H2KiLRSbE4nh-pAWggis01uh7nHQf6kbH8FSvKHUA/s500/ABC%2527s+cover+on+Amazon.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="313" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehBP0LCDc_tGd_5mT1xXpH0ZHr-2jZsCmCWm9tEyoHgXgPC3AYI_VSDvQFWlqwhsSg38pE7bD6IGXvYUsS2mJhU0mL7na-H2KiLRSbE4nh-pAWggis01uh7nHQf6kbH8FSvKHUA/w250-h400/ABC%2527s+cover+on+Amazon.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><b>IT'S BEEN A WHILE, HASN'T IT?</b> Like, three years since my last post. <i>Did you miss me?</i> I'm not sure what I can blame the lapse on - a pandemic, a bad attitude or simple ennui, perhaps a focus on other things, like painting or flamenco. <p></p><div>Anyway, here I am <i>again</i>, resurrecting Suzenyms, and along with the blog, some news. I've registered my own imprint. Here's the new logo:</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUpvJ6xHU-zNVxJRaeK1C5X5IXJUmc0oZDSNvyI7rdKUQlKWG4kpHelUygVXIhOext_vhzl9d7vB5GtHsSuGTdFhTytlRww_HRAgDl5xcQK_RvPvvKxq-VrFQQ8AeYeJGa41uhA/s206/ABC%2527s+Colored+Logo+PNG.png" style="display: inline; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="206" height="84" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUpvJ6xHU-zNVxJRaeK1C5X5IXJUmc0oZDSNvyI7rdKUQlKWG4kpHelUygVXIhOext_vhzl9d7vB5GtHsSuGTdFhTytlRww_HRAgDl5xcQK_RvPvvKxq-VrFQQ8AeYeJGa41uhA/w86-h84/ABC%2527s+Colored+Logo+PNG.png" width="86" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three of Pentacles Press</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Why Three of Pentacles, you might ask? The Three of Pentacles is one of my favorite tarot cards. It means mastery and collaboration. The Rider Waite deck features three people working together on a cathedral arch - a mason/sculptor, a priest, and a noble. I also like to interpret the card as combining talents, time, and people in order to create something lasting and great. What I hope to do eventually, with this imprint. </div><div><br /></div><div>The title above, is the first book under the new publishing name. Maybe you recognize the title - <i>The ABC's of How NOT to Write Speculative Fiction</i>. For a number of years, I featured the ABC's here, on Suzenyms. I've updated and rewritten them, and now they're in their 3rd edition and available as an epub for the Kindle on Amazon. You can link to the pages here: </div><div><br /></div><div>For Amazon.com: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/ABCs-How-Write-Speculative-Fiction-ebook/dp/B09LRHVGGW/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1LWGEGC634C2W&keywords=susan+macgregor&qid=1642454301&sprefix=susan+macgregor%2Caps%2C139&sr=8-2">Amazon.com: The ABC's of How NOT to Write Speculative Fiction eBook : MacGregor, Susan: Books</a></div><div>And for Amazon.ca: <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/ABCs-How-Write-Speculative-Fiction/dp/1777713404/ref=sr_1_7?crid=3OQYAZPU17BIX&keywords=susan+macgregor&qid=1642454218&sprefix=susan+macgregor%2Caps%2C156&sr=8-7">The ABC's of How NOT to Write Speculative Fiction: MacGregor, Susan: 9781777713409: Creative Writing & Composition: Amazon Canada</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Plus, the paperback is also out! Finally!</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll also be re-releasing my anthology, <i>The Tattooed Witch, The Tattooed Seer</i>, and <i>The Tattooed Queen,</i> now that I have the rights back for all three books. They were originally published through Five Rivers Press. (Thank you, Lorina Stephens, for your validation and support). </div><div><br /></div><div>After I get those done, who knows? I'd like to record my trilogy on Audible. I'll probably do it, myself. We'll see. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm also toying with starting a YouTube channel, based on my old <i>Letters to the Slush Pile</i> posts, which you can still find here on the blog. What I'd like to do is to take samples of writing submitted to me, and discuss where the prose is working, and where it still needs work. All without mentioning anyone's names, of course. If <i>any </i>of you out there want <i>free </i>editing advice, and are willing to endure an honest critique with the idea that your work might eventually be the source of a YouTube post, please contact me at <a href="mailto:threeofpentspress@yahoo.com">threeofpentspress@yahoo.com</a>. For now, I'm limiting my focus to short stories. I'm not quite set up for YouTube, yet. Have to learn how to handle the new vlogger camera, first. :-) But if you're interested in receiving advice from an editor of 30+ years, drop me a line, and let's see where I might help you. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's it for now! It's good to be back! :-)</div><div><br /></div><div>- Susan.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-51333204192051522272018-10-26T07:35:00.001-06:002018-10-26T07:35:36.267-06:00NEVER MIND...JUST DANCE.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>WHEN I TOOK MY FIRST BULERIAS CLASS, HERE IN SEVILLA</b>, I did the typical Canadian thing and apologized to Ramon Martinez, my teacher, because my Spanish was poor. 'Lo siento,' I said, 'mi espanol no es muy bueno.' He smiled and replied to me in English, 'Never mind! Just dance!' He actually said a bit more than that, but this was the core of his advice. So now, 'Never mind, just...' has become my motto for every artistic endeavour I do. I think it's a good one.<br />
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Not sure what to do with your bulerias improvization? <i>Never mind, just dance.</i><br />
You flubbed that last llamada? <i>Never mind, just keep going.</i><br />
Where does this all end? <i>Never mind. It's not about some far-off goal you may never reach. It's about the journey. Just go! Enjoy!</i><br />
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How many of us waste our time obsessing over small details or never allowing ourselves to make mistakes? I'm guilty of this in dance, which is why, for me, improvisation is so difficult. Ramon told me not to be afraid to fail, to make those mistakes. So flamenco is not just about understanding its physical technicality. It's also a battle with one's pride, never an easy thing to do. Furthermore, it's also about looking so confident that when you make a mistake, you hide it, as if to say, 'Oh, yes? I meant to do that.'<br />
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I find this motto so helpful. How about using, 'Never mind, just...(then fill in the blank with whatever your goal is at the moment)? For example:<br />
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Ticked off, because the short story you submitted wasn't accepted? <i>Never mind, just write.</i><br />
Not sure where to start that novel? <i>Never mind, just start. Anywhere. You're going to edit the damn thing to death anyway.</i><br />
Frustrated because that painting isn't working? <i>Never mind, sometimes it's the mistake that makes the piece shine.</i><br />
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One of my fellow bulerias students is deaf. As Ramon sings, she watches his lips carefully, so she'll know what to do and when to do it. (Bulerias is tricky this way. There are places in the cante where you can do certain moves, and other places where you shouldn't. Thus, my confusion, especially when the cante, or singing, is constantly changing.) In spite of her handicap, she's been dancing with Ramon long enough that her improvization is <i>amazing</i>. She is, by far, one of his best students.<br />
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I have one more class with Ramon on Monday, and then I leave Seville for Canada. I've enjoyed my time here very much. I've learned a great deal, and I can't thank Ramon enough for that. He's changed how I see myself as a dancer. I am more confident, yes. Perhaps also confident enough not to worry so much about future mistakes. :-)<br />
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Will I return to Seville next year? I can't say. But I <i>can </i>say this: 'Never mind. Just dance.'<br />
(Thank you, Ramon.)<br />
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- Susan.<br />
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<br />Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-60226825165039433272018-10-16T08:43:00.003-06:002018-10-16T10:35:48.920-06:00A LITTLE TOO MUCH ENTHUSIASM?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipEFRdlag-Kq8m8m3Onyoq4tJ9xJYbehgN7uXBIvmspUUDDehb6rxZY-uur_VnwjcEQmoHHXr8mPh4oW5tkSWfazYqXSBseN5uLcyjZ6rFJk3Mh5n_qBRI8gD_NOViXuLWzge6UQ/s1600/Seville%252C+Los+Gallos+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="495" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipEFRdlag-Kq8m8m3Onyoq4tJ9xJYbehgN7uXBIvmspUUDDehb6rxZY-uur_VnwjcEQmoHHXr8mPh4oW5tkSWfazYqXSBseN5uLcyjZ6rFJk3Mh5n_qBRI8gD_NOViXuLWzge6UQ/s320/Seville%252C+Los+Gallos+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>A COUPLE OF WEEKENDS AGO, Mike and I went to <i>Los Gallos</i>, </b>a famous flamenco <i>tablao </i>here in Seville. We made sure to arrive a half an hour early to get good seats. We ended up in the second row from the front, seated next to an Australian couple.<br />
<br />
I like Australians. Like Canadians, they are (by and large) warm, enthusiastic, and straightforward folks - definitely 'what you see is what you get', kind of people. Judging from how they were talking, they were excited about the show. They were also new to flamenco.<br />
<br />
The <i>tablao's </i>host entered the stage, and asked in Spanish, English, and French, to please refrain from taking photographs or videos during the show; there would be time for that at the end. It's a pretty standard request. As soon as he finished, the woman beside me yelled, 'VAH MOSE!' Then her partner shouted it, as if to make sure we all heard. "VAH MOSE!"<br />
<br />
I cringed. Who had told them that was an appropriate thing to yell? I've had enough flamenco to know when it's reasonable to shout a <i>jaleo </i>or two. Hearing 'VAH MOSE' (or 'let's go!' for <i>vamos</i>) was too much for my sensibilities. Plus, I didn't want to keep hearing it shouted in my ear throughout the show.<br />
<br />
I leaned over to the woman and whispered, "Excuse me. I know a little about flamenco. If you really want to show your appreciation, a better thing to say might be, 'Olé!' or 'Eso es!"<br />
<br />
Her eyebrows lifted. Her partner considered me as if I had suggested a better <i>Rioja</i>. "Eso es?" she repeated.<br />
<br />
"Yes. It means, 'that's it!' You can say it when a dancer performs a really amazing bit of footwork. Or you can shout, 'Toma!' It means to 'take it!'"<br />
<br />
She beamed at me as if I had handed her the moon. He nodded. "Toma! Right! Thanks!"<br />
<br />
"No problem." I smiled. I had done my good flamenco deed for the day. None of the performers would be insulted with hearing "VAH MOSE!" as if what they were doing on stage wasn't enough, and the two beside me were happy, armed with appropriate <i>jaleos</i>. As the guitarist and singer took the stage, we watched them tune up. After their first piece, one of the dancers performed an incredible <i>Tarantos</i>. As she finished with an awe-inspiring set of turns, it came:<br />
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"HAY SOW! HAY SOW!"<br />
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My seat-mate was so enthusiastic, and shouting it so loud, she almost lurched from her seat. I didn't have the heart to stop her. Every time she shouted 'HAY SOW', I kept finishing it with an 'es' in my head. Was 'HAY SOW!' any better than 'VAH MOSE!'? Probably worse. I hoped the flamencos on stage would see her appreciation for what it was.<br />
<br />
But when she started in at the start of a <i>Seguirillas</i>, I set a hand upon her arm. "It's probably better to say that a little less during this piece," I whispered.<br />
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"Oh, right," she said, noting the terse expression on the dancer's face. "She looks a bit upset."<br />
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"Yes. It's that kind of dance."<br />
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"Got you," my seat mate replied, nodding. We were flamenco sisters now, <i>afficionadas</i>.<br />
<br />
In didn't stop the 'hay sows', but the end, she won me over. She was so happy and thrilled with what she was seeing, she kept grabbing me by the arm when something exciting occurred. Being a touchy-feelie person myself (although not as touchy as she was), the four of us agreed the show had been astounding. Afterwards, we introduced ourselves. They were Natalie and Wade from Adelaide, and off to Madrid the next day. It seems Australians like Canadians, as much as Canadians like Australians. I told them they should visit <i>Casa Patas</i>, a famous <i>tablao </i>there. Natalie assured me they would.<br />
<br />
I suspect <i>Casa Patas</i> rang with her "HAY SOWS!" I don't doubt they'll be remembered in Madrid. :-)<br />
<br />
Hasta luego, mis amigos, olé!<br />
<br />
- Susan.<br />
<br />Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-57401058924632823832018-10-11T10:01:00.000-06:002018-10-11T10:01:09.788-06:00THE EXTENDED POSTCARD...or DEAR LESLIE, HOLA from SPAIN!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4a8NsRYgzUA/W79eQRLetHI/AAAAAAAAB4E/gXymYNX3VtU97-hJftJoocjfM4RyjtCgACLcBGAs/s1600/Sevilla%2BPost%2BCard%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4a8NsRYgzUA/W79eQRLetHI/AAAAAAAAB4E/gXymYNX3VtU97-hJftJoocjfM4RyjtCgACLcBGAs/s320/Sevilla%2BPost%2BCard%2B2.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>
<b>A FEW DAYS AGO, I SENT A POSTCARD from Seville</b> to my dear friend Leslie, who lives in Lethbridge, Alberta. I'm not sure how long it will take for her to receive it. I <i>do </i>know it took the woman at the postal desk about five minutes to figure out the right postage, so maybe mail from Spain to Canada isn't that common. As there isn't a lot of room on the back of a postcard, I mentioned some of the things I've seen and done. If I'd had more room, this is what I would have told her:<br />
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<b>DEAR LESLIE, hola from Spain! </b>I'm having a great time here, my flamenco classes are wonderful, and I've learned a lot. I will miss Seville when we leave, but it will also be good to get back to family and friends.<br />
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A few of the highlights, so far:<br />
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1). <b>The Shoes</b>. Oh my god. And not just the flamenco ones, which come in every colour and style you can imagine (and yes, I did buy a new pair, in red). There are <i>more </i>shoe stores here than just about any other kind, the leather and suede are fantastic, but then so is the cloth, the canvas, the whatever. And so reasonably priced. I wish my feet weren't so tender - band-aids and moleskin are my friends. But I think that's why I notice the shoes here so much - because I can't wear most of them. Gold and silver lame sandals are also a thing. :-) Anyway, if you come here, save room in your luggage for shoes.<br />
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2). <b>The weather, of course</b>. It's mid-October. We finally had a break from the heat (simmering at around 32C+) with some rain today. The air is soft, and the cobblestones gleam in the damp. I know it's been awful back home with snow in Alberta (unless you're a skier, then it's all welcome and good). Personally, I haven't missed the snow. Although, strangely, I <i>have </i>missed Canada. The other day, we were in Corte Inglais, one of the major department stores here, and the muzak was playing <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLWD2WIvRQk">Rocky Mountain High</a></i> by John Denver (and if you want to sing along, like I did, I've included the link here. Go on. Do it. Let's love Canada together.) And even though the song is about Colorado, it brought memories of why I love Canada and the West so much, our mountains, our wilderness, the cold, fresh air - Banff, Jasper, the elk, the goats, the ravens, even the bears. Seville is a such different landscape. Urban, sophisticated, colourful.<br />
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3). <b>Which is also why I love Seville</b>. The weather makes it so people friendly here. Everybody lives in apartments, so the plazas and parks are a living, social space. It's great to sit in a square, drink a Sangria, eat a tapa or two, and watch the rest of the world at play. Siesta is still in place, so you need to adapt to that, change your lifestyle to match it. But I like seeing a whole family (including the dog) hanging out in the plazas, eating, talking, playing, even sleeping. (I refer to the little kids here, who might still be out with their parents at 11:00 at night, asleep in their strollers. Babysitters? Who needs babysitters when you have the whole family enjoying a cerveza or two at <i>El Tremendo</i>?)<br />
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4). <b>Colour</b>: the one thing I hate about Edmonton is its lack of imagination (mostly) with colour. In my neighborhood, every house is beige, or white, or cream, or pale blue - winter colours and boring. Ditto with clothing choices - we all wear black, or brown, or grey, with an occasional flash of red or blue (and yes, I'm as guilty as anyone. Black seems to be the go-to colour in my wardrobe). Here, mustard yellow is the top choice for clothing and apartment trim, with raw sienna, yellow ochre, cream, and olive green as secondary favourites. All summer colours. Here, the women wear fabrics that flow, float, and drape, while they guys tend to be hip in torn jeans, shirts, and scarves. They have a term for how people dress here: - it's 'pijo' and means 'posh'. If and when I come back to Sevilla (and I pray I do), I'm packing sun dresses and skirts and sandals. We've been here for six weeks now; I packed three pairs of jeans and only wore jeans twice, having to make do with my ugly shorts or yoga pants. And my ugly, black sneakers, too. Mike likes to wear his <i>La Giralda</i> t-shirt he bought in a souvenir shop. Gee, how is it everyone knows we're tourists???<br />
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5). <b>Flamenco, naturally:</b> It's everywhere, and it's wonderful. I've seen some great shows with some amazing performers, not the least of whom is my bulerias teacher Ramon Martinez. Yesterday, as I was walking down the Almirante Apodaca, the main street near our place, a taxi was stopped at a red light. The driver was listening to a bulerias, which was blaring from his window. His hands were clapping the <i>compas </i>(the time) as he waited for the light to change.<br />
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I could go on and on, Leslie. You would love Seville - the city, its sites, the Catedral, the museums, the flamenco <i>tablaos</i>, and the people - everyone we've met has been kind and friendly, considerate and helpful. If you know some Spanish, a little goes a long way. Being the typical Canadian, I start most of my conversations with an apology - <i>Lo siento, soy Canadiense. Mi espanol no es muy bueno</i>, (I'm sorry. I'm Canadian. My Spanish isn't very good) and people will smile, and often tell me their English isn't very good either, but not to fret. Don't you worry, little Canadian. We Spaniards will make it work. We will help you. We'll get along, just fine.<br />
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Signing off for now, Leslie. I hope life is good with you! Say 'hi' to Megan and Cat for me! Besos y brazos! See you soon!<br />
<br />
- Susan.<br />
<br />
<br />Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-92180602036521721352018-10-05T09:40:00.000-06:002018-10-05T09:40:58.055-06:00IS IT LUCK, OR SOMETHING MORE?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RSyd71RGWcA/W7dF1ukxLaI/AAAAAAAAB18/UpD9uHUF7cwyU2O3m2rfbT7IvJBQ383IACLcBGAs/s1600/Seville%252C%2BLas%2BSetas%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="332" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RSyd71RGWcA/W7dF1ukxLaI/AAAAAAAAB18/UpD9uHUF7cwyU2O3m2rfbT7IvJBQ383IACLcBGAs/s320/Seville%252C%2BLas%2BSetas%2B2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Metropol Parasol or 'Las Setas'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>THE PICTURE ON THE LEFT IS OF SEVILLA'S METROPOL PARASOL,</b> or as it's colloquially known, Las Setas (the Mushrooms). Mostly made of reinforced birch wood, it swoops over the Almirante Apodaca, a major street which I walk along nearly every day. Whenever I do, I'm reminded of how incredibly lucky I am to be here in Seville, studying flamenco with a world class instructor and enjoying the city itself.<br />
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I am lucky. But is luck all there is to it?</div>
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I debated posting this post. Nearly talked myself out of it, but I'm going to anyway, because the point of writing blog posts is to offer something of interest to your readers, and maybe even some help. I'm going to tell you what I think, and depending on who you are and what your experiences have been, you'll either agree with me, allow for the possibility, or dismiss what I say because it's too 'woo woo'. I read some stats recently, about belief. Those of you who agree with me will fall into the minority, around 25 percent. 50 percent of you will say the jury's still out on whether the world of spirit exists, and the rest will negate what I say altogether. </div>
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Am I lucky, or is it something more? </div>
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I never expected to be here. I never expected my love for flamenco or writing to bring me the opportunities and success they have. I never thought Mike, my dear husband, would support me in either of these passions to the extent he has, and I must certainly take that into consideration. But I also feel there is a spiritual connection to the success I've enjoyed and continue to enjoy. My life has been one surprise after the other. I never expected any of these good things to happen.</div>
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That said, I <i>did </i>ask for them. I asked for spiritual help with both my writing career and my dance. And I've received help <i>in spades</i>. </div>
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Who has helped me? Well, that <i>is </i>the question. I think we go on existing after we die. I think death is a transition to a bigger reality than what we know now, a bigger, broader experience. I also think once we pass, we can help those of us who are still in physical form.<br />
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I'll tell you a funny story. It's funny because it could be my imagination, and I'll allow for that. Years ago, when I was just starting to dance and struggling with it (but then, flamenco is always a struggle, because you're always reaching for the next level), I asked Antonio Gades to help me grow. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wTMIr2z0mo">Antonio Gades</a>, one of the top <i>maestros </i>in the flamenco world and known internationally. He had passed away a few years earlier, in July, 2004. I was having a small hissy-fit over my lack of ability as a dancer, frustrated because it wasn't happening quickly enough, so I looked up into the air and hailed him like you might yell at an actor from the audience: <i>I really want to dance, Antonio! I need to! I love it so much! Can you help me?</i> (I smile as I write this. I wasn't completely serious when I put the question to him. I was feeling very passionate and emotional and upset about the whole thing). As soon as I finished my heart-felt plea to Antonio, an answer popped into my head. It was this: <i><b>Do you practice?</b></i></div>
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I was completely taken aback. I hadn't been practising. Not really, other than mucking about for an hour or two before a student show, and certainly not on a daily basis. What I 'heard' was exactly what I needed to do. </div>
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I still don't know for certain if this was a real response or my imagination working overtime. I've decided it was real. I felt a bit silly that I should bother such a great <i>maestro</i>, when the answer to my desire was so patently obvious. (And this is why I still like to refer to him as Saint Antonio. Because maybe he is.)</div>
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Anyway, all I'm saying is, if you have any faith in the world of spirit at all, and you're in earnest over something you want, or want to do, maybe ask for help. See what happens. You just might get what you need. The luck you reap may be more than you know</div>
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Until next time, olé!</div>
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- Susan. </div>
Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-7529047515624326392018-09-21T07:16:00.001-06:002018-09-21T07:16:09.086-06:00MONDAY to FRIDAY, THE DANCE WEEK<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ysna4NVg9hI/W6TsZYsbe3I/AAAAAAAAB1k/-UNtkNjTcEEyS07zI0K6kyj1PI8JnEwewCLcBGAs/s1600/Seville%2BTile%2BDancers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="510" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ysna4NVg9hI/W6TsZYsbe3I/AAAAAAAAB1k/-UNtkNjTcEEyS07zI0K6kyj1PI8JnEwewCLcBGAs/s320/Seville%2BTile%2BDancers.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tile display, outside one of the bars in Seville</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>IT'S FRIDAY AFTERNOON AS I WRITE THIS, and it's been a good dance week.</b> It didn't particularly <i>start </i>off that way. This is how it went:<br />
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<b>Day One (morning):</b> great bulerias class with Ramon. First tangos class this afternoon at 4:00 with Joaquin Grilo. I wonder what it will be like?<br />
<b>Day One (afternoon):</b> Oh my god. I am in over my head with this tangos class. Everything is going by in a blur. This was supposed to be 'basico/medio' which I took to mean basic to intermediate (or beginner+) level. Did someone not send Grilo the memo? This was supposed to be easy. I'll decide after tomorrow if I'm going on Wednesday. AND NO WAY AM I STANDING IN FRONT AGAIN! That was downright embarrassing.<br />
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<b>Day Two (morning):</b> another great class with Ramon. The bulerias is challenging, but I feel as if I'm getting it. Lots of chances to 'tweak' where I have to.<br />
<b>Day Two (afternoon):</b> Okay...I'm still missing some of the steps because it's going by so fast, but Grilo went over yesterday's choreo, and I'm basically getting it. Who knew my feet could move that fast? Nobody told me. Will definitely go tomorrow. Tried to take a spot in the back row, AND EVERYBODY WANTS TO STAND IN THE BACK ROW!!! Forced to remain in the front! Grrr!<br />
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<b>Day Three (morning):</b> I think I've developed a new blister on my little toe. Notice lots of other girls are sporting band-aids on theirs. Still love Ramon's class, and it's still challenging. I'm finally getting that remate.<br />
<b>Day Three (afternoon):</b> More choreo, still waving my arms about like a gorilla, but AT LEAST I'M IN THE BACK ROW!<br />
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<b>Day Four (morning): </b>The dreaded bulerias 'circle' in Ramon's class, where we dance solo, but I did all right. Go me. :-)<br />
<b>Day four (afternoon): </b>Where the hell was my head? I should have practised the choreo, but there were some new cool moves. The annoying girl who kept cutting me off from the mirror yesterday is actually a REALLY GOOD DANCER. I took Jane's advice and managed to get a video of us dancing, so now I have it and I can take it home to finally get those pieces I am missing. Really like Grilo - he has an awesome style.<br />
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<b>Day Five (morning): </b>Ramon divided the class in half and let us take a video of each other. It's so great to have a record to recall later. Apparently, his class in October is designated 'medio' or intermediate instead of 'all levels' so I may have to up my game. On the other hand, one of his longer term students told me it shouldn't change too much, so that's good to know. Mind you, she told me in Spanish, and I may have missed her meaning. Whatever...<br />
<b>Day Five (afternoon):</b> Didn't go to Grilo's class, as we are going out tonight to see Ramon dance in his show at <i>La Casa del Flamenco</i>. I didn't want to look like a drowned flamenco rat from the week (had to do my hair and get cleaned up. And yes, I can guess what you're thinking - <i>she pooped out.</i> Give me a break. I've been dancing all week in 32+ C weather, both morning and afternoon.) Plus I have the video, and it will be practice, practice, practice until I perfect it. This tangos was the first exposure I've had to fast footwork for the majority of the dance and to mark the time. In other words, the <i>taconeo </i>was the marking. Very cool to be pushed (kicking and screaming) to the next level. :-) (And yes, I'm<i> </i>joking.)<br />
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I still love being here. I've definitely entered new flamenco territory. Must keep it up, once I'm back.<br />
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Ole!Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-29120887645383131962018-09-16T13:36:00.000-06:002018-10-26T07:22:07.502-06:00`SAL` or `SALT`...WHO YOU ARE.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l0ymk01FTG8/W9MRtJSCsFI/AAAAAAAAIHU/Kl-byDJb93oxAKA5D7SZnnGqsbVSRqv8gCLcBGAs/s1600/Seville%2BPost%2BCard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l0ymk01FTG8/W9MRtJSCsFI/AAAAAAAAIHU/Kl-byDJb93oxAKA5D7SZnnGqsbVSRqv8gCLcBGAs/s320/Seville%2BPost%2BCard.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
<b>WHEN I TOOK MY FIRST BULERIAS CLASS, HERE IN SEVILLA</b>, I did the typical Canadian thing and apologized to Ramon Martinez, my teacher, because my Spanish was poor. 'Lo siento,' I said, 'mi espanol no es muy bueno.' He smiled and replied to me in English, 'Never mind! Just dance!' He actually said a bit more than that, but this was the core of his advice. So now, 'Never mind, just...' has become my motto for every artistic endeavour I do. I think it's a good one.<br />
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Not sure what to do with your bulerias improvization? <i>Never mind, just dance.</i><br />
You flubbed that last llamada? <i>Never mind, just keep going.</i><br />
Where does this all end? <i>Never mind. It's not about some far-off goal you may never reach. It's about the journey. Just go! Enjoy!</i><br />
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How many of us waste our time obsessing over small details or never allowing ourselves to make mistakes? I'm guilty of this in dance, which is why, for me, improvisation is so difficult. Ramon told me not to be afraid to fail, to make those mistakes. So flamenco is not just about understanding its physical technicality. It's also a battle with one's pride, never an easy thing to win. It's also about looking so confident that when you make a mistake, you hide it, as if to say, 'Oh, yes? I meant to do that!'<br />
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I find this motto so helpful. You might, too. How about using, 'Never mind, just...(then fill in the blank with whatever your goal is at the moment). For example:<br />
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Ticked off, because the short story you submitted wasn't accepted? <i>Never mind, just write.</i><br />
Not sure where to start that novel? <i>Never mind, just start. Anywhere. You're going to edit the damn thing to death anyway.</i><br />
Frustrated because that painting isn't working? <i>Never mind, sometimes it's the mistake that makes the piece shine.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
One of my fellow bulerias students is deaf. As Ramon sings, she watches his lips carefully, so she'll know what to do and when to do it. (Bulerias is tricky this way. There are places in the cante where you can do certain moves, and other places where you shouldn't. Thus, my confusion at times.) In spite of her handicap, she's been dancing with Ramon long enough that her improvization is <i>amazing</i>. She is, by far, one of his best students. It's clear she lives by that motto - 'Never mind, just dance.'<br />
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I have one more class with Ramon on Monday, and then I leave Seville for Canada. I've enjoyed my time here very much. I've learned a great deal, and I can't thank Ramon enough for that. He's changed how I see myself as a dancer.<br />
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Will I return to Seville and his class next year? I can't say. But I <i>can </i>say this: 'Never mind. Just dance.' (Thanks, Ramon.)<br />
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- Susan.<br />
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<br />Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-42472349727726479712018-09-10T13:00:00.000-06:002018-09-10T13:12:57.158-06:00WHO NEEDS A DRYER WHEN YOU HAVE CLOTHES PINS?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-PNNQBG2LNrImeA8hzKMu9w-fkTrkbVtPF7VsR70dk7zTxY0-prDPkPhHoZaEoMwWWuYdZcTrCuAbVfjW5e6lOi4h15PmxFbIz4HED9FUL2pmD1tBIT-oax_uE4ShDiaOourUg/s1600/Sevilla%252C+Laundry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1068" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-PNNQBG2LNrImeA8hzKMu9w-fkTrkbVtPF7VsR70dk7zTxY0-prDPkPhHoZaEoMwWWuYdZcTrCuAbVfjW5e6lOi4h15PmxFbIz4HED9FUL2pmD1tBIT-oax_uE4ShDiaOourUg/s320/Sevilla%252C+Laundry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>LIKE THE TITLE SAYS, WHO NEEDS A DRYER, WHEN YOU HAVE A BALCONY AND CLOTHES PINS?</b> For some reason. I find hanging my laundry from a cord that I've tied to each end of my tiny balcony, very satisfying. And I have neon clothes pins, which are cool, because they appeal to the little kid in me. Colours! Sky blue, neon green, hot pink and yellow. I had the same thrill from coloured pencils in a new pencil box when I was eight. (Which is probably why I like soft pastels to do some art when I find the time.) I suspect hanging my laundry reminds me of my childhood, when my mother used to hang our laundry on our clothesline in the back yard, and everything froze into place in January. I still remember sheets hanging like plates of shaved ice and towels at attention like rectangular flags. They had a solidity to them that meant Canada, and January, and playing outside making snowmen, and <i>home</i>.<br />
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Of course, there's no snow here. There hasn't been any rain either. If you've been watching the Spanish news, you'll know the rest of the country has suffered. It's 30 degrees and things are dry in an hour instead of taking all day. But I do love hanging my laundry. If truth be told, I was a bit worried about not having a dryer when we moved here. But <i>no hay problema</i>.<br />
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On the other hand, maybe we're just the dumb Canucks of the neighborhood, hanging our laundry across our balcony. Nobody else seems to do that, and we do have a clothesline on the roof of our building. (We went up there to do our sheets, and the sun nearly blinded me. It was so bright it gave me a headache.) But the balcony is so convenient. And we don't do a lot of laundry.<br />
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The other great thing here is the groceries. The major supermarkets in Sevilla put ours to shame. There's so much to choose from in terms of cheeses, meats (can you say 20 different kinds of <i>jamon</i>?) and produce, some of which I've never seen. The fish is fantastic. All fresh, and the flavours are amazing. <i>AND THE WINE.</i> We bought a respectable bottle of chardonnay for one and a half Euros (or about $2.25 Canadian). The stuff was on sale for 70% off. We plan to go back and stock up. :-)<br />
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I've also discovered the delights of <i>salmoreo</i>, which is like a gazpacho but much creamier and smoother. We ordered some the other night, thinking it was a salmon thingee. (I know, don't laugh. We're learning.) It turned out to be this fantastic cold tomato soup, served with bits of shaved ham and cheese. We loved it. So when we saw it in the store at Corte Inglais, we bought it. I never thought I'd be an <i>afficionada </i>of cold soup, but in hot weather, there's nothing better.<br />
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What else? We walked around today, trying to find Mike a pair of summer shorts, and <i>nada</i>. The stores are already displaying fall fashions. Also, 5:00 p.m. is about the perfect time for a sangria. :-)<br />
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More <i>mañana</i>. Olé! - Susan.<br />
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Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-62907505192650596092018-09-09T13:16:00.001-06:002018-09-10T13:01:32.494-06:00SEVILLA LIFE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>AS YOU MIGHT EXPECT, LIFE IS A LITTLE DIFFERENT IN SEVILLA...</b>especially for a Canadian who's used to driving to the store for groceries, to dance classes, or to just about anywhere. Here, we walk, and it's a much healthier and amenable lifestyle. The street I've portrayed here is typical of our neighbourhood in Santa Catalina and of Seville in general. Surprisingly, I don't feel hemmed in or crowded. These narrow alleys are homey and quite comforting. People are nearby. You can hear them chatting (or arguing) from their windows. You might pass one of two of them as you make your way down the street. Bars and restaurants are tucked everywhere - on the main roads and in alleys such as this.<br />
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We're getting used to the <i>siesta</i>, and the opening and closing times of stores, restaurants, and bars. We tend to buy groceries about every day - our apartment is small, and we don't have much in the way of storage, so shopping has become part of our daily schedule. Today, being Sunday, we went for a stroll down to the <i>La Alameda de Hercules</i> and found Sevillanos enjoying the sun beneath umbrellas along its length. There were people dancing Sevillanas, blasting over loud-speakers at one end, and a small set-up of kiddie rides for <i>los niños</i>. We stopped for a sangria, and then checked out the outdoor flea market, figuring we'd have time to pick up groceries for Sunday's dinner.<br />
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<i>Nada</i>. The local grocery was closed, so we headed for Sierpes, a major road and tourist destination. Bets were off if we'd actually eat. It was possible that we'd have eggs and lemon-aid for supper, but luckily there were still restaurants open, catering to tourists. We ended up at Don Carlos. The food was great.<br />
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The local bars keep odd hours. One, that's just down the street from us, caters to the local <i>machos. </i>I've never seen a woman in there. There's some guy who 'howls' around closing time around 2:00 a.m. I guess he isn't happy with having to stumble home. Luckily, he doesn't carry on for too long. We've taken to calling him our local howler.<br />
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There also seems to be an etiquette to <i>not </i>looking up at people if they're on their balconies. We use our tiny balcony to drink wine and eat tapas (there's just room for the two of us, two chairs and a table), or to hang our laundry. Whenever I'm out there and someone is passing beneath, they never look up. Ditto when someone is on a higher balcony than ours. They never look down. I suppose in a place that's as populated as this, social niceties are meant to be followed.<br />
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People dress really well here. The women are often in dresses and skirts, cool pantsuits and great shoes. You won't find anybody in sweat pants or ratty t-shirts here.<br />
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Dance is going well. I look forward to my class tomorrow morning. Such a difference from a week ago, where I was facing my first class with trepidation.<br />
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The weather's been great. I'm really enjoying the extended summer. The nights are soft, warm, and sultry. I love Sevilla. Feel so lucky to be here.<br />
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Until mañana, , olé! - Susan.Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-16444899871208606142018-09-06T08:53:00.004-06:002018-09-06T08:53:40.003-06:00A RE-POST, 'THE TATTOOED WITCH' CELEBRATES FIVE YEARS<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tattooed Witch , Book One</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-variant: small-caps;"><b>FIVE YEARS AGO, IN 2013, I POSTED THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS OF </b><i style="font-weight: bold;">THE TATTOOED WITCH, </i><b>THE FIRST BOOK IN MY TRILOGY</b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">. As I'm in Spain taking flamenco classes, I thought it only fitting to celebrate the book's publication by re-posting its first two chapters below. If you haven't read <i>The Tattooed Witch</i>, think an alternate Spain in 1550, gypsies and gypsy magic, flamenco, and a complicated love story between an unusual girl with a unique talent, a thief who seeks vengeance, and a resurrected ghost who was once a High Priest. Throw in a sociopathic Grande Inquisitor who will stop at nothing to to reach his ultimate goal, and you have <i>The Tattooed Witch</i>. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">The book was short-listed for a Canadian Aurora Award in 2014. </span></div>
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Enjoy. :-)</div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Chapter One<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Host
Maligno<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the furthest corner of the gilded bed chamber belonging to Alonso de Santangél,
High Solar of Granad, Miriam Medina stood as still as a porcelain vase. Only
the occasional blink of her eyes and the even, slow rise and fall of her
breasts betrayed her presence, although the priests in the room knew she was
there. She had watched the dawn come, had marked how the sun spilled through
the crenellated glass, how it had cut bright patterns across the floor. Her
assistant’s tunic clung to her like a damp tent, as heavy as the velvet drapes
on the windows. Sweat trickled between her breasts. A potted oleander bush,
heavy with blossoms, shielded her from view. To her reckoning, she had been
banished to her corner for five hours now. In this place, Miriam Medina knew it
was better to be ignored. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
breathed through her nose and tried not to gag. Beneath the powdery scent of the
oleander, the room stank of old men. She could smell her own sweat too. The
heat of the day wasn't the only cause. The priests had rounded on them when
she and Ephraim had arrived. Their open hostility startled her so much that she
had stepped on her father’s hems. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
woman! In the High Solar’s chamber? What are you thinking, Doctor Medina?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">She is a drudge, nothing more, </span></i><span lang="EN-US">her father maintained. They both knew it for a lie. And then she had
been banished to this corner as if she were no more than a child. So demeaning,
considering Ephraim knew her true capabilities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">You’re at a loss, Papa. One touch and we’ll know what
ails the High Solar.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">No. It’s too dangerous.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">But you said so yourself—you don’t know what ails him!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">I have my suspicions.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">And they are?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">They don’t matter. I will deal with it. </span></i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">And if he dies, what then? They’ll blame you. And
then, what will happen to me?</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It had been an
unkind thing to say, a selfish thing to say, but it had been the only way to
move him. Against his better judgment, he had agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">You’ll do nothing until I call you, Miriam.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">Yes, Papa.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">You’ll stay out of the way and not dare to move.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">Yes, Papa. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">And if I call you—that’s ‘if’ Miriam—you’ll determine
the trouble. Then you’ll return to the house and stay there until I come home.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It wasn’t fair<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>this pretense they were expected to maintain.
She considered the room full of priests. These old men—they lived one way but
preached another. Wasn’t it Sul who had said, ‘Hide not your light beneath a
bushel, but place it on a candlestick, so that it giveth light to all the
house?’<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Hers was a unique gift, but if
she ever displayed it openly, they would accuse her of congress with demons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">If he would just call me. </span></i><span lang="EN-US">She
closed her eyes to suppress her impatience and ignore her thirst. In spite of
the sunshine, the bed chamber was littered with enough candles to light a nave.
What the High Solar needed was darkness and solitude. Ephraim had suggested it,
but the priests insisted that their patriarch needed the blazing protection of
Sul all about him. It mattered not if the heat contributed to his demise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A small page in
white livery appeared in the doorway. He held a steaming bowl of broth in his
hands. Earlier, Ephraim had turned away Alonso de Santangél’s breakfast. The
monks had tried to feed him, but he had spit up the gruel. Clear liquids only, Ephraim
maintained. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">With a nod, Ephraim
beckoned the boy forth and accepted the broth. The monks in front of her
shifted, affording her a better view of Alonso de Santangél. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">She caught her
breath. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Without his robes
of office or a miter upon his head, he was a much younger man than she had
assumed, about thirty years of age. A tonsure of blonde hair ran about his head
like a crown. He had the face of an angel—beautiful in a stern sort of way,
although at the moment, the visage was marred by pain. His bare chest was well
muscled for a man of the cloth. He looked as if he spent his days scything grain.
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He was handsome!<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>The realization came as a shock. What business
did a Prince of the Church have in being so attractive? And what business did
she have in finding him so? Surely, it was a sin to think of him that way,
although there were far too many sins as it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A flush rose to
her face. She had seen naked men before, surreptitiously, through slatted
shutters. None of Ephraim’s patients had impressed her—all flabby bellies and
flaccid penises, but this one; he would be different, as perfect as any
sculptor’s model, his thighs well-formed and his loins…she took a deep breath,
thankful that the priests’ backs were turned to her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">She set aside
her attraction with a rigid self-control. She had studied the body’s drives in Ephraim’s
medical books. It was logical to feel this way. She was a young woman reacting
to a striking, albeit ineligible, man. She eyed the priests about her. At least
Alonso de Santangél wasn’t old and dried out, as these others were. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Ephraim set a spoon
to his lips. She held her breath—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please,
Your Brilliance, keep it down!</i>—and chided herself. She was reacting like
one of those stupid girls who pressed themselves against the bricks and swooned
whenever a conquistador who rode by. Would she be so worried about the High
Solar if he weren’t so good looking? She knew the answer to that. She would
not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Alonso de
Santangél accepted another spoonful, and then abruptly, he choked and coughed. She
bit her lip. All around her, monks muttered in dismay. Ephraim thrust the bowl
to the page and reached for a cloth. He leaned Alonso de Santangél to his side
and helped him wretch up what little he could. Bloody spittle bubbled from his
lips. She held herself tightly, knowing she could not rush to his bedside to help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A Luster monk approached
to help. Ephraim waved him off. “Leave it.” He glanced to where she stood at
the back of the room and beckoned her to come. “My assistant will clean it up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">She blinked. Gods,
had she heard him right? He motioned to her a second time, so she dropped her
gaze and strode through the priests with her hands clasped. Let them think she
was no more than a servant reserved for the most odious of tasks. Alonso de
Santangél loomed into view. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He is wonderful</i>,
she thought as she drew alongside him, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like
Sul after the Passion.</i> Without a word, she dropped to her knees and thought
of the Goddess Lys in her incarnation as the Pietà, Mother of the God. With
great care, she swabbed Alonso de Santangél’s face. His flesh was a mottled
red. Her attraction fled as fear for him took its place. She wanted to cradle
him, to ease his pain. He lifted his suffering gaze to regard her. His eyes
were as blue as a summer’s sky. It took all of her strength to refrain from
laying a soft hand against his cheek, to reassure him that she would do all in
her power to help him. She caught a hint of sweetness beneath his breath. That
was wrong. Why should his breath smell sweet? Abruptly, he choked and gagged.
When he subsided, she wiped his chin and allowed the tip of her forefinger to
touch his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A tongue of fire
shot through her, burning her throat and turning her stomach into a molten
churn. She fought the grey that engulfed her and swallowed. Her legs buckled,
but since she was already on her knees, no one noticed. She curled her finger
back into her fist and forced herself to breathe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Trembling, she
wiped his mouth as gently as she could, keeping her fingers clear. She couldn’t
afford to lose herself. Gods, what had he been given? She ran through the list
of possibilities. Alonso de Santangél watched her with sunken, wild eyes, his
pupils like dark beetles scuttling in a grave. One thing was certain; she and
Ephraim couldn’t leave him alone. Someone in the Solarium had done this,
perhaps one of the priests in this room. She tucked a strand of her black hair
into her kerchief. Her fingers twitched. Ephraim watched them intently. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">Poison</span></i><span lang="EN-US">, she signed,
knowing the awful truth of it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monkshood
or oleander.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Her father’s
eyes narrowed. He glanced at the soup. He reached into his bag and withdrew an
envelope—medicinal charcoal for toxins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Take that
away,” he told the page, indicating the bowl of broth, “and on pain of death,
don’t touch it.” He stared hard at the lad, knowing the proclivities of young
boys. “From now on,” he told the breathless assembly, “no food or drink passes
the High Solar’s lips that I don’t prepare.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“But what is
wrong with him?” demanded the Solarium’s Exchequer. He looked like rabbit about
to bolt for its hole. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Ephraim tipped
the charcoal into a cup of water and set it to the High Solar’s lips. “It’s a
sensitive matter, Luminance. When His Brilliance is stable, I’ll share my
diagnosis with you in private.” Her father was no fool; the last thing he would
do would be to air their suspicions publicly. He coaxed Alonso de Santangél to
drink. To Miriam’s relief, he kept it down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“You must have
some idea,” the Exchequer pressed. “Is he contagious?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“No. What ails
him isn’t due to any humor of the air, nor is it a god-sent punishment. He is
sick through no fault of his own.” Ephraim eased Alonso de Santangél to his
pillows. “I want this room cleared. His Brilliance needs peace and solitude if
he’s to recover.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The Exchequer
frowned, less bothered now that he was unlikely to catch a plague. As the
priests grumbled, Alonso de Santangél captured her gaze. His eyes bore into
hers as if she were his last link to life. His fingers trembled. He lifted a
shaking hand as if to touch her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">A harsh clatter
of boots came from down the hall. The tramp grew louder. Miriam pulled her gaze
from Alonso de Santangél to see what army had arrived. A stark figure in black
and white stood framed in the chamber’s doorway. She ducked her head to hide.
Gods! Ephraim had said that the Grand Inquisitor had left for Madrone that
morning, but here he was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">Flee,</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> her instincts told
her. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Run and don’t look back</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">This was the man
that all of Esbaña feared as much as they did a god-sent pestilence. In three
major cities, thousands had died smelling the stink of their burning flesh. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Puraficación de la Fé</i>, he called it,
a purification of the faith. He had given the town one week to come forward and
confess its sins in an Edict of Grace. Most people attended. She and Ephraim
had not; Ephraim’s grandfather had been Juden until the family converted fifty
years ago. The conversions made little difference to the inquisitors; they
didn’t believe them. Now, it was too late. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“What is this?”
Tor Tomás demanded. He swept into the room, his boots striking hard against the
marble. No one said a word as he stopped before her. She lifted her head to
meet his gaze, hoping she looked as benign as a lamb. His eyes were a strange
color, so yellow as to be reptilian. He wore no tonsure as the other priests
did, but had shaved himself bald, as if to impress Sul with his greater
sanctity. His head resembled a cracked egg. A thin line cut across his face—an
old scar, she realized. His only other ornamentation, other than the official
Brand upon his chest, was a tiny hoop in his left ear. He looked more cutthroat
than priest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Ephraim cleared
his throat. “This is my daughter. She cleans for me, nothing more.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Monk’s work.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I take the
sputum to my residence to study, Radiance. She knows how to collect it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Tor Tomás
dismissed the excuse with a wave. His fingers were long and thin, the nails
uncut. Something dark and ruddy rimmed their bases. “She has no business here.
She taints the very air.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Forgive me, but
I beg to differ.” Ephraim stood his ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Even the medical college in Zaragoza allows that women have their
place. I can vouch for my daughter. She’s received no schooling, save for what
little I’ve shown her. She’s no threat to anyone, least of all, the High Solar.
I would not have her here, if she were.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“How long has
she been here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Since early
morning, Radiance.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> did you bring her?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“As I explained,
she collects.…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“You’re lying.
You brought her here because you thought she would be needed. Why is that, I
wonder?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t know
what you mean.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“You weren’t at
the Edict of Grace.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I’ve been with
His Brilliance all week.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“That doesn’t
excuse your daughter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The silence was
palpable. She felt the weight of the priests’ scrutiny fall upon her. In
seconds, someone would point a gnarled finger at her and accuse her of
witchcraft.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“She is unmarried,”
Ephraim said quickly. “I don’t allow her to travel or stay alone without a
chaperone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She walked
through Granad as she pleased, although mostly to visit the market to buy
supplies for the house or their pharmacopoeia. If the priests asked anyone who
knew them, they would uncover the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Alonso de
Santangél groaned. The focus in the room shifted. Tor Tomás pursed his lips.
“How is the patient?” he asked dryly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Not well. I’ve
administered a tincture,” Ephraim said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“You prepared it
yourself?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Of course. I
wouldn’t trust any woman to handle it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She closed her
eyes. Another falsehood. Fortunately, the Grand Inquisitor didn’t question it.
He studied Alonso de Santangél for a moment and then snagged his cheeks between
his thumb and forefinger. “He doesn’t look well,” he said, handling him as he
might a melon in the market. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The High Priest
sputtered to life. His arms shook as if he had no more strength in them than a
man twice his age. His hands flailed. He wheezed and choked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Radiance,
please.” Ephraim set a restraining hand on the Grand Inquisitor’s wrist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The inquisitor
released his fingers as if he had touched something foul. He locked his strange
yellow eyes with Alonso de Santangél’s blue ones. The two men regarded each
other with such loathing, that anyone with a whit of understanding could not
fail to notice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“This is
terrible, my Brothers!” Tor Tomás announced suddenly. “Your Patriarch is
dying!” He pointed at the Exchequer as if to accuse him of negligence.
“Luminance, you can’t allow him to leave this world without administering the
Holy Unction. I have with me, a shipment of wine from Madrone. Let a cup of it
be used for his last rites.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Radiance, there
is still hope,” Ephraim began. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Tor Tomás
dismissed him. “You’ve done quite enough, Doctor.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“But I can save
him! Wine is the last thing he needs right now. He needs.…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“He doesn’t need
absolution? What kind of heresy is this?” He glared at Ephraim as if he had
suggested they drain the high priest’s blood from his veins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t mean
that! Of course, we all need absolution….”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Step aside,
Doctor Medina. You aren’t the only one who knows impending death when he sees
it. Our brother doesn’t need a physician. He needs a priest.” He snapped his
fingers. A Luster monk rushed forward with a goblet of wine in his hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Not that.”
Tomás waved him off. “The rare vintage I brought from Madrone. Ah, there it
is.” One of his retainers stepped forth with a bottle in his hand. The man was
as huge and as grim as block of granite. His black and white habit barely
passed his knees. Tomás tossed the goblet’s original contents to the floor and
ignored the gasps of shock from the clergy. He broke the bottle’s seal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Ephraim stepped
forward. “Please! Not yet, I beg you!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Tor Tomás
ignored him and poured fresh wine into the cup, topping it to the brim. “Great
Sul!” he cried, holding it aloft for all to see. “Your shining son, His
Brilliance Alonso de Santangél is soon to depart from this world. Let him not
descend to the perpetual darkness you reserve for all sinners! Lift him up,
Holy Sul! Grant him an eternal place at your side, ever radiant and ever
strong, free from the stagnant waters of mortality!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Miriam watched
as the sun caught the rim of the glass. The harsh scintillation blazed like a
star. Tor Tomás brought the goblet down and passed his hand over it in
blessing. From where she sat, she saw a pale powder fall from his fingers.
Before she could speak, the inquisitor pressed the cup to the High Solar’s
mouth. Alonso de Santangél raised frantic hands to prevent it from touching his
lips. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">Stop!</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> she wanted to cry,
but Ephraim had already done so. The Grand Inquisitor ignored him and pried the
High Solar’s mouth open. Alonso de Santangél had no strength to prevent it. He
swallowed—one gulp, two. Wine splashed over his face and gushed from his mouth;
there was no way he could not drink. He choked, gagged. In defeat, Miriam
folded in on herself. The sacrament went on forever. The priests and monks
looked on with distress but did nothing to prevent it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Finally, the
goblet was done. The wine had spilled down the side of the bed and had stained
the sheets. Splotches of it spattered her face. She watched dully as Alonso de
Santangél went into convulsions. His death was violent and hard, as one might
expect for a man in his prime. She closed her eyes, couldn’t block the sounds
of his agony. She wanted to clutch him, send her apology flying after him: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your Brilliance…Alonso!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forgive me! I couldn’t stop him! I’m so sorry!</i>
Her throat tightened into a knot, her limbs stiffened into stone. She couldn’t
afford to weep. The priests in the room watched in uneasy silence, their
expressions grim. At the last moment, she opened her eyes to capture a last
shred of Alonso de Santangél before he died. To her horror, he stared at her as
a drowning man might, as if she were the last tenuous hold he had on life. She
winced, wondering if those blue eyes registered what she was—a girl of
seventeen, smitten for the first time and at the worst possible moment in her
life, a girl devastated by his dying. With a violent shudder, his head slumped
to the side and he gave up the ghost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She wanted to
scream. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Alonso de
Santangél had been stolen from her. Now, he was inextricably lost. The clergy
lifted their hands and made the starburst of Sul. Their leader, His Brilliance,
Alonso de Santangél, and youngest patriarch to ever have served the faithful in
Granad, was dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Ephraim helped
her rise. She stood, feeling broken, as if some of part of her had fled.
Ephraim looked as if he had shrunk inside his robe. He set a trembling arm
about her shoulders and drew her away. They passed through the chamber like
phantoms in a bone yard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">As they reached
the doorway, a strident voice called out, “Stop them! Don’t let them escape!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Ephraim dug his
fingers into her arm. She had been waiting for the Grand Inquisitor’s shout, as
had he. A tramp of footfalls rushed up behind them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Her father
stepped in front of her to protect her from the guards. “Why are you stopping
us?” he demanded. “We’ve done nothing wrong!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Tor Tomás
confronted them. “Done nothing wrong?” he repeated. “I disagree. You bring a
woman into the High Solar’s presence. You allow her to approach him on his sick
bed. He dies. You and your daughter are under arrest for the murder of Alonso
de Santangél, High Solar of Granad.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Chapter Two<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">Potro<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">They were forced
down a long hall and pushed down a narrow set of stairs. Unlike the main floor
of the temple with its white marble facades, there was no ornamentation here.
The walls looked as if they had been hewn from bedrock. They passed thick doors
with barred windows, all monks’ cells at one time, but judging from the moans
emanating from them, not now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“What is this
place?” Miriam demanded. They had come to a large door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Interrogation
Room.” The large monk shoved her into the vault. He was a barrel of a man, at
least twenty stone’s weight and over six feet tall. He slammed the door behind
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She grabbed the
grill. “Where are you taking my father?” she shouted. They marched Ephraim down
the hall. She strained her neck to see, but the dark swallowed him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She spun on her
heel. The chamber was large. Numerous torches had been set into the walls.
Three chairs stood behind a table with quills, ink and vellum. On the far side,
a wooden pallet rested on thick legs at a forty-five degree angle. Lines of rope
dangled from its sides. Across its width, slats of wood lay. Each slat
terminated with a large screw. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Her heart
lurched in her chest like a bird caught in a net. Not taking her eyes from the
contraption, she forced herself to breathe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">potro</i>. She had never seen the damage it
could inflict, but she had heard of it. As the screws tightened, the ropes bit
into one’s flesh. Bones broke and tendons popped. People said whatever they
were told to, to relieve their pain. But why torture her if the Grand Inquisitor
was already convinced of her guilt? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The answer
flared in her mind like a spark on tinder. He might accuse her, but by law, the
Crown required confessions. Thus, the vellum and the quills. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">A tramp of boots
came from down the hall. She backed away from the door as if it might attack
her. The same beefy guard who had imprisoned her earlier opened it and stood to
one side as the Exchequer and another priest filed in—a secretary to record her
confession, no doubt. Before she could run, the guard grabbed her and marched
her to stand before her judges as they took their seats. She cringed as Tor
Tomás appeared in the doorway. He paused as he beheld her, his snake’s eyes
bright. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She flinched.
The guard held her firm. His touch was anything but reassuring, but there was
something unexpected in it—he wasn’t the brutal thug she thought him to be. He
was unhappy with the proceedings. Why? As he released her, the fleeting
impression was gone. The secretary smoothed the roll of vellum, took a quill
and dipped it into an inkwell. The Exchequer stared at her, his expression
sour. As for Tor Tomás—he lounged in his chair, but his glance burned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">A hot flush rose
up the back of her neck. His regard was not that of a cold, desiccated cleric
arguing the finer points of canon law. He stared at her as the men in the
square did, their lust as obvious as the bulges in their trews. She held her
head high and ignored him, a foolish stance, but it hardly mattered what she
did. From the faint smile touching his lips, he knew it, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Your name?” The smile disappeared. He was all
business now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She met his gaze
boldly. “Miriam Medina.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Medina? A Juden
name, is it not?” The Exchequer glanced between the secretary and Tor Tomás as
if he had just realized it. They waited for her to confirm it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She lifted her
chin. “My family is devout. We are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conversos</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“As all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conversos</i> claim to be. Still, your
father kept the family name,” Tor Tomás pointed out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“As we are
required to do, by law.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Miriam is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">also</i> a Juden name. If your family is so
law-abiding, why did your parents choose a Juden name for you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She said
nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Do you and your
father attend the Solarium regularly?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“We pay our
tithes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“That’s not what
I asked.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“We maintain a
shrine to Sul at home. We can’t always attend services. My father is often
called to assist the sick.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Your mother’s
name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Mari.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Not a Juden
name. Her surname?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t know
it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">All three
blinked at her. “How can you not know it?” Tor Tomás asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“She died when I
was three.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Even so, I find
it hard to believe that you wouldn’t know her name. Surely, your father told
you. How did she die?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“An illness of
some kind, I think.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“You think and
your father’s a physician.” He turned to the Exchequer and secretary. “Maybe he
poisoned her, too. What were the details of her death?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t know
them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He set a long
finger to his lips. “Was there some scandal involved? Some reason your father
would disassociate himself from her? Was she Juden, as well?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“We are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conversos</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yes, yes. How
old are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She glanced
away. “Seventeen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Seventeen and
unmarried?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“My father never
arranged it.” Ephraim had, but she had refused all three suits. Every time she
had tried to talk to the mayor’s son about the town’s growth, he said her
interest demeaned her—she was too pretty to be concerned about such things. The
head of the Silk Guild’s nephew rubbed his thighs and spoke to her breasts. The
third was a widower three times her age with a daughter two years younger than
she. After one too many pats on the knee, she told him he was a lecherous old
panderer who should marry someone his own age and leave her alone. He called
her a shrew. After that, the suits stopped. She decided she didn’t need men and
would remain a spinster all her life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“You’re a virgin?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She frowned. It
was no business of his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Answer the
question!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yes!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He regarded her
without saying anything. His gaze drifted to her breasts and lingered on her
hips. Her face grew hot. He shifted in his seat. “How did you kill Alonso de
Santangél?” His voice returned to normal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I didn’t kill
him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“But your father
did.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“My father
hasn’t killed anyone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yet you
practice medicine alongside him. Perhaps you made a mistake.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I didn’t….” A
trap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I do not practice medicine. I
only help him clean.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Perhaps you
assisted in killing the High Solar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I didn’t murder
him.” She regarded him through narrowed eyes. He had dropped the powder into
the wine. The certainty that he had killed Alonso de Santangél resounded in her
heart so loudly that it might have been a bell tolling from a tower. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Am I allowed to
ask you a question, Radiance?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Does the god
speak to you directly?” The Solarium taught that only saints heard the voice of
Sul. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He nodded
stiffly, unsure of where she was going. “He sends me impressions.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Then if the god
speaks to you truly, you know who really committed the High Solar’s murder.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">His eyes
flashed. She had accused him covertly and he knew it. The Exchequer didn’t
notice. He waved his hand in dismissal. “This is getting us nowhere. She isn’t
about to confess unless we put her to the question. Set her on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">potro</i> and be done with it. We have a
Requiem to arrange.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The small flush
of victory curdled in her gut. She wanted to bolt, but the guard was behind
her. Tor Tomás held up his hand and smiled coldly. Why had she been so rash? He
would punish her even more severely, because of it. “Not yet, Luminance.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She swallowed.
He was breathing more heavily, now. “With one so young, we must be…indulgent.
By all means, go and arrange the High Solar’s interment. Take Brother Diego and
the guards with you. I’ll finish the interrogation on my own.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Her heart
hammered in her chest while her head yammered warnings. If they left, there
would be no witnesses. What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i>
those marks on his fingernails? He could be capable of anything. She didn’t
want to be alone with him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The Exchequer
fidgeted. “I wish it were so easy, Radiance. Unfortunately, we can’t go. The
Crown expects us to stick to proper procedure. With the High Solar’s demise, it
falls to me to act as spokesman for the Solarium. Granad must remain above
reproach. As protocol dictates, I will stay awhile longer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Tor Tomás bit
off the words. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If</i> you recall, Luminance,
I established those procedures. Under their most gracious majesties, I have the
authority to change them at will.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The Exchequer
remained unruffled. “Of course, but revisions take time. We’d have to assign a
scribe to pen them, and then send them by the fastest horse to Madrone. I wish
we had that luxury, but we have a funeral Mass to perform. We can’t leave
Alonso for long. Not in this heat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Tomás leaned
back in his chair. “Let us continue with the questioning. Do you bear any
birthmarks or unusual blemishes?” The hooded snake of some new emotion lifted
behind his veneer. He was calm again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She did bear one
birthmark, a tiny dark crescent that lay between her breasts like a curl of
hair. A moon mark, Ephraim had called it when she was little. She hoped her
tone conveyed a lack of interest. “No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“You’re sure?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I am sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“What about
tattoos?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Tattoos were
associated with forbidden knowledge. She didn’t have any, but her mother had
had. She scoffed. “Of course not.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He smiled at
her, a serpent cornering a chick. “So, you know what tattoos are?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I’ve seen
them.” Why had she been so brash earlier? It would have been better to play the
fool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Where?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“On a man who
visited my father. A sailor. The mark was infected. My father treated it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“What did it
look like?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t
remember.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“How did he
treat it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“A…a poultice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“What kind of a
poultice?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Too great of an
understanding of herbs would confirm her knowledge of medicine. Maybe it was
too late for that. She had convinced him she was no fool. Drat, her blasted
tongue! “I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Again, that
dreary response, you don’t know<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>Let’s
leave her for now, Luminance, and speak with the father. Barto, watch her.” He
rose from his chair. The henchman nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The three
priests filed from the room and closed the door behind them. The guard was her
one chance. She approached him as she might a tame bear. “Your name is Barto?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He frowned at
her and looked away. It was against the rules to speak with prisoners. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Please. They’ll
hurt me. You know this.” She plucked up her courage and set a hand on his
forearm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Get off!” He
pulled his arm away, but it was enough. The touch confirmed what she knew. She
reminded him of someone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Do you have
family somewhere?” If she could appeal to that sense of connection, she might
turn him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He refused to
look at her. She thrust a finger at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">potro</i>,
as if to accuse him of setting it there. “You’d let them do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> to your sister, Barto?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t have no
sister.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Your mother,
then?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She’s dead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“I’ll be dead if
you don’t help me! Please! You must!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He turned his
back on her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He was too big
to straddle. She would have to talk her way around him, to coax him. Who did
she remind him of? He wouldn’t have a wife. As part of the Grand Inquisitor’s
retinue, he wouldn’t have the means to maintain a mistress, either. “Please,
I’m innocent, Barto. I…I am only seventeen! I’m too young to die! You must
believe me! I didn’t kill the High Solar!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He looked
pained. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Please, I beg
you! Do what’s right and let me go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He laughed. “And
have my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cojones</i> torched for it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He might as well
have slapped her. Fury found its way up from her throat like coals spewing from
a pit. “So, you’d let them burn me instead?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What kind of a man are you? You’re a coward! You’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> cowards! I hate you!” She flew at him, rammed his chest with
her fists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">His face twisted
with anger. He shoved her aside. “I ain’t no coward! Shut up!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">A harsh staccato
came from down the hall. Someone running. The door to the cell burst open and
Tor Tomás rushed in, breathing hard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">His face shone
with triumph. “Your father claims he never treated anyone with a tattoo! Which
means you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lied</i> to me, Witch! I
suspect you know all about them, that you’re hiding a few yourself! Hold her,
Barto. Let’s see what kind of a creature she really is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She drew back in
alarm. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I don’t have any tattoos!” she insisted.
If they stripped her, they would find the birthmark. They would put her on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">potro</i>. It was only a matter of time
before she told them everything—how she did more than assist Ephraim, how she
prepared his potions, and worst of all, how she sensed others with a touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Don’t stand
there like a fool! Seize her!” Tomás’s words set Barto into motion. She backed
away from him but kept her eyes on the two of them, looking for a break in
their front. With Barto on her right and Tomás on her left, they hemmed her
like hounds on a doe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Her fingertips
bumped the far wall. She made a mad dash past Barto, but Tomás lunged and
caught her in his horrid hands. He swung her around and slammed her into the
table. Quills flew through the air. His eyes were feral, he stank of wine. He
pushed her down, grappled her breasts. She screamed and kicked him only to win
a blow to her head. The pain stunned her. She choked in shock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“What are you
hiding, Witch?” His lips nuzzled her ear. His lust felt as greasy as blood. He
drew back his arm and struck her again. The blow shuddered through her
cheekbone. She bit her tongue. She gasped and turned her head away, fearing
another strike. Something hard prodded her between the legs. She didn’t have to
guess what it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Stop!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She couldn’t see
who had shouted, but whoever it was had enough authority to stay him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“This is highly
untoward! There is no need!” The Exchequer was discomfited by the display of
violence. “You can let the girl go. The doctor has confessed.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The words rang
in her head. Ephraim had confessed? Why would he do such a thing? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Papa, what have you done?</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">And then she
knew. The answer flattened her like one of Tomás’s blows. Ephraim had lied to
save her. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, Papa,</i> she thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you haven’t spared me. You’ve only made
things worse!</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“He’s admitted
his guilt, although he maintains his daughter is innocent. I see no need for us
to proceed further,” the Exchequer said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“There <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a need.” Tomás’s weight crushed her.
She lay trapped between his arms. “She’s a witch. She has a tattoo, I think. At
least one, maybe more. I was about to search for it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Be that as it
may, there’s still the Mass to perform. You can leave her for now. Once we’re
done, you can deal with her as you see fit. She isn’t going anywhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">His mouth
brushed her ear. “I want you to think of something while I’m gone,” he
whispered, like a lover suggesting favors. “Have you ever heard of a device
called ‘the Pear’, little witch? It’s an interesting tool, shaped like its
namesake. One inserts it into bodily cavities, like so.” He drew away from her
and held his hands as if in prayer. And then he spread them into a ‘V’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">She knew what
had caused the blood stains on his fingers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Are you coming,
Radiance?” The Exchequer waited at the doorway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Tomás ignored
him. “I can’t wait to see how my toy affects you. But of course”—he touched his
crotch briefly; she doubted that the Exchequer saw—“you can always beg for the
alternative.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">He smoothed down
his habit. His intentions were clear, his plans for her delayed, not done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Her legs
threatened to give out from beneath her. As Barto locked the door behind them,
she slid to her knees and lay where she fell. Her cheek throbbed where Tomás
had struck her. She barely noticed it, chilled by his words. He would return in
a few hours and rape her, perhaps do worse things. She turned her face into the
flagstones, choked to keep from crying and utterly failed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">End of Chapter Two...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">If you'd like to see how the story turns out, you can purchase the book through my publisher, <i><a href="http://fiveriverspublishing.com/?page_id=319">Five Rivers Publishing - The Tattooed Witch Trilogy</a></i>, or through Amazon, Kobo, or by special order through your favourite book store. The links on the side banner will take you to the different sites. The book is available in both print and e-book versions.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(If you do buy a copy, my heartfelt thanks. I very much appreciate your support.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Susan.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-25717760166512822262018-09-05T06:15:00.000-06:002018-09-05T06:15:54.244-06:00AN HOUR OF BRUISED EGO or LIVING THE LIFE?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hCxEY4I64ls/W4_GSJNthdI/AAAAAAAABzA/g2UGh4nDJfkE7ZDIfWJ8mWfCYX8AEKJfgCLcBGAs/s1600/Seville%252C%2BEgo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="297" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hCxEY4I64ls/W4_GSJNthdI/AAAAAAAABzA/g2UGh4nDJfkE7ZDIfWJ8mWfCYX8AEKJfgCLcBGAs/s1600/Seville%252C%2BEgo.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>I HAVE A 10:00 BULERIAS CLASS EVERY MORNING THIS WEEK</b>, with Ramon Martínez at the Alicia Marquez' School of Flamenco Baile. Yesterday was great, but difficult - first days always are. You're faced with learning combinations of steps you've never done before (or have never put together in quite the same way). In a class full of regular students, you're going to stand out because you're making mistakes and trying to catch on as fast as you can. As I headed for my class this morning, it was with some worry. I'd been thinking about what I'd learned the day before, I'd gone over it all night in my head, knowing I hadn't retained everything (but then, I rarely do). No one had taken videos of the class yesterday, so I felt awkward about doing that. I hoped today would be better. There was no guarantee it would.<br />
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It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk from our apartment to the school. As I went, I considered - what's an hour of bruised ego? No one's really paying attention to you, or if they are, it's only fleetingly. Everybody's focused on their own growth. So really, Susan, you're lucky to be here, even if it means dealing with a bit of embarrassment and wearing a silly grimace when you mess up. You're living the life.<br />
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I suppose I am. But pride has a way of pooping on the experience. (Yes, I joke. But what else can you do, when you mess up? You may as well laugh at yourself.) It's best to take yourself seriously, and at the same time, <i>not </i>so seriously. There's irony in that.<br />
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Today was better, thank God. I <i>did </i>get lost on the way to the school once, so thank heaven for on-line maps, because they got me turned around. Luckily, I wasn't late, and we went over the same choreography, with minor changes. I'm getting it. I've always considered myself a bit of a slow learner when it comes to flamenco, mostly because I don't grab it immediately, but perhaps that's too much to expect. I need a lot of repetition, with lots of practice. And once the steps come without thinking, then it's about laying on the style. But maybe I'm not so different from anybody else who dances. Maybe that's just the way it is for most of us. My advice to any beginner out there? Keep at it, have faith in yourself, and eventually you'll get it. Keep going, don't give up, and don't let pride get in your way. I suppose you could apply that advice to any creative endeavour. It certainly applies to writing.<br />
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And speaking of beginners, Ramon's class is advertised as for 'all levels'. Um, <i>no</i>. Not in the least. If you're a beginner, this class would be way over your head. I'm <i>not </i>a beginner, and I'm just keeping up.<br />
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But I do love it. I'm hoping tomorrow will be even better than today. We shall see what tomorrow brings.<br />
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Until then, olé! - Susan.Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-56725106659595393332018-09-04T08:18:00.000-06:002018-09-04T08:27:28.252-06:00SEVILLA SORPRESAS (or surprises.)...<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/RADGJxdKoaLSJ9Hj8cl7EBSzqaXq6Hf_O4FVyMAZXkbKPutVSDsI1eYMRYiZ_cef2npUK7VPIxpjpgDIyZhTUbOv6a6Jc2d4pGJoog3xQERlu5Lz59xlTGnv5kifyOkXA8t2C6gPmJLBSTS9-Ujq0zgk8pl2iZLpxz3wLaEZMP37AzIPWoQAiMGyJH87_rEJKzDRo0ef5WaqtTSmzXeYZHKFZJzb69Ntu3ImbL2BO1qdKUbm4mEi2jS5EUKTalWXeC5ANDvgxorU_4MggWr2xMRoUM5psL98oEcxMK2GLsutgufuXU1r25XlkNGhaHcbTYaKi4pKiKnqDTF8w669cZt2kIjXQVILWLWAm1F9sii9v7zTdae-ak3IdwOuByBu6EOWPi7X23WPkBh8CW-Lk6bLT6KpzVjhvTwGnQJj_wdmoX76kkOwbIpk1--03ICtAYac-mg3lWBUkr8MfC1fqm6_kgPHYa_RLhxPtBp-Ke8cApZannsOiej3lOp7JSXa5TgEIXJkhrWxjxpdx-1k13eRsU5SaX-Gt5nCs_jkcCV-9k7_gjzB9KBJw2Fu8sHiGFGjB7XgSPZragRQfZch81OhFjy9a4ZlpM7dTF7DtydvZj3pYmrpxodvAx3pC2aCAyG-7jkhTJL1j-CDi_aUmSi5YN69l96s9Th9pYtUQW3CoegVHoHvkvf8=w1068-h801-no" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/RADGJxdKoaLSJ9Hj8cl7EBSzqaXq6Hf_O4FVyMAZXkbKPutVSDsI1eYMRYiZ_cef2npUK7VPIxpjpgDIyZhTUbOv6a6Jc2d4pGJoog3xQERlu5Lz59xlTGnv5kifyOkXA8t2C6gPmJLBSTS9-Ujq0zgk8pl2iZLpxz3wLaEZMP37AzIPWoQAiMGyJH87_rEJKzDRo0ef5WaqtTSmzXeYZHKFZJzb69Ntu3ImbL2BO1qdKUbm4mEi2jS5EUKTalWXeC5ANDvgxorU_4MggWr2xMRoUM5psL98oEcxMK2GLsutgufuXU1r25XlkNGhaHcbTYaKi4pKiKnqDTF8w669cZt2kIjXQVILWLWAm1F9sii9v7zTdae-ak3IdwOuByBu6EOWPi7X23WPkBh8CW-Lk6bLT6KpzVjhvTwGnQJj_wdmoX76kkOwbIpk1--03ICtAYac-mg3lWBUkr8MfC1fqm6_kgPHYa_RLhxPtBp-Ke8cApZannsOiej3lOp7JSXa5TgEIXJkhrWxjxpdx-1k13eRsU5SaX-Gt5nCs_jkcCV-9k7_gjzB9KBJw2Fu8sHiGFGjB7XgSPZragRQfZch81OhFjy9a4ZlpM7dTF7DtydvZj3pYmrpxodvAx3pC2aCAyG-7jkhTJL1j-CDi_aUmSi5YN69l96s9Th9pYtUQW3CoegVHoHvkvf8=w1068-h801-no" width="320" /></a> <b>LOTS OF SURPRISES SINCE WE ARRIVED.</b> For one, the first flamenco workshop I wanted to take yesterday was cancelled, as there was only me and another student enrolled. Which changed my class plans a bit, but in hindsight, it's all for the better. I took my first class in Seville with Ramon Martínez<br />
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today, and it was fantastic. It was challenging, but he's a wonderful teacher. There are dancers here who are better than me, and a few who dance at my level. I expect I'll learn a lot more about Bulerias over the next couple of months. Even today, I can see a difference in my style, although I still have a lot to fix with the footwork. So it goes. I'm definitely in the right place.<br />
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Mike's found a gym, and while he went to work out, I spent the time roaming around Plaza Alfalfa, which is a great area for bars, restaurants, and shopping. It's not too far from our apartment, either. My Canadian teacher, Jane, had mentioned to me a couple of flamenco shops (<i>Senovilla </i>for shoes) and <i>Flamenco Pasión</i> (for skirts, shawls, etc.). I stumbled upon them both, quite by accident. I also discovered a number of other flamenco stores, all catering to <i>La Feria </i>(which occurs in May), with some stunning dresses in their windows (at half price). Not sure I'll bring one of these home to Canada, but shoes are definitely on the list, and maybe, if I can afford it, a new <i>manton </i>(a large piano shawl). The one I like is silk and embroidered beautifully, but it's expensive. I will definitely buy fans and other paraphernalia for myself and friends. But mostly, I want to concentrate and spend my money on flamenco classes.<br />
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Another surprise - I'm actually managing with my faltering Spanish. Hopefully, getting better at it. I had a Spanish couple stop me today, to ask where <i>Las Setas</i> were. They were from out of town, with their child in tow. I was able to tell them, first explaining that my Spanish wasn't great. The husband corrected me a few times, but that's fine. I don't mind, and it will only make me better. They understood me, and I understood them. All good.<br />
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The photo in the upper left-hand corner is of <i>La Catedral</i>, a world heritage site. It was completed in the 16th century. A bishopric seat, it's considered the largest cathedral in the world. We spent last night strolling around it, and it was impressive.<br />
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I love Sevilla. Have I mentioned that?<br />
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Until mañana, olé! - Susan.Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-85463655282032346912018-09-03T05:27:00.000-06:002018-09-03T05:27:12.464-06:00SEVILLA...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvAw3LvJ8RcH-XCDG9alDxNudA7DhXlrUjMZ-DXQC-UUhW531T3aOmHax3jNIC2QJQmHFkTw61GdW_pFKeWWXrqNBgwxJb05AsFmfekApWkP6kllq1ntmLtYn3SBiESk7CQyxxsQ/s1600/Las+Setas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="285" data-original-width="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvAw3LvJ8RcH-XCDG9alDxNudA7DhXlrUjMZ-DXQC-UUhW531T3aOmHax3jNIC2QJQmHFkTw61GdW_pFKeWWXrqNBgwxJb05AsFmfekApWkP6kllq1ntmLtYn3SBiESk7CQyxxsQ/s1600/Las+Setas.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Las Setas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>FLAMENCO IS A CONVOLUTED DANCE FORM. SEVILLA REFLECTS IT IN MANY WAYS. </b>The photo to the left is of the Metropol Parasol,or as it's commonly known, Las Setas (in English - The Mushrooms). It's the largest wooden structure in the world and was finished construction in 2011. After managing to make our flight connections with only a hour to spare between London and Brussels, and then Brussels and Seville, we managed to get settled into our apartment. Afterwards, we went for a stroll and discovered Las Setas, a five-minute walk away. The photo here is borrowed and copyright-free. Unlike the day view, which is shown here, we saw Las Setas at night.<br />
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Complex and complicated. Las Setas is also a perfect metaphor for Seville.<br />
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I start my first flamenco workshop later today. The studio is located about a fifteen minute walk away from our apartment. Mike and I went to find it yesterday. On the map, the roads look fairly straight-forward, but not so in reality. It's going to take me a while to find my way without getting lost. The streets here are winding and narrow, with many a side lane intersected by buildings that offer two divergent ways that seem equally plausible (in fact, most of the streets here are what we'd consider a tight cobble stoned back alley.)<br />
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This, of course, is all part of Seville's charm. I do love it here. In fact, we are living across the way from what is now a boutique hotel, but was once the home of a famous flamenco guitarist who went by the name of Niño Ricardo. There's a plaque on the wall, commemorating him. When I saw it, I was moved to tears. I know - a little melodramatic, but Seville feels like home. I feel as if I've come back, but...from where? Maybe there <i>is </i>something to past lives. Maybe I was here. Not as the 'me' I am now, but a 'me' who may have lived and died in Spain. How else to explain these strange, complex connections I feel?<br />
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Unlike the lanes, the heat isn't subtle. The second you step from your apartment, it hits you like a furnace. The first day we were here, the temperature was 38 degrees. A little shocking for a poor cold-weathered Canadian. Today, it's only 29. We're getting used to the heat. Last night, the AC was set to 26, and it felt cool.<br />
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Speaking of last night, we visited the <i>Museo del Baile Flamenco</i>, or the Flamenco Museum of Dance (which is also only about five minutes away), and took in the museum and a show. We sat is the front row and were 'wowed'. My God. It will take me several lifetimes to learn to dance like that. But it was wonderful, a gift from the dancers, singers, and guitarist to the audience. Which, in its essence, is what the best flamenco is. A gift to those who are fortunate enough to witness it, from those who have learned to perform flawlessly and powerfully. An experience, shared by both artist and viewer. We are taken on a journey of both genius and passion.<br />
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More mañana. Olé! - Susan.Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-19094048047992924332018-08-31T12:00:00.000-06:002018-08-31T12:10:31.447-06:00A SLIGHT CHANGE FROM WRITING to FLAMENCO<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tUAMg40eCHI/W4l0knz6L6I/AAAAAAAAByM/sv4PPCPFNc4Swq5QwMhoJq9SnvPVucEYACLcBGAs/s1600/Carmen%2BLinares.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="160" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tUAMg40eCHI/W4l0knz6L6I/AAAAAAAAByM/sv4PPCPFNc4Swq5QwMhoJq9SnvPVucEYACLcBGAs/s1600/Carmen%2BLinares.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carmen Linares</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>AS I WRITE THIS, I AM ON MY WAY TO SEVILLE, SPAIN, to study flamenco baile (dance) and cante (song)</b>. I say 'on my way', because there was a slight hitch in our travel plans. I've been in Calgary since yesterday morning. Mike and I were going to travel with Swiss Air (Calgary/Zurich/Seville), but after several delays, we were informed the flight was cancelled due to engine troubles. So here we are, in an airport hotel in Calgary waiting for our new flight, which (fingers crossed) should leave around 6:00 p.m. tonight. Swiss Air accommodated about 300 of us by covering our hotel and meal costs. Fortunately, our apartment owners in Seville are understanding and will hold our apartment until we arrive, which should be Saturday night. We've been rerouted through London, then Brussels, and then we'll be on our way to Seville.<br />
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I could complain about this, but I won't. Far better to be delayed, than to fall from the sky over the Atlantic.<br />
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Over the next while, I hope to blog about my experiences in Seville as I learn about the city and the people I meet, as well as flamenco dance and song. A good friend of mine wrote on my Facebook page that I should enter my classes with an open heart and no ego. It's good advice. Flamenco is very humbling. For my part, I've often felt like a beginner, no matter what level I reach. This is the way flamenco is. There's no end to getting better, stronger, faster, and exerting greater control, while at the same time appearing fluid, natural, potent, and expressive. Flamenco isn't for the weak of ego or faint of heart. It demands humility and passion in equal measures. I love it for all of this - it's a difficult form, mentally and physically, but it's worth it.<br />
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But any creative endeavour is like that, don't you think? Writing is exactly so. When we succeed in any degree, the sweetness of those accomplishments makes them worth whatever they demand of us.<br />
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The photo above is of the great Carmen Linares, a cantaora (flamenco singer), whom I greatly admire. She'll be performing in Seville during the Bienal, which is held every second year in Seville in September, and which is one of the reasons we are going to Seville now. I start my first workshop on September 3rd, a demanding mix of baile and cante. Hopefully, I'll be over my jet-lag by then. Wish me <i>buena suerte</i> (good luck). I have a feeling I'll need it.<br />
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Until next time, olé! - Susan.<br />
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<br />Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-17133192077746263872018-03-30T20:04:00.002-06:002018-03-30T20:07:51.208-06:00ARTIFACT #7, FABERGÉ EGGS, TESSERACTS 22 ALCHEMY AND ARTIFACTS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4eXWyGzgoUrZ73Mys0NCSaQiG_FKijEmGpGufZOfCZXBN7QiunzXAZqeJNCZBdI_Dvn0YgMOReDNgs22grdKHY4zhTSGnuvpXmIHCvEX4Jsi35I5DVUXP4eMO_AaPaJqmftSSeQ/s1600/Faberge+Egg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="569" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4eXWyGzgoUrZ73Mys0NCSaQiG_FKijEmGpGufZOfCZXBN7QiunzXAZqeJNCZBdI_Dvn0YgMOReDNgs22grdKHY4zhTSGnuvpXmIHCvEX4Jsi35I5DVUXP4eMO_AaPaJqmftSSeQ/s320/Faberge+Egg.png" width="274" /></a></div>
<b>BECAUSE OF THE SEASON, I THOUGHT IT FITTING TO POST ABOUT EGGS, </b>in particular those created by the famed jeweller, Peter Carl <span style="font-family: inherit;">Fabergé. T</span>he egg on the left is one of several kept as part of the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts' permanent collection. Whenever I'm in Richmond visiting my sister, we always try to see them. The museum also has an excellent website where you can view this particular egg (and others) in a rotating 360 degree view. They're quite beautiful - just go half-way down the page to see them. The link is here: <a href="https://www.vmfa.museum/collections/faberge-and-russian-decorative-arts/">Faberg<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">é</span></span> Russian and Decorative Arts, VMFA</a>.<br />
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History has it that Russia's last tsar, Nicholas II, and his family (for whom many of the eggs were designed), were shot by Bolshevics in the summer of 1918. In 2010, a Russian court ordered their murder case to be reopened, as the Bolshevics who were said to have killed them, actually died years before. So a mystery remains - who actually killed the Russian royal family?<br />
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The bodies of Nicholas II and his family were re-interred in St. Petersburg in July, 1998.<br />
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Eggs have always been symbols of hope and rebirth.<br />
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Here's a Tesseracts 22 anthology idea: what if the tsar and his family weren't killed at all, but had found a way to escape their would-be murderers? What if, through some kind of egg magic, they lived their lives in a limbo, or perhaps in an alternate universe - one contained inside an egg?<br />
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Maybe I'm also drawn to decorated eggs because of my Ukrainian maternal grandmother who painted <i>pysanky</i>. I never learned the technique, but I do know that many of the designs and colours indicate various things. Red dye represents life and blood, for example. I recall my grandmother drawing eight-sided stars, (small points around a square) which indicate the sun and stars - also indicators of life, growth, and fortune. If you think about it, any symbol found on a <i>pysanky </i>could be seen as a sigil or rune magic. <i>Pysanky </i>eggs may be talismans in their own right, as well as valued and preserved <i>objets d'arte</i>.<br />
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On that note, I wish you all a wonderful and magical Easter, full of happiness and good fortune. Also great writing, no matter what you're working on.<br />
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- Susan.<br />
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<br />Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-68028184687789331242018-02-25T13:45:00.001-07:002018-02-26T11:02:44.116-07:00ARTIFACT #6, TERRACOTTA KNEELING ARCHER, TESSERACTS 22 ALCHEMY AND ARTIFACTS<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lsYD7J5VSDs/WpMF3da8EGI/AAAAAAAABEE/4EtLdtKwopUCFh20Xy7D0q4gUhDjDBxggCLcBGAs/s1600/Terracotta%2BArcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="554" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lsYD7J5VSDs/WpMF3da8EGI/AAAAAAAABEE/4EtLdtKwopUCFh20Xy7D0q4gUhDjDBxggCLcBGAs/s320/Terracotta%2BArcher.jpg" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terracotta Archer (Kneeling) Qin Dynastry</td></tr>
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<b>SOMETIMES, LIFE IS FULL OF SURPRISES.</b> When Lorina Stephens and I discussed the kinds of story examples we wanted to see for Tesseracts 22, a number of artifacts came to mind, including the terracotta figures from the Qin Dynasty. Specifically, this was what we wrote and what currently appears in the <a href="http://edgewebsite.com/books/tess22/t22-catalog.html">Tess 22 submission guidelines</a> on the Edge website:<br />
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"The editors want tales that explore laws magical as well as physical, the manipulation of reality in the past, resulting in the present. History, sorcery, alchemy, mystery, all with the sense of 'what if'?"<br />
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The third example reads as follows:<br />
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<ul>
<li>What if the Terracotta Army from the Qin Shi Huang Dynasty were golem soldiers, waiting to be animated through magic?</li>
</ul>
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At the time we wrote this, I had no idea I'd actually be viewing such figures from the Qin Dynasty, let alone standing a few feet away from them. I certainly had no plans to travel to China. Instead, I went to Richmond, Virginia, to visit my sister for her birthday. There, at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (a place we always go whenever I visit), was a travelling exhibition of - you guessed it - artifacts from the Terracotta Army. I love such moments of synchronicity.<br />
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Richmond's Virginia Museum of Fine Arts is a world class museum. Their curator manages to arrange amazing travelling exhibitions. The museum also has some wonderful permanent collections, including a selection of Faberge eggs which I may also write about in a future post. The museum's link is <a href="https://www.vmfa.museum/">here</a>. The Terracotta Army is on display until March 11, 2018.<br />
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The photo above (which I took) depicts a kneeling archer (without his bow). Originally, he would have been brightly painted. Some figures still retain traces of their paint which enables experts to determine their original colours. This archer, along with 8,000 other life-sized figures, was found in one of three pits, part of a massive mausoleum complex measuring about 38 square miles. Archaeologists estimate that only 20 percent of the figures have been excavated.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ljrWi3FdMJs/WpMbI-bXB3I/AAAAAAAABE8/MREYdLB1pPEiN0eIY-5nNjuaw1WrGr4pgCLcBGAs/s1600/Bronze%2BChariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="950" height="254" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ljrWi3FdMJs/WpMbI-bXB3I/AAAAAAAABE8/MREYdLB1pPEiN0eIY-5nNjuaw1WrGr4pgCLcBGAs/s320/Bronze%2BChariot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Royal Convoy, Terracotta Army, Qin Dynasty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This gorgeous bronze statue to the right, depicting (it's believed) a charioteer of the Royal Convoy and his four bronze horses, was a stand-out at the exhibit.<br />
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All of these statues point to an ancient Chinese belief in an afterlife. But what kind of an afterlife? The figures are war-like. Were they meant to help Ying Zheng, the First Emporer of China, conquer paradise? Or were they meant to protect him against demons along the way? Maybe the army was meant to reappear here, in our future. Perhaps they are waging a war of economics as we speak, using Bitcoin or other cyber currency. Who can say?<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PT6QRwUz7Ug/WpMXsnPjB-I/AAAAAAAABEk/UBaxWC0_NnMgf0fRbkjP5BL-zAspKRWSgCLcBGAs/s1600/Swan%2BGoose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="568" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PT6QRwUz7Ug/WpMXsnPjB-I/AAAAAAAABEk/UBaxWC0_NnMgf0fRbkjP5BL-zAspKRWSgCLcBGAs/s200/Swan%2BGoose.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swan Goose, Terracotta Army</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As well as the Terracotta Army, the First Emporer had many birds, like this charming swan goose, cast in bronze. This goose was found, along with cranes and other water fowl, neatly lined up along a river. Perhaps the First Emporer had them built so he might also find paradise a pleasant place to be.<br />
<br />
As the Chinese curse goes, we live in interesting times.<br />
<br />
May inspiration strike you. - Susan.<br />
<br />
<br />Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-76215603434613663702018-02-11T13:46:00.000-07:002018-02-11T21:56:51.108-07:00ARTIFACT #5, HAND of GLORY, HAND of FATIMA, and PALM, TESSERACTS 22 ALCHEMY AND ARTIFACTS<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKT4RvFfFp3IMtDqNXii3WGqC3_lKAmVZ5Y7xWfEcdcqb0HhkGpBsMnaUFmRTPfyGbYV4UQGLBijml4UvrbhdM7BHCle1clEHBWBdhsaxND-Xe5GG-3I4J1wcrMNc2QWPtnBYHg/s1600/Hand+of+Glory+and+Fatima+and+Palmistry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="917" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKT4RvFfFp3IMtDqNXii3WGqC3_lKAmVZ5Y7xWfEcdcqb0HhkGpBsMnaUFmRTPfyGbYV4UQGLBijml4UvrbhdM7BHCle1clEHBWBdhsaxND-Xe5GG-3I4J1wcrMNc2QWPtnBYHg/s400/Hand+of+Glory+and+Fatima+and+Palmistry.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hand of Glory (left), Hand of Fatima (middle), Palmistry Hand (right)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>HANDS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN USED AS ARTIFACTS OR AMULETS OF MAGIC. </b>The three featured here are no exception. On the far left is the Hand of Glory, a rather dire image depicting the severed hand of a murderer, holding a candle. (In other images, each finger is <i>also </i>a candle.) The process of creating a Hand of Glory was quite morbid, involving the drying and preserving of a hand taken from a hanged man. The purpose of the relic was to cast a spell on the inmates of a house, rendering them insensate so a thief might go about his business burgling them, with no one the wiser. (If you wish to read further, this link to<a href="http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/hand.html"> D.L. Ashliman's site at the University of Pittsburgh</a> is quite interesting.)<br />
<br />
Quite the contrary to the Hand of Glory, the Hand of Fatima (also known as the Hand of Miriam, the Hamsa, and/or Khamsa) is a benevolent symbol providing protection to its wearer. (In a strange way, both hands offer the same benefit, but for different purposes). Originally, the Hamsa represented Tanit, the patron goddess of the city of Carthage between 1550 and 330 B.C. In time, her amulet became associated with the Sephardic Jews as the Hand of Miriam (Moses' sister), and later, for Moslems, as the hand of Fatima Zahra, who was the daughter of Muhammed. Sometimes the amulet is depicted with an eye in its centre. This is what the amulet protects against - the evil eye.<br />
<br />
Finally, we have an example of a palm depicting the lines of chiromancy, the idea that we are bound by fate according to the lines of our hands. Some palm readers believe that as we age, those lines shift and change, thereby allowing our destinies to shift and change as well.<br />
<br />
So, some story ideas.<br />
<br />
What if the Hand of Fatima was used to fight the ill intent of the bearer of a Hand of Glory? Or, what if, in desperation, the bearer of bad luck changed his destiny by carving a new set of lines into his hands? What if that didn't necessarily make things better, but worse? What would he do about it, or do <i>with </i>it? What period of history might we throw into this mix?<br />
<br />
I'll leave those intriguing decisions in your capable hands. Until next time, happy (or gruesome) writing, however it strikes you. :-)<br />
<br />
- Susan.Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-15594548276188686222018-02-05T22:08:00.000-07:002018-02-05T23:51:59.271-07:00ARTIFACT #4, THE WOOLWICH FOOT TUNNEL, TESSERACTS 22 ALCHEMY AND ARTIFACTS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pjle4Jz3r_g/WnkqD3J0S1I/AAAAAAAAA_k/gkVo1rEvK-sl4NTF2HeE_3l8WKZPDqQ4ACLcBGAs/s1600/Time%2BAnomaly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="484" height="315" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pjle4Jz3r_g/WnkqD3J0S1I/AAAAAAAAA_k/gkVo1rEvK-sl4NTF2HeE_3l8WKZPDqQ4ACLcBGAs/s320/Time%2BAnomaly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>BUILT IN 1912, THE WOOLWICH FOOT TUNNEL</b> has provided Londoners with a handy walkway beneath the Thames River for over a century. It runs between Woolwich (in the Royal Borough of Greenwich) to North Woolwich (in the Royal Borough of Newham). It has a mysterious reputation. Some claim the tunnel stops time.<br />
<br />
In 2011, when the tunnel was closed for repairs, construction workers found that no time seemed to pass when they entered the tunnel at one end and exited it at the other. A few claimed they could spend eight hours repairing the tunnel for leaks, then emerge at the end of the working day, only to discover it was still morning. Others claimed they could camp for up to three days and find that no time had passed. Were these stories made to fool the gullible? Or did these men actually experience a time anomaly? Who can say?<br />
<br />
Still, it's an intriguing idea. What if some kind of magic could disrupt time? And if so, what kind of magic might that be? What if one period of history played out at one end, while a different future played out at the other? Who would benefit? And why?<br />
<br />
Perhaps such a tunnel was created to dispose of an inconvenient enemy. What if, instead of murdering his nephews, Richard III rid himself of twelve year-old Edward V and his younger brother, Richard, the Duke of York by forcing them through the tunnel and into our time? What if they survived, only to remember who they were and who had wronged them? What if they went back?<br />
<br />
We all know what happened to Richard III. In 1485, he died at the Battle of Bosworth Field after losing his helmet and being stabbed repeatedly in the head. His remains were re-discovered recently beneath a London car-park.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I wish I wasn't just <i>editing </i>this anthology, but writing a story for it. I can't wait to see what we get.<br />
<br />
- Susan.<br />
<br />
P.S. If you're interested in reading more about the <a href="https://portalsoflondon.com/2017/07/02/the-woolwich-anomaly/">Woolwich Foot Tunnel</a>, as well as other potential gateways, check out this link. Here's another from <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/jan/08/woolwich-foot-tunnel-portals-of-london">The Guardian</a>, which points out that the Woolwich Foot Tunnel anomaly, featured in the first link, is a work of fiction.<br />
<br />Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-57185127363124550682018-01-23T18:35:00.005-07:002018-01-23T18:57:29.012-07:00ARTIFACT #3, THE FLAMMARION WOOD ENGRAVING, TESSERACTS 22 ALCHEMY AND ARTIFACTS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXQUJYliXhaIYfyBVq-b0R85crIGCyo83UR1AGl8Y-2XzinLb9kwlMgWHMJYuGYXWP0OXoJ_F-S8GGd5ENPAd_Yu94L1dimU1w77v5zkIbXWJS_Q14SRHBNHt_QbBjCjK1J8ivQ/s1600/Flammarion+Colored+Wood+Engraving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="496" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXQUJYliXhaIYfyBVq-b0R85crIGCyo83UR1AGl8Y-2XzinLb9kwlMgWHMJYuGYXWP0OXoJ_F-S8GGd5ENPAd_Yu94L1dimU1w77v5zkIbXWJS_Q14SRHBNHt_QbBjCjK1J8ivQ/s320/Flammarion+Colored+Wood+Engraving.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>THE IMAGE TO THE LEFT IS A MODERN, COLOURISED VERSION</b> of the Flammarion Wood Engraving, (artist unknown) used by Camille Flammarion in his 1888 book <span style="background-color: white;"><i>L'atmosphère: météorologie populaire</i> </span>or <i>The Atmosphere: Popular Meteorology</i>. It depicts a man who, having reached the ends of the Earth, has pushed his way through the firmament to uncover heavenly wonders. In the upper left-hand corner, there is a 'wheel within a wheel', a reference to the prophet Ezekiel's vision from the Old Testament. Despite what 6th century BC Greek astronomers knew - that the Earth was a sphere - the Flammarian image represents a flat Earth belief. In the Old Testament, the Earth was considered to be a flat disk floating upon a vast ocean, which, in turn, was attached to the sky. Heaven was upheld by mountains.<br />
<br />
Let's add a little 'thought experiment' to the above mix, courtesy of <span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">quantum mechanics</span></span>. (For other people like myself who need a bit of an explanation, and this is a <i>very </i>basic one, <span style="color: #222222;">Schrödinger and others suggested an </span>atom or photon could exist in a multiple, undefined state until it collapsed into one or the other due to <i>observer effect</i>. Hugh Everett considered that instead of either/or states, both might persist, in a many-worlds interpretation.<br />
<br />
Here are a few crazy story ideas: what if we replaced atoms and photons <span style="color: #222222;">with the idea of a flat or round Earth? What if the Earth really <i>was </i>a<i> </i>flat plane, surrounded by a glassy firmament, which shifted into a round planet, due to our intrepid observer above? What if there were <i>two </i>Earths as a result? What if our observer travelled between them, disrupting balances? </span><span style="color: #222222;">What if there was a flat Earth/round Earth battle between the Church and astronomer wizards involving gravity magic? </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222;">What if Venice <i>sank </i>due to some magical gravity screw-up? (After all, a good story should always have a bit of the unexpected in it.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222;">I do hope you send us some bizarre stuff. (The Submission Guidelines are <a href="http://edgewebsite.com/books/tess22/t22-catalog.html">here</a>.)</span><br />
<br />
In the meantime, happy writing. - Susan.Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-54175865757392469432018-01-12T15:28:00.000-07:002018-02-11T21:53:06.364-07:00ARTIFACT #2, THE DEATH CARD, TESSERACTS 22 ALCHEMY AND ARTIFACTS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WxcZdfcQQIo/Wlgb_a5Z4DI/AAAAAAAAA9A/Z-5dgbxg0VgqHoEnwPY1VwKLfx6-LNJzQCLcBGAs/s1600/Visconti-Sforza_tarot_deck._Death.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="253" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WxcZdfcQQIo/Wlgb_a5Z4DI/AAAAAAAAA9A/Z-5dgbxg0VgqHoEnwPY1VwKLfx6-LNJzQCLcBGAs/s400/Visconti-Sforza_tarot_deck._Death.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>THE DEATH CARD FROM THE VISCONTI-SFORZA TAROT </b>is one of the
remaining cards from a collection of the
earliest decks commissioned by Filippo Maria Visconti, the Duke of Milan, and
his son-in-law, Francesco Sforza.<br />
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Back in the 15<sup>th</sup> century, tarot cards were used
to play a game known as <i>Trionfi</i>, then
later <i>Tarocchi</i>, <i>Tarocchini</i>, and other names. In France, the game was known as <i>Tarot</i>. Decks consisted of 78 cards – 22
trump cards, of which Death was one, as well as 56 minor or pip cards numbering
1 through 10, plus four face cards – the King, Queen, Knight, and Page (or Jack).
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According to most sources, tarot cards became associated
with cartomancy in the 18<sup>th</sup> century, but I wonder if they weren’t
used for divination earlier. Here’s an intriguing fact. Of the remaining cards in
the Visconti-Sforza collections, only two trump cards (or Major Arcana) are
missing: the Devil and the Tower. Both cards depict ill circumstances (although
in modern day interpretations, they also have less dire meanings). Back in the middle ages, the Devil card might have been seen as a literal indication of the Devil and his works, a
foretelling of evil deeds, terrible loss, and damnation. As for the Tower, it pointed to accidents, disaster,
and ruin; the mighty struck down by God on high for their power
and pride. (Again, modern interpretations allow room for positive outcomes.)
All said, it intrigues me that these two cards – the Devil and the Tower –
are missing from the Visconti-Sforza collection. <i>Why? </i>Were they destroyed
because some medieval soul feared what they might bring? Or could they have been used
in a magical rite? And if they were, to what end? What was happening in Europe in
the mid-1400’s? <o:p></o:p></div>
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In 1440, the printing press with movable type was born,
which, on the surface, was a good thing, but also meant
the birth of greater independent thought. Humanism encouraged the study of
history and literature focusing on <i>the
ancient world</i>, which would have loosened the Church's grip on the medieval mind - not a good thing in its opinion. In 1453, Constantinople fell to the Ottomans, ending the
Byzantine Empire. In 1462, Vlad the Impaler invaded Bulgaria and impaled over
23,000 Turks and Bulgarians in what may have been a strike for Christendom (but more likely, Vlad was consolidating his own position). If these events were linked to dark magic, they would
make for an interesting story. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On a happier and more personal note, one of my best memories is of
Robert Zelazny, who wrote many wonderful books, including his series, <i>The Chronicles of Amber</i>, of which <i>The Nine Princes in Amber </i>is my favourite. The <i>Chronicles</i> uses tarot cards as magical artifacts. The characters
are represented through various trumps; the cards are also portals for travel and communication. Apparently, Roger was fascinated with the tarot (as am I). As Guest of Honour, he attended a convention here in Edmonton in 1993. After I
was introduced to him, he asked me if I wrote. I’d just had my first
short story published in <i>On Spec Magazine</i>.
He had a copy of the issue and said he looked forward to reading my story. With that
one kind comment, I learned that great writers are also great people, generous
and supportive of newcomers. When he died in 1995, I was sad to hear of it. We lost a great writer and a great human being in his passing.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
His series also inspired a modern day tarot deck - the Amber deck - created by French artist Florence Magnin. Here is her version of the Death card:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wwyhyxAEWdY/Wlk0e56FmRI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/PXJp3WyCTqUpr6ehfQNVvjHpdaMtQYMfwCLcBGAs/s1600/Amber%2BDeath%2Btarot%2Bcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wwyhyxAEWdY/Wlk0e56FmRI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/PXJp3WyCTqUpr6ehfQNVvjHpdaMtQYMfwCLcBGAs/s320/Amber%2BDeath%2Btarot%2Bcard.jpg" width="182" /></a></div>
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Until next time, may inspiration strike you.<br />
<br />
Happy writing. - Susan.</div>
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Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-49914983188468943682018-01-08T22:21:00.003-07:002018-01-11T19:57:07.698-07:00ARTIFACT #1, THE AZOTH WOODCUT, TESSERACTS 22 ALCHEMY AND ARTIFACTS<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8Xr7WpH_flY/WlRF3QWwS9I/AAAAAAAAA8k/-lKGfgfT574GQwjJKi7zYNRUmyaH8N81gCLcBGAs/s1600/Tess%2B22%2BCosmic%2BEgg%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="232" data-original-width="187" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8Xr7WpH_flY/WlRF3QWwS9I/AAAAAAAAA8k/-lKGfgfT574GQwjJKi7zYNRUmyaH8N81gCLcBGAs/s400/Tess%2B22%2BCosmic%2BEgg%2B2.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>
<b>IN ORDER TO PROMOTE TESSERACTS 22 </b><b><i>Alchemy and Artifacts</i></b>, one
of the things Lorina and I felt we needed was an ‘unofficial’ symbol that
conveyed the nature of the anthology, a bit of visual alchemy that appealed and
challenged at the same time. After a bit of searching, I came across this
artifact - a woodcut from Basil Valentine’s <i>Azoth</i>
series, dated at around 1659; it's one of twelve pictures depicting the alchemical process of
making ‘azoth’, a precursor to the Philosopher’s Stone or a universal
medication or solvent – the Elixir of Life. It was often associated with the
element mercury. This woodcut is the fifth or sixth in the series; as to which
one it is, not all sources agree.<br />
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To me, it works well as a symbol for literary creation –
the process of making <i>story</i>. One of the things I
plan to do with this and future posts, is to present various artifacts that might ignite the imagination.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This Azoth woodcut contains a number of intriguing symbols.
The first is the androgyne, the two-headed being. It represents a divine marriage between solar and lunar, male and female energies, which together, were
seen as the highest form of spiritual attainment. Surrounding the androgyne are
seven symbols for the planets (gods) and their metallic counterparts. From left
to right are Venus (copper), Mars (iron), Sol or the Sun (gold), Mercury or
Hermes (mercury), Luna or the Moon (silver), Jupiter (tin), and Saturn (lead).
The androgyne also holds a compass and the set-square, two tools of
architecture, important in Freemasonry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Upon the androgyne’s chest is the sign, R.E.B.I.S. I’ve yet
to find what these letters stand for. If any of you know, please enlighten me. As
mysteries go, this is a good metaphor for the sense of mystery Lorina and I hope
to find in the submissions we receive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The winged dragon can be seen as an alchemical symbol for fire
and volatile elements. The fact that the androgyne is standing upon the dragon,
subduing it, is significant. This may actually point to a specific part in the alchemical
process. The dragon is also associated with the element, sulphur.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Both androgyne and dragon stand precariously upon a Cosmic Egg. The egg is a symbol of both cosmos and creation – of potential.
Lines and numbers intersect its surface. The numbers might stand for the four
elements - air, earth, water, and fire - or have different meanings (ie., 1 to represent the primal force, 2, duality, etc.) There are many interpretations. </div>
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Speaking of numbers, I came across this interesting
titbit while looking into the above symbols. In numerology (whatever you make of it), the number 22 is considered the most powerful of numbers. It's known as the Master Number and Master Builder. As Master
Builder, it takes fantastic dreams and turns them into realities. I can’t
think of a better process to describe what Lorina and I plan to do with Tesseracts 22. </div>
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One might say it's almost...<i>alchemical</i>.</div>
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Until next time - Susan.</div>
Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-74151449516122647262018-01-05T16:03:00.002-07:002018-01-05T16:53:27.573-07:00TESSERACTS 22 - HISTORICAL FANTASY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AC_9kn8WtHc/WlAElbaUruI/AAAAAAAAA8E/t9y9Yse0ydw55adNu7799Dj1scZL_j4NQCLcBGAs/s1600/Tess%2B22%2BCosmic%2BEgg%2BLogo%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="922" height="171" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AC_9kn8WtHc/WlAElbaUruI/AAAAAAAAA8E/t9y9Yse0ydw55adNu7799Dj1scZL_j4NQCLcBGAs/s400/Tess%2B22%2BCosmic%2BEgg%2BLogo%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>IT GIVES ME GREAT PLEASURE TO FINALLY MAKE THIS ANNOUNCEMENT. </b>Lorina Stephens and I will be editing Tesseracts 22, the theme Historical Fantasy, through Edge Books. The 'official' announcement will appear on the Edge site shortly. When it does, I'll post the link here. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the meantime, here's a little history about how it all came about. :-)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The idea for this anthology had its genesis over a year ago. The last book of my <i>Tattooed Witch </i>trilogy (<i>The Tattooed Queen</i>) was published in December 2016 through Five Rivers Publishing; I was thinking about what I might do next. Edge had not yet published an historical fantasy themed Tesseracts, so I considered with whom I might co-edit such an anthology. Of course, Lorina came to mind. After we talked about it, I pitched the idea to Edge. Brian Hades agreed it was a workable premise and so <i>here we are</i>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't tell you how excited I am about this. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Okay, I can. <i>I am very, very excited</i>. The feedback we've received from writers who are about to start, or who are already working on a piece, makes me certain this is going to be an excellent collection.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you're hearing about this for the first time, here is what we are looking for: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Alchemy and
Artifacts</i></b>
will examine the magic behind the history, the myths arising from the
artifacts, the mysteries missed (or dismissed), but which lie at the root of
world events. We are looking for tales that explore laws
magical as well as physical, the manipulation of reality in the past, resulting
in the present. History, sorcery, alchemy, mystery. What if?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>For example</b>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>What if</i> the Black Plague was a curse
unleased by Geoffrey Chaucer’s <i>The
Canterbury Tales</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>What if</i> Egyptian hieroglyphics were
incantations that moved pharaohs into the future instead of an afterlife?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>What if</i> the terracotta army from the Qin
Shi Huang dynasty were golem soldiers, waiting to be animated through magic?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>What if</i> Picasso’s <i>Guernica</i> was a magical attempt to fight Franco during the Spanish
Civil War?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>What if</i> Paul Revere’s silversmithing was
a spell enacted to fight England during the American Revolution?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>What if</i> Elizabeth I was a witch,
employing Drake to find a forgotten, powerful artifact to grant her godhead?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>What if</i> Haida totems animated and walked
the coast? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->These
are only a sampling of the sorts of story ideas we are looking for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Alternate
histories will be considered, but we are inclined to choose work that considers
<i>actual</i> world events and characters,
and how some form of magic has manipulated history in a subtle yet dramatic way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Intrigued yet? Here are a few more guidelines:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Submission Guidelines</b>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i><b>Alchemy and Artifacts</b></i> will reflect as broad a spectrum
of stories as possible, highlighting unique styles and manners. The greater the
magic or magical event and the subtler (yet dramatic) effect it has on history,
the better. We want to raise questions about the reality of magic behind
events.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->We
are looking to represent as many historical periods as possible, from places
all over the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Submissions
must be speculative in nature, including fantasy, dark fantasy, magic realism,
slipstream, supernatural horror, weird tales, surrealism, mythic fantasy, etc.
We will consider steampunk, but with an emphasis on magic rather than
technology.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Short
fiction may be up to 5000 words in length.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->We
will also consider poetry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: -18pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: -18pt;"> Complete guidelines will be available on the Edge site shortly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Stay tuned! More to come.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> - Susan.</span></div>
Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17746046.post-4131019203574583042017-10-27T13:26:00.001-06:002017-10-28T16:47:06.335-06:00NEARLY HISTORICAL FICTION, PART TWO - GUEST POST by SHARON WILDWIND<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VLcBflrxSI4/WeenCnjbiGI/AAAAAAAAA64/TMdA1-omqjgIY1tsJs1Uuj4R7-Dy-DGmwCLcBGAs/s1600/Sharon%2BWildwind%2BCovers%2B2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="487" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VLcBflrxSI4/WeenCnjbiGI/AAAAAAAAA64/TMdA1-omqjgIY1tsJs1Uuj4R7-Dy-DGmwCLcBGAs/s1600/Sharon%2BWildwind%2BCovers%2B2.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credits, from left to right: Sharon Wildwind, Cindy Kirkpatrick, Ashley Wilson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: inherit;">THIS POST, AS THE TITLE SAYS, IS PART TWO OF SHARON WILDWIND'S e</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>xcellent article on writing nearly historical fiction. </b>If you haven't read it yet, you can read </span><a href="http://suzenyms.blogspot.ca/2017/09/nearly-historical-fiction-guest-post-by.html" style="font-family: inherit;">Part One here</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<b style="font-family: inherit;"><u><br /></u></b>
<b style="font-family: inherit;"><u><br /></u></b>
<b style="font-family: inherit;"><u>NEARLY HISTORICAL FICTION, PART TWO</u></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b>If the story is set at least 50 years in the past, it is an historical novel</b>. </i></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">~ The Historical Writers of America</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b>If the story is set less than 50 years in the past, but still
feels like it’s taking place a long time ago, it’s a nearly historical novel.</b> </i></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">~ Sharon Wildwind, mystery writer</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 1975, I was going to graduate school by distance learning. Two
evenings a week, I drove 53 miles (83 kilometers) along Interstate 40, through
the Great Smoky Mountains, sharing the road with high-balling truck drivers. I went to class, then drove home, often arriving after midnight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bored out of my skull on those drives, I spent car time developing a
romantic-mystery. The premise was an American nurse seeking adventure, who takes a
job in a northern Alberta nursing station. She knows nothing about, and is
totally unprepared, for nursing station work, northern Alberta weather, and
living in a tiny hamlet. (Never mind about why I chose Alberta. It’s
complicated.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, I’m living in the U. S. south and writing about northern
Alberta, about which I know nothing. Nada. Zip. The big mistake I made was that
while I bought an Alberta map, it wasn’t a <i>topographical </i>map. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Regular maps show distance — how to get from here to there.
Topographical maps show if there might be up and down obstacles, like canyons
or mountain ranges, between here and there.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Caribou Mountains form a large part of northern Alberta
geography. I’d seen photos of Banff, so I blissfully transferred a Rocky
Mountain landscape to the north, and set my story in a Banff-like setting in
the Caribou Mountains. (Those of you familiar with northern Alberta can stop
laughing now.) </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Caribou Mountains are a flat plateau, rising steeply in an
impossible-to-traverse escarpment for some 1,864 feet (568 meters), and then </span>levelling<span style="font-family: inherit;"> out into a flat, boggy muskeg plateau. There are no mountain peaks
there, and certainly no gold mines, both of which were essential to the story I
wrote.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fast-forward forty-two years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3WsQDiKpJcg/Ween1erNnPI/AAAAAAAAA7A/51pgF3Y8ucIyd-EZNORP4tyyvI3KeSIsQCLcBGAs/s1600/Sharon%2BWildwind%2Bin%2BHigh%2BLevel.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="346" height="268" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3WsQDiKpJcg/Ween1erNnPI/AAAAAAAAA7A/51pgF3Y8ucIyd-EZNORP4tyyvI3KeSIsQCLcBGAs/s320/Sharon%2BWildwind%2Bin%2BHigh%2BLevel.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharon Wildwind in High Level, Alberta.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Having lived and worked in northern Alberta, I now had first-hand
knowledge about nursing station work, northern Alberta weather, and living in a
tiny hamlet. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I also had terrific characters still residing in my heart, and a
completely impossible plot. I had to keep the mid-1970s time frame because of
events related to the characters and story. What had been a current novel had
become a near historical one. So, where to start?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I bought a topographical map, and went over it with an oil and gas
man who had actually walked the Caribou Mountain escarpment, and didn’t care to
do it ever again. I moved my hamlet, Whiskeyjack, off the plateau to the base
of the escarpment, ditched the mountain scenery, substituted logging and oil and
gas exploration for a gold mine, and started again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When we’re writing a near historical novel — something that
happened less than 50 years ago — lots of readers will remember the year, the
month, and sometimes the exact day in our stories. If we make a mistake, they will
let us know. We owe it to our readers to have at least a nodding acquaintance
with things like geography and weather. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">That doesn’t mean we have to be constrained by real events such as
weather or real history, but if we choose to ignore or tweak something major,
we owe it to our readers to tell them we are doing that. Our introduction might
say something like this, “Those of you familiar with sawmills in High Level,
Alberta, know that Leo Arsenault didn’t build the first mill there until the
late summer of 1964. This story required that the mill be in operation several
months earlier, so that’s what I did.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><u>How to ground nearly historical
writing in a semblance of the real world:</u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1). <b>Live there</b>. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The best near historical research is to live in the place, at or
near the time. I wrote more about this in <a href="http://suzenyms.blogspot.ca/2017/09/nearly-historical-fiction-guest-post-by.html">Part One</a> of this blog.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2). <b>Talk to people who lived there</b>. M</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">y engineering buddy gave me details I would never have invented.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">3). <b>Read journals and diaries of people who lived there</b>. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The following books gave me a sense of the time and place about which I
wanted to write.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">• Joy Duncan (ed). <i>Red
Serge Wives</i>. Centennial Book Committee. 1974.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">• Ruth Lee-Knight. <i>When
the Second Man was a Woman</i>. Imagine Publishing. 2004 – a story of Mounties’
wives in remote settlements.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">• Gordon Reid’s set of first
person accounts of Northern Alberta. Lower Peace Publishing Company, 1963 –
1978.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">• Dr. Brad Stelfox, and
others. <i>Logging the Fairview Area</i>. Publisher and date unknown. – While
Fairview is some distance from my setting, one chapter had a general view of
logging in Northern Alberta.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">4). <b>Download a calendar</b>. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are any numbers of sites, which will produce a calendar for
dates specified.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">5). <b>Download a sunrise and sunset chart</b>. Here's one to use: <a href="http://www.sunrisesunset.com/">http://www.sunrisesunset.com</a>. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fill in the place name
and the dates you want, and it makes a chart for you.) </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I once had two characters enjoying a lovely October sunset, north
of Fort Vermilion, at 8:00 pm. At that latitude, in October, the sun sets at
6:30.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">6). <b>Look at a topographical map</b>. Here's another good site: </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Canadian Topographic Maps: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.nrcan.gc.ca/earth-sciences/geography/topographic-information/maps/9767" style="font-family: inherit;">http://www.nrcan.gc.ca/earth-sciences/geography/topographic-information/maps/9767</a>. Note: T</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">his site is a little hard to navigate. Instead of carrying maps
in stock, they now have a printing arrangement with regional map companies to
print maps on demand. On the site, find a map company near you, and send them an e-mail about what you might need. Or visit your local library. They may have a
topo map or be able to get one.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">7). <b>Find out what the weather was at the time</b>. Look for the so called “weather
incidents” that people would remember. The </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Government of Canada Historical Climate Data: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://climate.weather.gc.ca/" style="font-family: inherit;">http://climate.weather.gc.ca</a>/</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">can get information for specific dates or monthly summaries. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">For a lark, some of the weather in Whiskeyjack follows exactly
what the weather was in 1977.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">8). <b>Always be on the lookout for little gems</b>. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I recently discovered Merrily K. Aubrey. </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Place Names of
Alberta; volume IV, northern Alberta</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. University of Calgary Press. 1996.
After looking up real places, like Fort Vermilion, High Level, and Margaret
Lake, I was able to construct the following, imaginary summary for Whiskeyjack: </span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Whiskeyjack (settlement and eventually a hamlet) </li>
<li>84 J/5 — Whiskeyjack (this is the topographical map reference)</li>
<li>34-111-10-W5 (this is where it’s located on the topographical map)</li>
<li>58 degrees 40 minutes North 115 degrees 35 minutes West (this is
its longitude and latitude)</li>
<li>Approximately 110 kilometers east north-east of High Level (how
far to the nearest larger population centre).</li>
</ul>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Located near the Beaver Ranch River, the area was first surveyed
in 1915. The settlement was founded in 1922 as a farming community by Henry
Martel, who named it after the large flocks of grey or Canadian jays in the
area. After a typhoid epidemic in 1929, the settlement was abandoned, though
two or three families remained in the area. In 1946-47, brothers Steven and
Jonathan Randall founded the hamlet. A post office was established in 1954. The
first postmaster was Thomas Purdy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, yes, always make up an imaginary cover before working on a
book. Pin it some place you can see it. It’s a great reminder to keep writing. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Featured above, are my imaginary covers for this trilogy. The photo for </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Whiskeyjack
</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">is mine. Cindy Kirkpatrick (</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Fireweed</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">) and Ashley Wilson (</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Tamarac</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">)
have my thanks for allowing me to manipulate their copyrighted photos (personal
use only). The photography is entirely theirs. Please do not forward or
reproduce these photographs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Whiskeyjack </span></i><span lang="EN-US">is
with beta readers. I’m about a third of the way through <i>Fireweed</i>. I have
a major event outline for <i>Tamarac</i>. So far, I’ve managed to stay firmly
out of Banff.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US">(Thanks so much, Sharon. I think I can speak for all of us when I say we look forward to reading your new work. All the best with it! - Susan).</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Sharon's Bio:</b> Sharon Wildwind is a Calgary mystery writer. You can find more
about her and her books at <a href="http://www.wildwindauthor.com/">www.wildwindauthor.com</a>.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
Suzenymhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16780822574353097907noreply@blogger.com2