The Widow of Saunders Creek

The Widow of Saunders Creek by Tracey Bateman  is basically a romance novel- with the typical formulaic plot- but with a new twist- a supernatural element.  Basically the plot of the story is about a beautiful widowed woman who eventually finds a new love.  A 30 year old woman recently widowed after her husband dies a heroic death in Iraq, believes the quaint nostalgic country home she returns to is haunted by the ghost of her deceased husband.  She feels drawn to the property by the spiritual presence she attributes to as her husband. She has an inner conflict, in which she strongly misses his presence but also feels angry that he sacrificed his life for strangers leaving her a window.  Nevertheless, she is fortunate ebough to capture the attention of a handsome, single young man, who coincidenlty is also attracted to her.  Basically, Eli becomes a buffer of sorts- in that she is never left alone to grieve- something that many widows really arent fortunate enough to have. Eli becomes her personal caretaker, handyman, taxi driver, friend, pastor, and counselor all rolled into one.  Anything Corrie needs- Eli is at her service.

This young widow, whose life revolved completely around her husband, feels duty bound to honor her commitment even after his death. Her strong sense of marital bonds and her delusion that her husband is truly inhabiting the house, in spirit, is the driving force behind her thoughts and actions as she struggles to cope with a possible new realtionship with his close cousin, Eli. 
Personally, I feel that Corrie, the 30 year old beautiful woman is self centered and condescending. She is fortunate enough to be wealthy and therefore does not need to work to support herself.  Her ideal circumstances most likely do not represent the reality of most young widows who must struggle for neccesities.  Her interactions with Eli as well as the other characters in the story hint at her superiority complex- her pride at being physically fit, thin and beautiful at age 30, and condescending in  the way interacts and as she percieves others who are economically or socially or physically less fortunate.  Personally, I really canot imagine any reader being able to relate to this self centered woman who basically takes every fortunate aspect of her life for granted while wallowing in self pity.  Religion, and more specifically, Christianity- is viewed passively as nostalgic.  It is hard to believe how Eli, a devoted pastor, can so easily fall in love with a woman who basically is agnotic and has no personal faith in God.  The story just seems so superficial and in fact, is a bit dissapointing that a pastor can be so deluded by physical beauty and fall in love with a woman who basically has no faith in God. 

A strong part of this novel is the fact that the author rightly attributes the spirits and ghosts as demonic rather than that of her departed husband.  Eli, the pastor, is the voice of reason, and Eli's words of wisdom are in allighnment with scripture when he warns Corrie of the dangers of the supernatural.  In a culture where so many believe in ghosts and mediums and palm readers, this book is a welcomed and important voice of reason.  I believe the author should have spent more time focusing on this point. 

The ending is too perfect in the way all the pieces come to gether- much like a fairy tale in which the beautiful princess and hero gets married. It almost seems that the message of this book focuses on the neccesity of marriage to feel complete in contrast to faith and dependance on God. This is a very good story about characters with strong morals with unexpected twists- but the ending is just too perfect in stark contrast to real life. As a blogger I recieved this book from Walter Brook Publishers for the purpose of writing this review.

Tales of the unusual

The Bazaar

It was an ordinary dreary day that started out with the usual routine: getting ready for work on a cloudy Saturday. I received a call, enroute to the office, that my shift had to be cancelled. The minimal explanation that was offered (my partner had called out sick) was insufficient to my satisfaction. No details were provided as to the specific illness and its start nor its duration- all of which helped to feed into my skepticism as to whether the individual was actually ill. No matter how I persuaded, even to volunteer my services, they insisted they had no use for me that day, and dejectedly, there was nothing more that I could do but turn around and go home. Reluctantly, I changed course, did a u-turn and headed in the direction of home.



As I was driving home, on that overcast cold winter morning, I noticed the old, run down church next to the cemetery that I pass every day on the way to work. That small, scenic, picturesque cobblestone church, with its pointed steeple topped by a simple white cross, and the small cemetery, by its side- a garden of decaying and cracked grey stones, intertwined with weeds and vines- stood in stark contrast to the rest of the surroundings of main street. The old church seemed as if it were plucked out of a previous long gone era and dropped right into the midst of old, run down, 21st century down town architecture. The only thing that separated the church from the nearby liquor stores, Chinese take-out, diners, convenience stores and used car lots, was an antique, four foot, black iron spiked fence that encircled the church and the graveyard. I always slowed down to look at cemeteries. No matter how many times I drove by this old church, it never failed to intrigue me, and as my usual custom, that morning was no exception so I slowed down.



This time I saw some activity going on- reminiscent of a small carnival or flea market, perhaps. My curiosity got the better of me and I actually stopped and pulled into the empty parking lot next to the church to take a better look at what was going on. Perhaps I can find some good books, I thought to myself. I was always interested in books, in particular, I enjoyed literature classics and old textbooks- which were usually plentiful at garage sales and flea markets. I saw people hoisting cumbersome, heavy, oblong boxes through the narrow doorway of the church. I wondered what was in those curious looking boxes and my greed for some books drew me closer. Slowly, I opened my car door, slid out of the driver’s seat, and shut the door behind me.



As I stood outside my car, I could see there was actually a small line of people waiting to enter the church through its narrow doors. There were perhaps two or three to an oblong box. Perhaps this was a church fundraiser, and these strange folk were setting up early for a flea market. I always thought that the vendors at flea markets were weird and uncouth individuals considering the eclectic assortment of used junk they would frequently try to pawn off. For what other opinion could I form of someone who would try and sell half used containers of deodorant, along side unopened McDonald’s happy meal toys, leather belts and old VHS tapes. Either their motives were unethical, or they truly were deluded into believing that there was value in their junk. In most cases the trash would be a more appropriate place to unload their overpriced junk. Perhaps these vendors had come with the high hopes of unloading their garages and attics in an attempt to raise money for some sort of noble endeavor or humanitarian cause. Not everyone had boxes, nevertheless, some were trudging through the narrow doorway with what appeared to be long narrow laundry bags or sleeping bags filled with something- perhaps clothing. Others had hoisted large overflowing dusty cardboard boxes of various goods and trinkets. It was like a gypsy caravan. Finally I made my way to the front door of the church. With all the activity, no one noticed my presence, thankfully I could observe in peace and anonymity.



It was if my eyes were deceiving me, I saw something which made me question as if this were real or that perhaps it was a dream! The oblong boxes were coffins, and the coffins were open. The coffins were not the traditional coffins that you see in a modern funeral service- those would have been too heavy to lift with two people anyway. These “coffins”- for I could not find a better expression to describe these ghastly containers- were constructed of relatively light weight materials: wood, tin and cardboard. They looked like oversized shoe boxes without lids. These makeshift coffins were easily be carried by two pall bearers, with one at either end. The overstuffed sleeping bags and laundry bags were actually the dead, encased in blankets and grungy bedding- some of which were in various stages of decay! Some of the elderly, grey haired woman, perhaps because they lacked the vigor and strength of their youth, simply dragged their bodies into the church. I was repulsed yet drawn at the same time. I stood transfixed in the doorway, unable to move- unable to enter the church threshold, yet unable to leave. I felt compelled to stay yet overcome with a sickly fear that I felt growing inside of being so close to the dead.





Inside the small one-roomed church was a bustle of activity. The surreal atmosphere was a cross between the somber dark gloominess of a funeral home with the fast paced zeal of a flea market and I am sure that there were a small number of health code as well as fire code violations to boot. At least there was one consolation- they weren’t serving any food- that would be too gross. There were guests of all ages crammed into the room- like a typical crowd at a flea market or carnival, I suppose. Along the walls and corners, the vendors were setting up their creepy wares. Specifically, the containers holding the corpses were being propped upright, leaning against the wall for support in strategic locations within the empty church. Apparently all the pews and chairs had been removed from the interior to accommodate this event and the crowds it would draw in. A few plastic fold-up tables were set up- filled with various old books, jewelry, photographs and other trinkets, near each of the displayed propped up bodies. Apparently, the items were set up and displayed with their respective owners that had owned them in life. I wondered if this made the items more valuable. In one corner, I looked with revulsion and shock as I saw two elderly women, casually applying blush and lipstick to the cheeks and lips of a deceased woman propped upright in a wooden box against the wall. Apparently they were cosmetizing the corpse.



Strangely I recognized some people in the crowd from years ago, yet did not acknowledge their presence. Nor did anyone acknowledge mine. They were complete strangers, yet familiar at the same time. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but this room was filled with many faces that were vaguely familiar from my past. Though decades had passed since I had last seen them, miraculously they had not aged whatsoever- still retaining their youth.





But then a strange blind, old man from across the crowded room caught my eye. He seemed familiar yet I did not know who he was. His eyes, appeared to be sealed shut as if the wrinkled, deflated eye lids, were devoid of the usual round orbs. He did not open his eyes, yet he seemed to be able to navigate around the room with ease- and with no need of a walking stick. He knew I was there staring at him from across the room and he casually walked closer. Once we exchanged greeting formalities, he gestured for me to come closer, and I was strangely compelled to obey. As if he were reading my mind he stood directly in front of me positioned his face only inches from my own and I stared straight into his eyes, literally. I could see an opening- as narrow as the width of a thin sheet of paper, between his eyelids. I looked directly into the void as if peering through a keyhole, and saw an unexplainable site. It was as if I had a panoramic 360 degree view inside his skull. I saw what seemed to be an empty expanse of vast darkness. Above, near the top I saw a set of eyes and below I saw a set of two eyes. Four fully formed orbs- fully functioning eyeballs, concealed and recessed deep within the darkness of skull, concealed from view. I could not comprehend what I was seeing. There were two normal eyes on top and two beneath- round white orbs, albeit a bit bloodshot, blue in color with black pupils- normal and functioning in every way, providing the man with perfect 20/20 vision. This was how he could see- so even though he appeared to be blind, he concealed an ingenious method of vision. He turned to the side and I saw above his ear, a gaping hole. The edges had been stitched long ago, and reflected many years of healing and scar tissue. There was no redness and no blood present whatsoever. There was no bandaging applied to cover the wound either- it was just there out in the open. Yet within the two inch ragged hole, the emptiness within his skull was entirely visible. Essentially his head, or to be more accurate, its - head and face was simply an outer shell, and there were none of the usual organs visible within. Medically, the man’s condition was incompatible with life, and in I fact did not know how he was alive.



The next thing I remember is a stern, small voice coming in through the doorway, “Mommy I need my clothes for school!”, called Rose as she swung open the door and stood at the foot of the bed. I woke up instantly.











A Flash in the Night



It was the flash of light that first drew my attention to the window. I dismissed it as lightning at first. The usual evening’s activities kept me busy: dinner, homework projects and a movie and finally a long book. I think I even drifted off for a nap, I was so tired. It was late, and I was ready for bed. I was exhausted yet, I could not ignore the bright flickering light any longer, so after sending the kids to bed, I dutifully trudged back into to the living room. Behind the sofa, with growing haste, I pushed the curtain and dusty blinds aside, and practically pressed my face to the dusty pane of glass to get a better view at the night sky above. The taste of the cold bitterness of the filmy glass pane tainted my lips. Craning my neck beyond the image of the living room’s reflection in the glass, I took a quick look above- and immediately was filled with a surge of fear and dread. I was transfixed in shock, as I could not comprehend or describe what I saw. I could not believe my eyes and for a split second, tried to convince myself that I was dreaming. A quick glance around the room brought me back to reality- the new reality. It was not a dream. A lump formed in my throat as I observed horrific, strange, pulsating waves of bright yellow light in the atmosphere above and the bright flashes of light. There was a stark contrast between the glowing. yellow aura against the night sky. Ripples of slow moving, yellowish plasma appeared to roll across the evening sky. Far into the distance, the horizon appeared as bright as day as if the sun were rising- and it was still the middle of the night! I stood transfixed in terror for what seemed like forever- my thoughts were drawn to my two sleeping children in the other room.





Carefully I turned the squeaky knob to the bedroom door so as not to wake the two sleeping children. By now, the oppressive bright glow was filtering through the bedroom windows- casting an eerie dim glow into the bedroom. Thankfully they remained peacefully asleep. I sat down on the bunk below and watched my youngest, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the flashing light outside. I gently wiped a bead of moisture, glistening from the yellow light, with my hand- from his forehead. He did not wake. He was a heavy sleeper. At that time, I noticed it was uncharacteristically warm for a Spring evening- most likely attributed the atmospheric anomaly. Before long, I dreaded the heat would grow oppressively hot. I glanced around quickly in an attempt to absorb any information possible- trying in vain to come up with an explanation. I heard a soft spark, and a dreadful buzz. It was just as I imagined- the power in the house must be out. All the lights were off! And the only light, was the ominous yellow glow that loomed outside. A quick glance outside confirmed the global loss of power- and that the street lamps, sign lights and in fact all electricity in town was out as well. All I observed was the threatening bright light everywhere! By now it was almost as bright as the sun itself! My next quest, however predictable and uninspired, yet practical- was to get my cell phone. Stealthily, with renewed purpose I took a few steps into the kitchen and found it on the countertop. The sight of the cell phone gave me an initial burst of hope- yet it was false hope; there was no battery power. It was dead and apparently there was no reception either. My inability to place a call confirmed that the phone did not work and that I was completely detached from the outside world. Dejectedly I dropped the useless phone to the ground and purposelessly walked back into the kids’ bedroom. I felt lightheaded in fear. The sense of dread loomed over me like a wave.



By now it was almost as bright as day, and instinctively, my two sleepy- eyed children were stretching and yawning in their beds- eyes barely open, with outstretched arms asking, “is it morning, mom?” ….. just as if it were any other normal school morning. Transfixed, I stood in place with my eyes tightly closed, as I recalled those once dreaded early morning rushed routines where I would be getting my kids ready for school: clothes picked out, breakfast prepared, lunches bagged, dog- walked and then daycare and school drop offs and then finally the commute to work. And by the time I arrived at work, I was exhausted. Yet how I longed for those days; how I wished this was just another weekday morning. I could not believe how I used to dread those safe, predictable mornings. I almost made myself believe that the eerie glow was actually the warm sunlight on an early Tuesday morning- as I imagined it was time to prepare breakfast and get the kids ready for school. I could even imagine inhaling the scent of fruit flavored powder as I poured the fruit loops into a cereal bowl. I could feel the condensation of moisture and the weight of the cool gallon of milk as it was poured. I could see the eager cheerful smile as I handed his favorite green color changing spoon to my little boy at the kitchen table. Meanwhile, my older daughter would be brushing her hair and admonishing me for neglecting to feed the Sea Monkeys, yet again.



I wished that time could stand still, as I dreaded the explanation that I would have to give to my children, who were by now waiting expectantly on their beds as I stood transfixed into place with a glassy blank stare. How could I explain that it was not actually 7am, but the middle of the night? How could I explain the unexplainable aberration in words that would not frighten my children. In mere moments, they would learn the dreaded truth that it was not morning, and that something had gone terribly awry. They would learn that an atmospheric anomaly threatened our world- the planet where we live and call home. They would be faced with their own mortality as the progression of the events continued mercilessly through its course until the ultimate end. They would feel afraid, insecure and unsafe. I had to protect them, yet I myself felt powerless and vulnerable and alone. In an instant, various plausible scenarios and explanations flashed through my mind. I had to conjure up a believable and realistic explanation that would not illicit terror and fear- though I myself felt terror and fear. I could not tell them the awful truth that the sun was expanding, or that solar flares threatened to burn up the Earth to a smoky crisp. Would an eclipse be a believable explanation? Or could I just pass this off as Just another Tuesday morning? In my heart, I dreaded the reality that this in fact was the end, yet I felt that I had to protect my children.



Suddenly, the bouncing, energetic family hound interrupted my thoughts, drawing me back into reality as she ran into the bedroom, jumping on the bottom bunk. The dog’s presence offered a comforting sense of normalcy as she enthusiastically licked my younger one’s face. “Yuck!”, he exclaimed as he attempted to cover his face from dog slobber. My 11 year old daughter reluctantly climbed down from the top bunk and proceeded to the closet to select her clothes for the day. Then instinctively she walked into the kitchen, approached the counter, and dropped a small pinch of green powder into Sea Monkey container. “Mom…how long has it been since you fed these Sea Monkeys”, she reprimanded me. Clearly, both were oblivious to the strange, bright solar light that penetrated the house. And maybe it was for the best. “Umm… I thought I did, I don’t remember for sure”, I answered as usual.



By now, it was bright as day, and come to think about it, maybe it was day. I looked at the clock, and it was 7am. It was time for me to prepare breakfast, make lunches and walk the dog. Here I was standing around, not even dressed yet and I was running out of time if I didn’t want to be late for work.





My Secret Under the Bed

I kept a secret under my bed. It was a burden so great, yet a responsibility that I could not escape. Oh how I wished it would be discovered and lifted from me. I wished an intruder would ransack my bedroom or that some prying inquisitive eyes would call the authorities with a search warrant. I could barely keep from revealing the secret. Yet, at the same time, my lips remained sealed and I did my best to conceal my dark secret. I played in my mind in-depth scenarios of subtle ways that I could reveal the secret or to facilitate its discovery.



My days and nights were filled with anxiety. How I wished there was someone, anyone to confide in. But, I felt isolated and alone. While I was away at school or work, was the only time I felt a degree of freedom and peace. Though exhausted, I’d hastily jump out of bed, quickly going through the minimal formalities associated with proper hygiene and rush off to work and school. As the end of the day approached, a feeling of sick dread and anxiety grew. As I watched the clock tick, my skin would become moist and clammy in anticipation of what awaited me at home. Nervously, I’d glance at my watch; my throat tightened and my stomach felt as though it contained a lump of heavy lead. As I walked to my car, the keys would rattle and jingle in my shaking hand. My legs felt weak, as though they would buckle underneath my weight. I’d slip into my car, and with my heart quickly pounding, I’d make my way home. Unable to concentrate on the road, I’d somehow, find myself safely home, not even remembering the trip as if driven by auto-pilot.



During the daytime I was usually withdrawn and anxious. I did not watch tv. I did not listen to music. I engaged in solitary activities: reading, writing, drawing and playing with dolls. I would clean and organize my room and my books and my dolls and my various collections. I had many collections: rocks, stickers, stamps, petrified/ shellacked hermit crabs….. All these things were my expressive outlet- especially writing. I could spend hours, and even an entire night simply writing- filling entire notebooks within a few short hours! This was the age before computers- so I would write and write and write until my fingers were red and callused and sore. I had to finish, I could not leave a piece of work unfinished! Oh, how I lived my life in my room. I lived out my dreams- reenacting a perfect world, and fulfilling my wishes for revenge and my dreams. I created a miniature replica of a town, filled with homes and schools, stores and people. All those little tiny people represented real people. After school from the time I was eight throughout high school, I lived out my life of normalcy and dreams through the fictitious town I created as well as its inhabitants. I found peace by playing within that town. Anything that happened in real life, I would reenact in my small miniature town. No detail was too insignificant to include in my little town replica. In fact, it had its own transportation system, school system, a library and even a newspaper! The newspaper was available both in miniature format as well as larger traditional format- to this day I still have some copies. I enjoyed books and lived my life’s adventures from reading literature and novels. I also enjoyed philosophy, psychology and science as well. Much of my knowledge and experience came from books. I lived life experiences through reading, and made them come to life through my writings, my fantasies and the re-enactment through my dolls. To me this was life!

I looked in the mirror, and could not reconcile the image of the middle aged face staring back at me. Why did I appear so old? It couldn’t be me that I was staring out at, perhaps from lack of sleep my eyes were deceiving me. I was in a constant state of exhaustion. I read books to pass the lonely anxious hours away. I drank coffee and soda all day long to stay awake. I lived a life of quiet solitude, I was always a bit antisocial and distant- mostly keeping to myself. I did not have too many friends, and rarely entertained guests. I was mostly alone with my thoughts, except when I could escape through reading.



I especially dreaded the nighttime when it was time to retire, and loathed the mere site of my bedroom. I would stay up half the night awaiting the early hours of the morning when I was assured that everyone was asleep. At that time I would quickly sneak down the staircase, with my pillow tightly clenched in my right hand, and my blanket, clenched in the other, down to the sofa. Just before daybreak, before anyone would awake, after an hour or two of a pitiful, restless sleep, I would sneak quietly back up the stairs, back into the dreaded bedroom, and slip under the covers of my death tainted bed. I kept an ominous oppressive secret that I could neither share nor reveal, no matter how I prayed that it would be exposed or discovered. Under my bed, beneath the rusted, creaky, metal bed frame of my bed, I kept my grand-father, encased in an oversized shoebox of a coffin. Nestled safely from prying eyes I kept the secret burden of the decaying body of my grand- father. The putrefying stained carpet beneath the weakened, wet corrugated oblong box was safely concealed by the dingy, dusty ruffled bed skirt. The oppressive odor of decay was masked by a mixture of moth balls, bath salts and fresh potpourri. Don’t ask me the details or reasons, of how this came to be, because I don’t know how I came to be in possession of my grandpa. All I know was that I somehow bore the grave responsibility of keeping his remains. Why he was not buried in the consecrated ground of a cemetery, I do not know. My grandpa passed away unexpectedly when I was young, and as an adult, he was still with me. He was there under my bed after all these years. Not once did I look inside the container that encased his lifeless body – which after all these years was encased by layers and layers of sheets, bedding and towels- in an attempt to cover the stench and the fluids of decay. At one time having him with me brought me comfort and security, but now, I simply felt a strong sense of revulsion and an urge to break free and to simply get away- even if it meant running away. Oh how I had loved him in life, and deeply missed him. His unexpected death was as if it were a dream- it was unreal. I remember each and every minute detail of his last day as if it were yesterday. After his death, time seemed to have stopped. My mom as well as sisters, forever remained young as did I. I did not grieve and I did not mourn. I was strong and I simply moved on, barely acknowledging that anything had changed, pretending it didn’t happen yet knowing deep inside he was gone and I’d never see him again. His photos were hung on my wall. His button down dress shirts and his jacket still retained his comforting scent as I had remembered from my youth. His hat was collecting dust where it remained on the hook on the door, and his boots rested on the mat near the door just as they would have remained during his life. His wallet, his keychain, eyeglasses and pens and other personal effects- were safely contained in a small jewelry box on my dresser. I could not part with my grand father nor any of his things, yet at the same time, I felt a mixture of repulsion and trepidation.



I woke up one morning, it was a bright sunny day. I had no plans for the day. That same old tired reflection stared back at me as I half heartedly rubbed a dry toothbrush against my teeth. When I was finished, I let the toothbrush fall from my limp hand into the sink. In slow motion I picked the shirt and pants that had been carelessly dropped on the bathroom floor the previous evening and dressed myself. I was exhausted and did not care about anything. Yet suddenly without any warning or reason, I felt a determination that I had never felt before. As if animated by an unknown force, I quickly went back into my bedroom, taking all of my grand father’s things from the bedroom and hastily piling them in an empty laundry basket. I had an idea that I would carefully package each of the items and mail them to my aunts and sisters or perhaps place them in the attic. Next, I was drawn to my bed, and before I could talk myself out of it, I instinctively reached underneath my bed, and with a firm grip, began tugging as the layers of soiled, stiff and crusted bedding, throwing them carelessly into a pile at the side of my bed. There seemed to be a never ending supply of dusty, worn sheets, blankets, comforters and linens. I bent down bringing my face eye level to the space underneath my bed, in eager dread of what I’d find. With the rough carpet fibers scratching my cheek and ear, giving myself a bad case of rub burn, reaching my outstretched arms, as far as I could reach, under the dusty cavern beneath my bed, I found the remaining cocoon of bedding which I tugged out from underneath with the tips of my fingers. There was no stench of decay, and no stains of body fluids to be found, only years worth of dust that had settled underneath the bed. I sneezed as a puff of grey dust filled the air - as I stared at the dusty linen cocoon that I had unearthed from under my bed frame. I watched the dust particles dance in the sunbeams of light which shone through my bedroom window. With shaking hands, my anxiety mounted as I unraveled the layers of dusty, yellowed sheets, one layer at a time. Finally I reached the last layer of bedding, and after having unrolled it there was nothing at all contained within the bedding. I was puzzled as I confronted the fact that there was nothing at all inside the sheets and no indication that anything, other than just plain sheets had been under my bed after all these years. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The nightmare as far as I was concerned was over, there was nothing there and I was satisfied to leave it at that. I had no desire to pursue the issue any further, nor to question what I had imagined had been there. I could finally move on in peace. The only thing remaining were the memories.







A Sandwich for a Witch



It was an early autumn day, as an old raggedy woman strolled away from her home. Her thin, stringy, yellowish grey hair hung loosely around her shoulders as she tightly wrapped her musty, threadbare shawl around her shoulers. Her bulbous, wart covered, long and pointy nose dripped a clear viscous fluid in the bitter wind. Her ashen, paper soupbone -thin arms tugged tighter at the frayed woolen fringes of the woolen shawl. Her knarled grey fingers looked like knobby tree stumps. Despite the cool, chilly air, the old woman had one thing on her mind; lunch.



She was hungry and searching the woods for a meal; a special meal. She heard rumors that the woods were inhabited by juicy young fairies and elves, and she was determined to find one.



It wasn't long before she found a fairy. She was a thin girl about six years of age; not as hearty and plump as she preferred her meals. "But she'll d0'', she muttered to herself. Her long chestnut brown hair was tied in the back with a pony tail. Her cheeks and hands were dirty from playing in the leaves. The knees of her flowered print leggings were brown with mud ,and her shoelaces were untied. Before the girl knew what was happening, the hungry old hag lifted the fragile young girl over her shoulder; she dangled like a limp rag over the old woman's boney shoulder. The brown haired girl was overcome with shock; she was imobilized with fear.



''I must have one of those long tasty hard rolls to complete my sandwich'', she muttered to herself as she walked briskly towards the deli. Inadvertantly she tugged at the girl's hair as if she were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. "OWWWWW!'' yelped the girl.

Within minutes, the old bat was eyeing all the choices behind the counter; tomatoes, pickles, onions. Viscous green drool poured from her salivary glands as she stared at the pasta and potato salads. A fishy odor filled the air with each breath she took.



''May I help you'' asked the man at the counter.



''Yes, l'd like a long ,hard , roll, mayo, oregeno, onions and tomato''.



''What meat would you like; turkey, ham or salami, madam.''





''I have my own, thank you.'' Turning around towards the frightened girl, she waited impatiently with an open roll in one hand and a salt shaker in the other. "Now if you don't mind, please step into that roll. Place yourself between the onion and tomato, Then I shall sprinkle some salt and pepper.''





The man strained from the counter to look behind the old woman; seeing nothing he simply shrugged and computed her bill. He suspiciously inspected the credit card she provided. It had an expiration date from 1985. "I am sorry but we cannot accept this card, do you have another'' he asked. At that, the old crow became argumentative and threatened to boil him in a pot of steaming brew. Concerned, he called for security. Seeing an opportunity for rescue, she screamed. Immediately, upon arrival, The security guard restrained the old woman and contacted the police. Apparently, the senile, old woman had a habit of wandering away from the nursing home where she lived. It was discovered that she was responsible for the abductions of a handful of other young girls, claiming that she was simply looking for her supper. In her bedroom at the facility, the putrid remains of flesh, greasy fat and bits of bone, as well as slimy strands of assorted colored hair, were recovered from a huge plastic trash bag, stuffed under the bed.

Children of Angels by Kathryn Dahlstrom

Children of Angels: Book One of the New Nephilim Series by

Kathryn Dahlstrom is a new fiction fantasy novel for young pre-teen readers.  The book tells the story of a lonely, misunderstood teenaged boy named Jeremy Lapoint.  I believe many young readers will be able to relate to the less than ideal circumstances of the main hero.  This story seems to be a hybrid of a super hero styled action story and fantasy rolled into one.  Typically of many superhero or teenaged novels, the young hero- Jeremy's life seems to be plagued with an incredible amount of bad luck- being raised by his mom while his dad is in prison as he suffers daily humilation and bullying in middle school.   Then, by chance, one day he miraculously learns that he is actually part angel, more specifically, a Nephilim and that he has special abilities such as the ability to fly.  It seems as it is a dream come true- and in fact many middleschoolers with less than ideal lives perhaps entertain fantasies of having unique superhero like powers as well. He encounters angels and demons alike and his life gains new importance.

There are some stereotypical elements to this story: such as the depiction of the handsome, young, blond angelic looking angel- a typical presentation of what the media portrays angels to be and the evil demon.  The sterotypical bully and lonely misunderstood hero is also included.  The inclusion of pop-culture, such as the ever popular ipod and other memorable details are also included.   The epic battle of evil vs good is portrayed as Jeremy tries to fight off demons, with the help from Asiel, his guardian angel.

It is interesting to note that the old testament reference to the Nephilim in Genesis, refers to an extinct race of evil hybrids who are the product of the union between fallen angels that rebelled against God who took women as their wives in direct opposition to God.  The Nephilim are depicted as giant bullies ironically.  Therefore it appears off that the author re-created the Nephilim portraying them as a noble, and dying breed with a biblical and spiritual purpse.  In fact, the last of the corrupt Nephilim race died out in the ancient flood- they were considered an abomination- and not something to be revered or idolized.  While it is interesting to draw upon the ancient stories of the bible- they bear no resemblance to the actual depiction in the bible's version.  Perhaps this may serve as a spring board to capture the interest of a young reader to actually read or learn more about the bible.
The actual cover is reminiscent of computer game animation- in fact it looks like the cover of the art one would expect of a computer game.  For some reader, especially boys- this will add to the appeal.  My 11 year old daughter who commented on the cover itself  just found it a little odd. Keep in mind this book is the first in a new series.  While some readers enjoy books that are part of a series, others may see it as a drawback.    As a blogger I recieved this book from Winepress publishers for the purpose of writing this review. 

Travelers Rest byAnn Tatlock

Firstly, my review of the fiction novel, Travelers Rest by Ann Tatlock is very late, because I just received the book in the mail. Based on the title alone- this book isn't what I expected.  After completing two thirds of the book, I learned that the title is taken from a small town named Travelers Rest- which holds an unexpected yet common significance in the lives of two seperate characters- a young woman and an old retired doctor- whose lives cross paths.  Nevertheless the title may have a double meaning because the main characters find true emotional rest and peace in the end of the book. 

 This book is about a young, 25 year old woman, Jane, who feels duty bound to honor her commitment to marry her fiance Seth who was paralyzed from the neck down as a result of a bullet wound he sustained in Iraq.  Her strong sense of moral duty is the driving force behind her thoughts and actions as she struggles to cope with the choice of whether to marry Seth or to move forward and face life without him.  Basically her life appears to center around the pragmatic fact that she simply does not want to be alone the rest of her life.  She has an optomistic, yet naive picture of the future as a caretaker for her fiance.  She even mentions how she spent 6 months doing internet research to learn what it is like to care for a quadraplegic in preparation for a life with her fiance.  On the otherhand, Seth is bitter, angry and depressed at the loss of his health and independance.  He does not want to be a burden and Jane simply serves as a painful reminder of his past.

At  one point of the story when Seth experiences a life threatening episode  of autonomic dysreflexia  due to a blocked catheter, Jane has no idea what is happening. She is confronted with the fact that she isnt the expert on paralysis as she thought she was.  I find this difficult to believe she is caught offguard because information on this common condition which afflicts paralyzed patients is widely available on any internet website about c-spine injuries. If she claims she actually did 6 months of research, surely she would have been familiar with the condition.  In fact as a reader, when the symptoms Seth first experienced were mentioned, I knew right away what it was.  In fact all caretakers of paralyzed people must be educated on the symptoms and causes of this common yet life threatening condition. Eventually Seth dies unexpectedly due to health complications coupled with his lack of will to survive.  His "convienient" death essentially is the answer to Jane's dilema and it leaves her free to pursue another unexpected love interest two years later into the story. 

In the end, it is intereseting to see how the lives of Jane and the retired doctor are tied together with a common bond from Janne's childhood.  The ending is too perfect in the way all the pieces come to gether- much like a fairy tale in which the beautiful princess and hero gets married. The doctor finds the redemption and forgiveness he spent his entire lifetime seeking- and gets married to boot!  It almost seems that the message of this book focuses on the neccesity of marriage to feel complete in contrast to faith and dependance on God.  This is a very good story about characters with strong morals with unexpected twists- but the ending is just too perfect in stark contrast to real life. As a blogger I recieved this book from Bethany Hous ePublishers for the purpose of writing this review.

Grieving God's Way By Margaret Brownley

Grieving God's Way: The Path to Lasting Hope and Healing


 by Margaret Brownley is a 90 day devotional book dedicated for those who are grieving a loss.  There are so many devotional books on the market, but this book is targeted to comfort those who are greiving the death of a loved one.  With a well rounded approach Brownley covers the spiritual, physical and emotional aspects of grief.  In fact, this book is a step by step guide to help a grieving person who may not have the mental stamina to read a lengthy book on theology or a wordy self help book.  In the short, simple to read devotions, she touches on many issues that the grieving may face, from a biblical and practical perspective.  What makes her words even more powerful is that she speaks from experience- writing this book after the loss of her own son.  The Haiku exerpts  By Diantha Ain are included in each day's reading.  The short Haiku- styled quotes suppliment the passages written by Brownley. 
 
The only issue with the book that it is a broad book -  the references to the specific loss do not target a specific loss such as the loss of a child or the loss of a spouse.  In contrast, the book attempts to address the broad needs of grief from death in general.  At times, specific examples are used- such as cleaning the closet of a loved one, or the effects of complicated grief and unresolved issues.  I feel certain categories of loss are so specific and the grief process for the loss of a child in contrast to the loss of a spouse is significant that they merit their own books. This does not detract from the usefulness of the book- but, a mother left with empty arms who suffered the loss of an infant may not be faced with the same practical issues or grieving issues that may be felt by a widow. This book is a good springboard for the start of the healing process.
 
As a blogger for booksneeze, I recieved this book from Thomas Nelson publishers for the purpose of writing this review.