My short-haired cat, Little Bit, poses on the ornately carved table beside my leather chair like an ancient black and white spinx. For once he remains silent, gazing at me with love and concern written all over his funny little face. I suspect he's silently begging to go outside to play in the rain but, realizing how quickly his meowing can fray my nerves, has decided to switch into his adoring mode. He'd already been sent to his room twice this morning for yowling and probably isn't willing to risk another moment spent sitting behind a closed door.
Little Bit remains a complete mystery, one I've spent more than four years trying to decipher. At times he appears more intelligent than any feline I've ever owned, in the next, he appears as dumb as one of the raku cat figurins sitting lifeless on a high shelf above the arched window in the solarium. This cat also has the most annoying meow in the world and my quick-draw use of a squirt bottle has yet to deter him from utilizing that insistent noise to get his way. Because of this persistence, this funny-faced little trouble maker spends a lot of time in his room while I spend a lot of my time trying to correct his bad habits.
Tara, on the other hand, is a long-haired black and white jewel. She promply sits to request food, rarely meows, and despite being seven years old remains as playful as a kitten. Tara sleeps beside my pillow each night and is willing to remain resting as long as I stay in bed but not Little Bit...he howls and scratches the door to welcome the first light of each new dawn, continuing to pester me until I drag my sleepy self out of bed and let him out. Each night, I swear I will no longer permit Little Bit to sleep in my bedroom but like a petulant child his howling persists until he's finally invited to enter.
My husband, who is probably the kindest person in the world, has much less patience than I when it comes to dealing with Little Bit. There have been many instances when this annoying little rascal might have become a a greasy smear on the wall or at least coyote bait if I hadn't given in and removed him from danger. To my shame, I've even considered using the cover of darkness to annomously drop him off at the animal shelter and then peeling away in a cloud of dust before second thoughts about abandoning him could make my foot hit the brake peddle but...like other parents of disruptive and disobedient kitties, I'm convinced if I'm patient enough, I can do this! My cat is trainable.
Now, looking at Little Bit gazing back at me so lovingly, I'm ashamed of such disloyal thoughts. I reach out to caress his ears...he jumps down...looks back over his shoulder...meows loudly and then walks away as if to say, "I can't go outside...you can't pet me." Oh well, there's still eight hours remaining before our usual bedtime ritual once again generates such thoughts. Easing out of my chair, I cross to the patio door, bend down and pick up his sixteen-pound body. Hugging him against my chest, I say, "Love you, big guy," knowing that for good or bad...this silly disobedient little fellow has truely captured my heart and whether I'm able to train him to my ways or not, he'll always have a home.
There's nothing better than snuggling close to a cat's furry body on a rainy day, I muse while listening to the rhymatic drumroll of raindrops tapping back and forth across the stone patio. I chuckle, aware that my husband probably disagrees, however, in his absence, at this moment in time, on this rainy day, I listen to the sound of soft purring and acknowledge that my cat and I are perfect companions. Little Bit's annoying meowing is forgotten; his irratating habits forgiven.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
The following is a writing execise for our writer's group
Sorrow
The structure’s weathered hide rose sixty feet before joining the peaked roof, its tin now polished into shimmering sheets of silver by spring rains and winter snows that had come and gone during the last century. My gaze moved up and over age-warped boards, dropping unexpectantly into dark holes from which time and Ohio’s harsh elements had expelled the knots. Although my mind easily identified each void, my eyes wept as they struggled to escape from each tiny pool of darkness as if I were actually staring into the bullet holes scarring his uniform. I wondered how many hours he and his emptied M16 had lain beneath the pounding downpour of rain before being lifted from the blood-tinted mud.
Forcing my mind away from its morbid contemplation, I looked up at the hand-hawed oaken beams, then down at the foot-wide plants that covered the floor. I’d learned from my grandfather that he’d cut and then dragged these timbers by mules from the stand of hardwoods located on the back of the property. Well-loved horses, and 4-H steers, and laughing children had been passing through the twenty-foot, doublewide doors of this time-tested shelter for more years than I could remember and I had rightly expected there would be lots of smiling grandchildren, and great-grandchildren doing the same…long after I was gone.
As I stepped outside, a light rain began. I angrily swiped at tears, now mixed with raindrops that continued to stream down my cheeks. Tears and raindrops plopped across the tops of my dusty boots, leaving a trail of sorrow behind me as I stumbled toward the house; my clutched fist protecting his purple heart.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
She Walks in Grace
I watch her move in beauty and grace even though others may perceive her steps as halting, her body swinging to and fro in an irregular gait.
Her hands reach out to raise others up even as her fingers grip handles of steel crutches to hold her own body erect. These hands manipulate nature’s loom… expertly threading the warp and weave of her complex life; teaching, creating, sewing, quilting, cooking, painting, and writing. Whether caressing the pages of beloved books, or stroking piano keys to fill the air with music, her fingertips still reach out to gently touch both the people and animals she cares so much about.
Her blue eyes, I’m sure, have stared back down the long tunnel of time, seeing a past filled with pain and doctors whose scalpels cut deep. Yet these eyes also look kindly upon the present…gaze wistfully into the future…seeing beauty and worth in every person or animal destined to cross her path.
I imagine, since childhood, her ears have listened to countless mocking whispers and endured cruel cutting laughter yet have remained so sensitive they can discern anguished distress calls from those whose guarded pleas often go unheard and unnoticed by others.
Her voice has long remained silent, refusing to complain about her unfair lot in life, yet it is frequently heard speaking words of encouragement, hope, and praise for others whose walk through life has been less complicated than hers.
Her heart has no doubt ached with the knowledge that her life journey has been much more difficult than others yet unfailingly; it remains warm and caring, willing to offer love and friendship to those who seek her company.
As I did: She is my friend, Traci.
Her hands reach out to raise others up even as her fingers grip handles of steel crutches to hold her own body erect. These hands manipulate nature’s loom… expertly threading the warp and weave of her complex life; teaching, creating, sewing, quilting, cooking, painting, and writing. Whether caressing the pages of beloved books, or stroking piano keys to fill the air with music, her fingertips still reach out to gently touch both the people and animals she cares so much about.
Her blue eyes, I’m sure, have stared back down the long tunnel of time, seeing a past filled with pain and doctors whose scalpels cut deep. Yet these eyes also look kindly upon the present…gaze wistfully into the future…seeing beauty and worth in every person or animal destined to cross her path.
I imagine, since childhood, her ears have listened to countless mocking whispers and endured cruel cutting laughter yet have remained so sensitive they can discern anguished distress calls from those whose guarded pleas often go unheard and unnoticed by others.
Her voice has long remained silent, refusing to complain about her unfair lot in life, yet it is frequently heard speaking words of encouragement, hope, and praise for others whose walk through life has been less complicated than hers.
Her heart has no doubt ached with the knowledge that her life journey has been much more difficult than others yet unfailingly; it remains warm and caring, willing to offer love and friendship to those who seek her company.
As I did: She is my friend, Traci.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Beyond the Dark Edge of the Woods
This is the first section of my new book"
CONSQUENCES
Autumn leaves, their colors as vivid as feathers on a magnificent Phoenix in flight, seemed to dip and spin in perfect rhythm to the erratic tempo of the wind. Their dizzying dance swirled around Mist House; effectively transforming its hard-edged brick walls into a soft pastel blur yet the frenzied motion failed to obstruct the view of its Eastern windows. These glassy surfaces, as observant as dark pupils of human eyes, watched as the Grant family and their unusual visitors relaxed around the stone-ringed bonfire burning in the meadow below. At the same time, windows on the Northern side of the house directed curious stares into the silent woods but with no way to warn the family; they could neither remind the Gazer that she’d forgotten to repeat the binding spell, nor were they capable of intervening in the scene playing out beyond their reflective gaze.
Mist House could only wait as it had for almost two hundred years — in silence.
Bare limbs and branches stood out in sharp contrast to one extraordinary shadow as it detached from the base of a tall ash tree. For a few minutes, the amorphous shape slithered restlessly back and forth just inside the tree line and then, as if throwing a temper tantrum, it swelled into a seven-foot monstrosity. Seemingly infused with a roiling substance resembling filth-engorged oil, the specter thrust upwards from the ground, its dark silhouette twisting and jerking like a thing gone mad.
Then with a mighty lunge …
As the sun fell from the sky, primal instinct alerted the immortal that this new Gazer, a foolish young female, had forgotten to repeat the binding spell. No longer held against its will by words of magic, it glided across tree roots into thick grass…after two hundred years, the Mindcatcher was finally free…no longer held prisoner beyond the dark edge of the woods.
INTRODUCING THE GRANT FAMILY
Mist House had held the same regal pose since the Victorian era, its Eastern windows watching as each new dawn poured morning colors into the rushing stream below. Although built on property dropping away in a manicured slope, a hundred acres of old-timbered woods still edged its back and side yards in a broad arc. Its thick outer walls and four tall chimneys were composed of time-faded red brick while pale limestone lentils arched above each window like inquisitive eyebrows, perhaps contemplating what the future might bring.
An overhead canopy shadowed the filigree fanlight above the front entrance and keeping with that century’s tradition the door was built wide enough for a casket to pass through its doorframe without touching either side.
Decorative plaster carvings of ribbons, classical figures and urns adorned the upper walls and ceiling of the two-storied foyer. To the left, eight-foot pocket doors introduced visitors to twin parlors while on the right, an ornate stairway climbed in a graceful curve to the second floor. The long narrow foyer led into a formal dining room that connected to the brick-walled kitchen by an oak-paneled butler’s pantry. Antique oriental rugs floated vivid color and pattern over polished hardwood floors that stretched throughout the sixteen-room interior.
In the west parlor, eleven-year old Adain Grant cavorted before the center bay window like a court-trained jester summoned to perform before the king. Unaware of the pitch-black form flowing as silently as a shadow up the wide staircase, he pressed his chubby face against the glass in an attempt to attract his sister’s attention. Adain found it incredibly amusing that “Miss Perfect” was the one being punished for once — instead of him. Although his sister acted so goody-goody to everybody else, she never hesitated to clobber him — hard — whenever they were alone so he felt the silent pantomime was completely justified. Gesturing and posturing wildly, he continued trying to provoke her; something he wouldn’t dare do without the protective glass between them. Despite predicting the painful consequences of his actions Adain, true to his nature, couldn’t resist this rare opportunity for whenever he was in the same situation; Micah never missed a chance to make fun of him.
Upstairs, Ella Grant twisted and turned in the rumpled sheets of the canopied four-poster bed. An outstretched hand, appearing translucent in the warm glow of lamplight, griped the satin ivory border of the top sheet as if seeking its thin protection. Unable to come fully awake, she moaned in terror for her dream-self still fled through another of the nightmarish landscapes she’d traversed since childhood and because her dreams were always filled with threatening dark specters, she too, remained oblivious to the unnatural intruder.
Slithering onto the second floor hallway, the dark entity bypassed the master bedroom and although conscious of the woman’s presence behind the door, primordial instinct guided it purposefully along the corridor; this was not the female it hunted.
Next door in his studio, John Grant, brushed finishing touches on his latest oil painting and even though the silent interloper now surged along the antique hall runner like thick black ink, he was unmindful of its passing. His attention was focused solely on his newest canvas — the gray-shrouded representation of Mist House.
The unobserved intruder left no trace as it moved towards the room at the end of the hallway and only once was it necessary to move high on the wall to avoid a patch of bright sunlight. Reaching the end of the hallway, it oozed through the crack beneath the door and instantly transformed its inky appearance into the translucent form that allowed the creature to hide in plain sight. Stretching over the intricate design of the rug, it now looked no different than other non-threatening shadows scattered around the room. Long ago, this creature had compelled one of its captives to steal a child from this very room and since time had little meaning for
one so ancient, the Mindcatcher waited patiently — waited for the new daughter of Mist House.
In the backyard, sixteen-year old Micah Grant’s red sneakers, and the rake dragging behind, burrowed through dried leaves like miniature plows as she trudged to the edge of the yard. It’s not fair! I was only defending my friend, she stewed, feeling unjustly put-upon by this unfair punishment.
In an attempt to forget her misery, Micah stopped raking to gaze into the thick tapestry of autumn foliage, dark bare limbs, and branches. She took notice that the majority of trees appeared strong and healthy while others looked rather pathetic. Most of the sickly ones were dogwoods, their raggedy trunks wearing a greenish scale-like fungus. Gazing upwards, she also noted that in the taller hardwood trees, many of the higher limbs looked ragged as if the wind enjoyed playing energetic games of Twister among them while twisted branches and twigs, scattered around the trunks below, gave the macabre appearance of broken bones. Although she and her father had spent most of the summer clearing away underbrush, thick poison ivy vines and multi-flora rose bushes, some of the young saplings had new vines twisting around them in strangling chokeholds.
Micah had first noticed the sorry state of the woods shortly after moving into Mist House and wondered why the trees were so badly neglected. Upon learning that her ninety-year old grandmother had lived in the house alone, until her death, she guessed that chore had been delegated to the slipshod handyman her father had fired shortly after moving in.Turning away, Micah was amazed she could even work up enough energy to care about a bunch of stupid trees when her family was being torn apart. Often, when she really felt down, it was easy to equate her circumstances with the most wretched trees… sorrowful…broken. If, over the years, no one had cared enough to dutifully watch over these trees, it was reasonable that some looked so appalling. It was really sad — but why should she even care?
CONSQUENCES
Autumn leaves, their colors as vivid as feathers on a magnificent Phoenix in flight, seemed to dip and spin in perfect rhythm to the erratic tempo of the wind. Their dizzying dance swirled around Mist House; effectively transforming its hard-edged brick walls into a soft pastel blur yet the frenzied motion failed to obstruct the view of its Eastern windows. These glassy surfaces, as observant as dark pupils of human eyes, watched as the Grant family and their unusual visitors relaxed around the stone-ringed bonfire burning in the meadow below. At the same time, windows on the Northern side of the house directed curious stares into the silent woods but with no way to warn the family; they could neither remind the Gazer that she’d forgotten to repeat the binding spell, nor were they capable of intervening in the scene playing out beyond their reflective gaze.
Mist House could only wait as it had for almost two hundred years — in silence.
Bare limbs and branches stood out in sharp contrast to one extraordinary shadow as it detached from the base of a tall ash tree. For a few minutes, the amorphous shape slithered restlessly back and forth just inside the tree line and then, as if throwing a temper tantrum, it swelled into a seven-foot monstrosity. Seemingly infused with a roiling substance resembling filth-engorged oil, the specter thrust upwards from the ground, its dark silhouette twisting and jerking like a thing gone mad.
Then with a mighty lunge …
As the sun fell from the sky, primal instinct alerted the immortal that this new Gazer, a foolish young female, had forgotten to repeat the binding spell. No longer held against its will by words of magic, it glided across tree roots into thick grass…after two hundred years, the Mindcatcher was finally free…no longer held prisoner beyond the dark edge of the woods.
INTRODUCING THE GRANT FAMILY
Mist House had held the same regal pose since the Victorian era, its Eastern windows watching as each new dawn poured morning colors into the rushing stream below. Although built on property dropping away in a manicured slope, a hundred acres of old-timbered woods still edged its back and side yards in a broad arc. Its thick outer walls and four tall chimneys were composed of time-faded red brick while pale limestone lentils arched above each window like inquisitive eyebrows, perhaps contemplating what the future might bring.
An overhead canopy shadowed the filigree fanlight above the front entrance and keeping with that century’s tradition the door was built wide enough for a casket to pass through its doorframe without touching either side.
Decorative plaster carvings of ribbons, classical figures and urns adorned the upper walls and ceiling of the two-storied foyer. To the left, eight-foot pocket doors introduced visitors to twin parlors while on the right, an ornate stairway climbed in a graceful curve to the second floor. The long narrow foyer led into a formal dining room that connected to the brick-walled kitchen by an oak-paneled butler’s pantry. Antique oriental rugs floated vivid color and pattern over polished hardwood floors that stretched throughout the sixteen-room interior.
In the west parlor, eleven-year old Adain Grant cavorted before the center bay window like a court-trained jester summoned to perform before the king. Unaware of the pitch-black form flowing as silently as a shadow up the wide staircase, he pressed his chubby face against the glass in an attempt to attract his sister’s attention. Adain found it incredibly amusing that “Miss Perfect” was the one being punished for once — instead of him. Although his sister acted so goody-goody to everybody else, she never hesitated to clobber him — hard — whenever they were alone so he felt the silent pantomime was completely justified. Gesturing and posturing wildly, he continued trying to provoke her; something he wouldn’t dare do without the protective glass between them. Despite predicting the painful consequences of his actions Adain, true to his nature, couldn’t resist this rare opportunity for whenever he was in the same situation; Micah never missed a chance to make fun of him.
Upstairs, Ella Grant twisted and turned in the rumpled sheets of the canopied four-poster bed. An outstretched hand, appearing translucent in the warm glow of lamplight, griped the satin ivory border of the top sheet as if seeking its thin protection. Unable to come fully awake, she moaned in terror for her dream-self still fled through another of the nightmarish landscapes she’d traversed since childhood and because her dreams were always filled with threatening dark specters, she too, remained oblivious to the unnatural intruder.
Slithering onto the second floor hallway, the dark entity bypassed the master bedroom and although conscious of the woman’s presence behind the door, primordial instinct guided it purposefully along the corridor; this was not the female it hunted.
Next door in his studio, John Grant, brushed finishing touches on his latest oil painting and even though the silent interloper now surged along the antique hall runner like thick black ink, he was unmindful of its passing. His attention was focused solely on his newest canvas — the gray-shrouded representation of Mist House.
The unobserved intruder left no trace as it moved towards the room at the end of the hallway and only once was it necessary to move high on the wall to avoid a patch of bright sunlight. Reaching the end of the hallway, it oozed through the crack beneath the door and instantly transformed its inky appearance into the translucent form that allowed the creature to hide in plain sight. Stretching over the intricate design of the rug, it now looked no different than other non-threatening shadows scattered around the room. Long ago, this creature had compelled one of its captives to steal a child from this very room and since time had little meaning for
one so ancient, the Mindcatcher waited patiently — waited for the new daughter of Mist House.
In the backyard, sixteen-year old Micah Grant’s red sneakers, and the rake dragging behind, burrowed through dried leaves like miniature plows as she trudged to the edge of the yard. It’s not fair! I was only defending my friend, she stewed, feeling unjustly put-upon by this unfair punishment.
In an attempt to forget her misery, Micah stopped raking to gaze into the thick tapestry of autumn foliage, dark bare limbs, and branches. She took notice that the majority of trees appeared strong and healthy while others looked rather pathetic. Most of the sickly ones were dogwoods, their raggedy trunks wearing a greenish scale-like fungus. Gazing upwards, she also noted that in the taller hardwood trees, many of the higher limbs looked ragged as if the wind enjoyed playing energetic games of Twister among them while twisted branches and twigs, scattered around the trunks below, gave the macabre appearance of broken bones. Although she and her father had spent most of the summer clearing away underbrush, thick poison ivy vines and multi-flora rose bushes, some of the young saplings had new vines twisting around them in strangling chokeholds.
Micah had first noticed the sorry state of the woods shortly after moving into Mist House and wondered why the trees were so badly neglected. Upon learning that her ninety-year old grandmother had lived in the house alone, until her death, she guessed that chore had been delegated to the slipshod handyman her father had fired shortly after moving in.Turning away, Micah was amazed she could even work up enough energy to care about a bunch of stupid trees when her family was being torn apart. Often, when she really felt down, it was easy to equate her circumstances with the most wretched trees… sorrowful…broken. If, over the years, no one had cared enough to dutifully watch over these trees, it was reasonable that some looked so appalling. It was really sad — but why should she even care?
Saturday, April 18, 2009
prologue to my new novel
Snowflakes, as large and fluffy as downy feathers, seemed to dip and spin in perfect rhythm to the erratic tempo of the wind. Their dizzying dance swirled around Mist House; effectively transforming its hard-edged brick walls into a soft pastel blur yet the frenzied motion failed to obstruct the view of its Eastern windows. These glassy surfaces, as observant as dark pupils of human eyes, watched while the Grant family and their unusual visitors laughed and frolicked in the snow-filled meadow below. At the same time, windows on the Northern side of the house directed curious stares into the silent woods but with no way to warn the family; they could neither remind the Gazer that she’d forgotten to repeat the binding spell, nor were they capable of intervening in the scene playing out beyond their reflective gaze.
Mist House could only wait as it had for almost two hundred years — in silence.
Snow-burdened limbs and branches stood out in sharp contrast to one extraordinary shadow as it detached from the base of a tall ash tree. For a few minutes, the amorphous shape slithered restlessly back and forth just inside the tree line and then, as if throwing a temper tantrum, it swelled into a seven-foot monstrosity. Seemingly infused with a roiling substance resembling filth-engorged oil, the specter thrust upwards from the ground, its dark silhouette twisting and jerking like a thing gone mad.
Then with a mighty lunge …As the sun fell from the sky, primal instinct told the creature that the Gazer had forgotten to repeat the binding spell. No longer held against its will by magic words … after two hundred years, the Mindcatcher was finally free…no longer held prisoner beyond the dark edge of the woods.
Mist House could only wait as it had for almost two hundred years — in silence.
Snow-burdened limbs and branches stood out in sharp contrast to one extraordinary shadow as it detached from the base of a tall ash tree. For a few minutes, the amorphous shape slithered restlessly back and forth just inside the tree line and then, as if throwing a temper tantrum, it swelled into a seven-foot monstrosity. Seemingly infused with a roiling substance resembling filth-engorged oil, the specter thrust upwards from the ground, its dark silhouette twisting and jerking like a thing gone mad.
Then with a mighty lunge …As the sun fell from the sky, primal instinct told the creature that the Gazer had forgotten to repeat the binding spell. No longer held against its will by magic words … after two hundred years, the Mindcatcher was finally free…no longer held prisoner beyond the dark edge of the woods.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
From my Studio
I'm new to blogging so haven't thought a lot about what I want to say however, I'm just going to introduce myself. My name is Linda and I'm a visual artist, fiction writer, event planner and give private art lessons in my studio. I received permission from the Mayor of Zanesville, our county commissioners and ODOT to close down our historical Y-bridge (the only one like it) for a two-day arts festival in August so planning this event keeps me pretty busy. I have 15 volunteer committees working to plan and facilitate this exciting event that will, hopefully, bring tourists to our city and infuse money into our local economy as well as let people know the quality of the many artists working in the Zanesville area.
My large paintings are mostly oils and depict serious contemporary issues adversely affecting females. I also paint fantasy, landscapes, illustrate scenes from my stories, as well as capture illusive moments from my past. I'm currently working on a series of nudes for an exhibit with a fellow artist.
I've completed five young adult fiction novels and another novel (mainstream) that tells the story of a young gay artist growing up in the mountains and the reclusive mentor who not only teaches him to paint but also encourages him to go into the world to seek his true identity while persuing a career as a professional artist...Linda Regula
My large paintings are mostly oils and depict serious contemporary issues adversely affecting females. I also paint fantasy, landscapes, illustrate scenes from my stories, as well as capture illusive moments from my past. I'm currently working on a series of nudes for an exhibit with a fellow artist.
I've completed five young adult fiction novels and another novel (mainstream) that tells the story of a young gay artist growing up in the mountains and the reclusive mentor who not only teaches him to paint but also encourages him to go into the world to seek his true identity while persuing a career as a professional artist...Linda Regula
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