Breakfast at Whistlecreig

I haven't really given you a broad piece of Vivi & Farnham to digest since first announcing Anon, Sir, Anon. I suppose you will be wanting chunks now and then like I've done with all the rest of my stories. Here's the thing: I'm not certain how much I'll be able to share (as far as large pieces) once the mystery gets rolling. You can never be over-careful with those things. This bit, however, is the perfect way to introduce you to two of my principle characters and their personalities, ways they interact with other people, etc. Also, it gives you to the tone of my novel which is decidedly cozy-Wodehousian-with-a-bit-of-dry-Christie-for-good-measure. It is going to be serious in parts, but the overall tone is what you see below. Enjoy this bit...it relaxed me to write it. Oh. And to reward you for your patience in reading all the way through (and for any comments/critiques you might want to provide afterward) I present you with two sketches of Vivi & Farnham. They are probably not good likenesses of my people, and they're not very good sketches at any rate, but they are inspirational to me and that's why I made them.

Farnham watched his niece at the stove, fascinated at the way she appeared to have taken up residence in the kitchen. He’d always heard that women transform a home but he’d never liked the idea. Now, however, it appeared that “transformation” meant much in the way of well-cooked food, dustless furniture and someone to talk to, not--as his fellow bachelors were fond of saying--dumping a chap on his head, tossing his cigar boxes, and snipping his curtains to fashionable shreds.

Genevieve wasn’t a pretty girl--her mouth was too small and her nose too snub. Farnham knew that but somehow as he watched his niece moving through the motions of making breakfast without a hint of the sense of imminent crisis with which he cooked, he thought he’d at last found a woman who didn’t set him on edge.

But, “See that you don’t burn the rashers,” was the only compliment he dished out.

Genevieve took up a fork and turned the bacon in the pan till it gave a maddened sizzle. “There’s no worry it’ll burn--it is all fat and no meat. Where do you buy your bacon?”

“Garridy’s.”

“I shall buy it at Hilton’s from now on.”

“Why?”

“Their pigs look happier.”

Farnham didn’t have an argument for this - he’d wouldn’t know what a happy pig looked like. “Are you my housekeeper now?”

“Someone has to do it, dear.”

He resented this Mab for calling him “dear” in that motherly tone. “I have Allen for that.”

“Allen is a butler.” She smiled that curious smile of hers where the left side of her mouth quirked upward and removed a tray of puddings from the oven. “And butlers resent housework.”

“He’s never complained.”

“They never do, but they retaliate in a million different ways. I know, dear, I took over household decisions for Mama on my twenty-third birthday. Ours invariably rubbed Father’s black shoes with brown polish until we discovered that he’d been made to cook muffins for breakfast every Thursday. Put him right off his tea and the inner peace of the household was intricately bungled till I figured out where things had gone awry..”

The smell of the frying bacon and hot puddings knotted Farnham’s stomach, but from hunger or those bang ulcers he couldn’t tell; the thought of eating meat turned his stomach to a hotbed of pain. “I don’t think I can manage bacon this morning.”

“Heavens no. This is for me.” Genevieve forked the crispy rashers onto her plate and lifted a pudding from its tin bed, settling it beside two fried eggs.

Farnham resented girls with healthy appetites. “Where’s mine?”

She nodded at the stove. “Just there. I’ll fix it for you in a tick.”

“Can’t I have a pudding?”

“Not with your ‘bang ulcers’. Yes, you’ve been speaking aloud. I’m putting you on a strict diet of porridge and camomile tea with perhaps a bit of scone if you’re quite an angel.”

He drew himself up. “Farnham of Whistlecreig is never an angel.”

“Then you’ll have to do without scones.”

“Bang it.”

“Now about this murder.”

“Yes, I was wondering when we’d get to speak about that.” He rubbed his palms together and felt the pain in his stomach fading as anticipation of exploring the thing rose. “We’ll pop round to have a look at the body after breakfast, shan’t we?”

“Your call. I’m not experienced in these matters. What is the proper ettiquette? Wait until noon and stay no longer than ten minutes, or don’t wear white after Michaelmas?”

“Do you know you’re a menace? ‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late’.”

“You know best, dear.”

“Don’t call me that.” His fist clenched almost against his will and shook out his fingers with a shaky laugh. “Sorry.”

She made a face. “No, I’m sorry - I had almost settled in my role of maiden aunt before I was uprooted and sent here and I’m used to sweetening my conversation to suit fretful children. Well, if you are to tell me what to call you, I’m afraid I must have my preferences too.”

“You don’t want to be called Genevieve?”

“Do you like it?”

He was shocked to see a shy, girlish look flit over her face as if she wanted to hear what he thought--really wanted to hear. “Oh...umm...it’s a fine name. Fine. If you like it, that is. If you don’t like it then...we’ll call you something else.”

“Vivi.”

“Sorry?”

“Call me Vivi, please. No one does. It’s always ‘My eldest, Genevieve’ or worse yet, ‘Genevieve - the capable one.’ I’m tired of being capable - it means they’ve given up on me. Call me Vivi.”

He saw the set of her jaw and the weariness behind her eyes and since he was not entirely heartless, he guessed the story of the battles she’d fought over the labels. “Vivi then.”

They had a hum of silence then--an absence of conversation, rather--filled with the homely, comfortable sounds of bacon fat hissing in the cooling skillet and silverware against china as Vivi set out a few dishes on the table.

“I didn’t know what dishes you usually used but I like the china.”

“As do I. Family heirloom.”

“Really?” She smiled and set his silverware beside his bowl of porridge.

The steam curled upward and filled Farnham’s nose with the wholesome scent of oats and milk. This, he thought, his stomach could handle, and it was nothing like the clods of rocky oatmeal Allen made sometimes. “Shall we pray?”

“Mmm.”

Vivi folded her hands and bowed her head. Sunlight from the window behind her made an aura over her head till she looked like the paintings of angelic children saying prayers before bed that he’d seen sometimes in the cheaper stores. All this Farnham took in at a glance, for he was accustomed to seeing and digesting a thing in as long as it took most men to straighten their ties.

He closed his eyes and let the rare peace fall over his shoulders. “Dear Lord, for our food we thank Thee. For our comfort, our home, our lives. May we never forget to serve Thee with our hearts and souls, and may you guide our footsteps this day. Amen.”

As Farnham dolloped honey on his porridge, he reflected on the beauty of rote prayers. Certainly he made up his own prayers--constantly--but there was a steadiness in the repetition of the same words he’d prayed every meal for the last forty years that the made-up ones lacked. It was the difference between stepping into a church under construction and a cathedral that had stood six hundred years, steeped in worship.

“The murder victim--who was she?” Vivi asked, bringing Farnham’s mind back round to the day’s business.

He grunted and flicked his napkin. “Most bodies don’t come with calling cards. How should I know?”

“Doesn’t anyone carry identification? I’d hate to be murdered and no one know it was me.”

“Remind me to get Allen to sew a label on your coat-sleeve.”

Vivi forked into her pudding and ate it while Farnham watched, idly swirling his porridge. He was thinking about what the Police Inspector had told him. “Vivi...it’s...not going to be pretty.”

“I should think not; it’s a murder.”

Farnham slapped the surface of his porridge with the back of the spoon. “Her face is...well...it’s quite...”

“Quite what?”

“Bashed in.”

Vivi chewed and swallowed then wiped her lips with her napkin. “Poor darling.”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay here?--As your uncle I want to protect you, you’ll understand, but I’m not demanding you stay.”

She smiled at him sweetly. “You’re a chivalrous old goose, but I want to come. Maybe I can be of some use.”

He wouldn’t go that far, but there might be something after all in what she said about butlers feeling resentment when forced to do work out of their proper line--Allen might not take kindly to toadying for a lady. “All right,” he said, and took a spoonful of porridge with the same dutifulness with which he took castor oil. “You can come along.”

“Eat it all. I’m going upstairs to primp and when I come back I expect the bowl to be empty.”

Farnham sighed. “Are you my nursemaid now?”

“Aren’t I? I think it was in the job description.”

Bang it. The girl was right.

And that, dear people, is your first goodly chunk of Anon, Sir, Anon. Now, I give you the sketches I promised in wretched photo-quality because I was too lazy to scan them:

 

This is obviously Vivi. She's labeled. She's not terribly attractive but there's something approachable about her, wouldn't you say? She's short as well--a fact mentioned elsewhere but that you might want to know.

 

And obviously this is Vivi & Farnham upon Vivi's arrival and subsequent appearance in the Tribunal at Whistlecreig.

 Pardon the absolutely wretched quality of these images. I just thought you might like to see what they were like. And I do hope you enjoyed the bit I call "Breakfast at Whistlecreig". Toodle-loo!

"The Dragon's Heir"

I know I said I wouldn't write anything this week, but this came fairly easily and I've been wanting to write another short story for some time. Thus it is I give you,

"The Dragon's Heir"

 by Rachel Heffington

"And have you produced an heir, Henry?"
I cringed in my spot near the window, wishing I had the ability of a chameleon and could vanish on command into the pink roses in the drapes. It was the yearly question, the yearly humiliation. A question without answer, a riddle without end. Smoothing my skirt and staring into my teacup, I listened to the trumpet-like voice barrage my father with the same question.
Father bristled, mother shrank back in her chair, pale and worn and embarrassed. The rest of my extended family paused--stopped their card-playing, their piano-tinkling, their light chatter. The tension was palpable and it sent the blood flooding to my cheeks.
"There is no heir, as of yet, Uncle," my father said, and a world of reasonless shame weighed his words down and anchored them, shadow-wise in the room.
"What? Who has no hair?" my Aunt Honoria trumpeted like the tremendously deaf elephant she was in her voluminous petticoats and ribbons.
My uncle, Baron Herschelheim snorted like an angry bull and stalked across the floor, flicking his coattails behind him. "No heir? Nonsense. What'd you marry her for if she isn't capable of giving you children?"
"Uncle!" I hadn't realized I had spoken, and when the small, sallow face whipped around to scrutinize me, I pulled away.
"Well? What were you saying?"
I cast a desperate, pleading glance at my cousin, Fallwell, who lounged on the settee by my side. He and I were the best of chums, and my heart-words told me he was something dearer to me. Surely Fallwell could not sit by listening to my family being insulted in such a way?
Uncle Herschel, as we called him, stormed a step nearer and his breath whizzed thunder-like through his nostrils. "That's right. She did give birth to you, didn't she, Alisandra? Not much to look at, are you?"
I stood and Fallwell touched my trembling hand, his kind blue eyes imploring me to take courage. "I am not beautiful like my other cousins, sir," I said, and somehow with Fallwell's fingers on mine the admission didn't hurt as it usually did. "I may not be accomplished, or graceful--"
"She speaks the truth, she does!" Uncle Herchel's voice grated on my ear and passion flamed up in my heart.
"I speak the truth when I say that sons are not the only cherished children--the ability to bear children is not the only thing a woman is loved for. Some men, Uncle Herschel, have nobler, deeper, stronger character than to think along those lines."
Uncle Herschel laughed, and tears of frustration filled my eyes, longing to cool the heat inside me--but I would not let them. Uncle Herschel would think himself the victor if I cried.
"I have no need to have noble, deep, or strong character, niece." And the way he licked the word as he spat it forth suggested a niece was a kind of vermin, despised as a cockroach or head-lice. "I have money, and I want to see that my money will not die with your father and be entailed away--that it will continue in the line of our Family and live unto posterity long after I am gone."
"Who speaks of Prosperity?" Aunt Honoria bellowed again, and she stamped her little fat, slippered feet like a restless, ruffled, pachyderm.
Through my tears I saw the color ebbing and flowing into mother's cheeks as this duel for her honor continued. I was nowise fit to be a soldier in this type of war--I, who seldom spoke to anyone at family events, save Fallwell who made me speak--but I could not sit by while my mother was thus assaulted. "Then I will tell you, Uncle, the truth."
Several of my women-kin gasped and fans fluttered as maiden ears were covered and dowager eyes snapped at my boldness. I turned to Mother for permission, and she bowed her head, humbled and humiliated, but giving me the assent I required to continue. I stepped away from Fallwell's hand--it fed me courage, indeed it did, and loathe was I to leave his calming presence, but this was a battle I must fight on my own. Dragons cannot be slain except by a single victor.
My silken skirt swished across Uncle Herschel's polished, hard, wealthy boots. They were so like him I almost smiled. I stood on the red cabbage-rose in the very center of the carpet as I did every year when Father asked me to recite Cobbler Keezar's Vision for the family. The familiar clammy sensation enveloped me, but my eyes sought Mother's face, and my heart keened to erase that horrid grey color on her cheeks.
"There was a son, as you know, Uncle Herschel. He was a year younger than I, and well may you have had an heir were it not for a certain message you sent to Father. You summoned us--all of us--for a banquet at your manor, that you might show us off to your famous connexions. I was only four years old, but do not think I forgot that evening."
Uncle Herschel's countenance turned purple with rage, and I ground the toes of my kid-boots into the carpet, seeking comfort from the familiar give of the floor-board below. I knew every inch of this dear old house and loved it for its quirks. The fan-fluttering and Uncle Herschel's laboured breathing continued. I raised my eyes again and looked straight at him. "The roads were icy, and no sensible person would have attempted to travel, but we all know you have your descendents pegged beneath your will like slaves. Father would not disappoint you and risk being disinherited. We clambered into the carriage, wrapped well against the cold. You know the rest of the story. The carriage slid off the road and down an embankment. Little Wilhelm died. Mother was injured badly, but no one thought of her in the calamity of the sole heir's death." I stopped and stepped forward onto the parquet floor. Uncle Herschel blanched as I neared. My spine crackled with fear and disgust for this creature before me. "It was in trying to please you, Uncle, that Mother's son died. And it was in that accident that it became impossible for her to have children. It is your fault sir, and did we not all fear you so, you would have learned the bitter truth long ago."

The room swirled around me and faint voices mingled with the vague scent of potpourri from the crystal bowl beside me. I swayed, stumbled forward, then felt Fallwell's arms around me, and his dear voice telling me I had done valiantly. I relaxed in his strong grip and laid my head heavily on his blue, woolen-clad shoulder.

The dragon had been slain and I was the victor.

Nazarene Noon: a short story

Sorry for the unexplained absence this week! I was counseling at a girls' camp and had no internet access, for which I was very grateful, as it could not be a distraction! It was such a blessed time and so busy, but I had just enough time to scribble this piece about a Bible character the speaker spoke on. Tell me how you like it! :)

"Nazarene Noon"

 By Rachel Heffington

Mary took the earthen jug into her work-worn hands and turned it over. She felt the familiar warmth of the sun-soaked clay, the same ridges on the rim that had always been there. She smiled--an expression laced with tears--and marveled that the jug could remain unchanged after...Mary put her hand to her belly as a movement, gentle and soft as the spring's first butterfly, reminded her of all that had changed. 
She sighed and ducked through the low door-frame into the hot Israeli afternoon. The cistern in the garden, crowded over with a riot of almond-blossoms from Papa's tree, was where it had all begun. Mary approached the well with hushed footsteps, half-fearing, and almost expecting the angel to be there. She had never been more frightened in all her fifteen years, she recalled. First the blinding, flaming light, then the deep voice speaking in tones far richer than any Abba could coax out of his lyre. Mary had thrown herself to the ground at the first sound of the awesome voice. He told her not to fear, and all at once a deep peace, more encompassing and filling than any she'd ever known flowed through ever fiber in her being.
Then the angel, Gabriel, told her things so wondrous they could not be true, or so it seemed. Mary smiled as she felt the fluttering again. They could not be true, but they were true. She knew that more wholly than ever after the angel had spoken.
It was strange, of course, and Mary felt she must ask the question that crowded her tongue before it asked itself. "How can this be, since I do not know a man?"
The angel's countenance brightened with laughter till it shone, no longer like a flame, but with the joyful light of the year's first snow. Then the angel told her the strangest thing yet: the Holy Spirit would come upon her and overshadow her and, well....this.
Mary glanced up at the sun and rubbed her belly. "How are you, my King?" she whispered, then giggle as a tiny kick replied.
She filled her earthen jug with haste, spilling a little on the dusty ground, and returned to the house. She must leave early tomorrow morning to visit her cousin, Elizabeth, of whom the angel had also spoken.
Her cousin, pregnant? Elizabeth--with her wealth of iron-grey hair and deep smile lines, her calloused hands and bent back--to have a son? But if she herself, a virgin yet, was with child, who was she to question it? After all, stranger things had--Mary broke off there. She wasn't sure anything stranger had happened. She would stay with Elizabeth till her cousin's time came--three months at least. She would miss Abba and their quiet home, and Joseph. Oh, how she would miss Joseph! He of the warm brown eyes and gentle smile, the big strong hands that could do such delicate carpentry. Joseph of the courageous heart and just nature, who treated her with love and tenderness! How the news of her pregnancy would hurt him!
Mary bowed her head, the folds of her mantle falling forward and her thick, dark hair almost covering her face. She clasped her hands across her heart and rocked.
"Oh Lord," she sobbed, "Let it be unto me as Thou hast said! If I am never to be Joseph's wife I will not cry against Thee! But oh, do not let me despise me for what has come upon me!" Mary lifted her head and dried her years. Abba would be home soon and she knew he would be hungry.
She mixed flour and olive oil in a bowl, and stirred a pot of stew simmering on the fire. Should she tell Abba tonight? No, she would keep this news from her family a short while longer. She must tell Joseph in just the right way. By the time she returned from Elizabeth's house her condition would be too plain to be concealed.
What a day for the Galilean gossips! But God would not forsake her--she knew that. And despite the bewilderment and anxiety, the deep peace flowed again, and Mary smiled, knowing she was indeed blessed among all women.

"A Roguish Scheme"...a short story

Isn't it vexing to write up a character you find yourself extremely attracted toward? :P I seem to have a knack for doing that. I fell in love with this fellow I scribbled up in a random moment this evening...I can't condone all his advice, as he's rather a foolish fellow and not quite so straight-forward as I would prefer. But heavens! Our characters can't be perfect all the time-- and as I have already shared, I have a soft spot for all black sheep and scape-graces....not to mention Scottish accents. :P Oh, and the tea bit was not meant to be a copy of Abigail Hartman's treatise on tea-drinking characters--it was entirely original and was only natural, this being set in Great Britain. :) It wasn't until I re-read what I had written that the remembrance of her post even came to me. (And the part about the pen was a bit of real life...I wrote this story with such a pen. :P)
I sat down this evening in a writing mood, though not inspired to work on my W.I.P. and wrote the first sentence, then let my pen wander where it would. I came up with this, and a newborn love for Angus Dartmore:

"A Roguish Scheme"

Also entitled: "Can't Live With 'em, Can't Live Without 'em"

 By Rachel Heffington

        "You wouldn't!"
       "Oh, wouldn't I?" The question was put in saucy tones and with a roguish smile.
       "But...we can't!" I stopped beating my pen against the pad of paper--a nervous habit I have--and frowned as I read McKennit Funeral Home on the side. What a morbid idea, giving out such pens to the living.
       "Listen, Kathleen." My captor leaned forward and his blue eyes sparkled like--oh why did my cousin have to be so charming? In his hands I was powerless. "You know you like my little scheme," he finished.
        I scoffed. "You little scheme indeed--Angus, you've concocted a plot to pull the wool over the eyes of every person this side of the Cork and Kerry mountains."
       Angus tossed his head, dashing his reddish brown hair off his forehead. He whistled the remainder of the song I had alluded to.
       "Aye, Angus." I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug and nodded. "You are a bold deceiver."
       "And you love me anyway?"
       I threw a balled-up napkin at his head by way of a reply, and he laughed. No one could laugh like Angus Dartmore.
       "So you think I can proceed as planned?" he pressed.
       "I think you can plan on proceeding straight to the stocks once everyone finds out who Miss Kilkenny really is."
        Angus rubbed his chin and his cheeks dimpled. "That would be a pity, for my head is much to fine to be imprisoned, don't you think?"
                                      *             *             *           *             *
       The following morning I awoke to the incessant rapping of a pair of knuckles on the door. Angus had the Scotsman's trade-mark stubbornness about him--even his knuckles were determined.
       I rolled out of bed and gathered my auburn curls in a hasty ponytail.
       "Hold on, Angus," I grumbled as I shuffled into the hall and unlocked the door of my flat.
       Angus bounced in and planted a brotherly kiss on my cheek. "Kathleen--er, Miss Kilkenny--how are you?"
       "Still not sure this is a good idea."
       We ambled into the kitchen and I filled my kettle at the tap, then set it to boil. I fished four bags of P.G. Tips from an old tin and tossed them into a teapot.
       "Coom noo, lass." Angus laid his hand on my shoulder and thickened his burr--he knew I loved to hear it. "Ye're a daft limmer if ye willnae goo along wi' me plan. All I'll hae ye do is write tae some o' the newspapers as the famous author, Kathleen Kilkenny, tellin' them ye're coomin' tae town."
       "But Angus, there is no famous author named Kathleen Kilkenny." I put my hands on my hips and tried to defy his merry blue gaze and the cheeky lift of his chin.
       "And how many people will know that? Kath, your writings are much finer than any folk give them credit for being. Act like you're famous and the doors of every house in Edinburgh will be flung open wide to you."
       I rolled my eyes. Angus was a silly, dear, mischievous boy, but there was on problem--I was far from being a famous author. The extent of my literary prestige was a poem I had written as a ten year-old that had long held honored court with family pictures on my mum's refrigerator.
       I rolled up the sleeves of my pajamas. "The problem with your brilliant scheme is that I'm not famous."
       "You are to me."
       There Angus went, trying to sway me with his darned cuteness. Shame was, it worked.
       "Fine, Mr. Dartmore."  I put on my British aristocracy accent. "I concede to write to your common-folk at the newspaper and perhaps deign to give an interview."
       The kettle shrieked on the stove top, warning me of the imminent danger of its bubbling over at the least provocation. I poured the boiling water into the pot so the tea would steep to perfection--thick and black.
       "You know the trouble with you, Kathleen?"
       "What's that?" I stared at an old snapshot of me and Angus that was taped to the periwinkle wall of the kitchen. A stream of golden light with dust motes like pixie-dust floated through the window. A fragrant swirl of steam encircled my face and wrapped me in warm tendrils of contentment.
       Angus beat a tattoo with a spoon against the sugar bowl. "The trouble with you is that you don't trust me enough."
      I laughed, breaking the trance of sunshine, steam, and daydreams. I poured the tea into the two Prince Albert teacups and set them on the table.
        "The usual?" I asked.
       Angus winked and crossed his arms. I plunked three sugar cubes into the cup, then stirred in a splash of cream and four dashes from the vinegar cruet. As I did so I recalled the first time I had gone through the ceremony of making Angus's tea--I hadn't believed he was serious about the vinegar.
       "Don't look so dumfounded, Kathleen. Mayhap most lads don't take their tea so, but it's my potion for charm."
       I shook my head at him. "The sugar sweetens your disposition, the cream makes you smooth and the vinegar keeps you saucy?"
       Angus had flashed his dear smile and beamed approval. "Crizackly, cousin," he said, and downed the entire cup.

       My thoughts snapped back to present day and I sucked on a slice of lemon as I regarded my handsome cousin across the expanse of blue-checked tablecloth. "Just why should I trust you, Angus Dartmore?"
Angus put one finger under my chin and forced my eyes to meet the astonishing blue of his own. "Have I ever done you wrong, Kathleen?"
       No, he hadn't. I sighed and my eyes wandered involuntarily to my pen and notebook lying nearby. Life was crazy alongside Angus Dartmore, but his was for certain a charmed existence.

15-day Challenge: Day Three: First Times, and The Bird Woman

15-day Writing Challenge Day Three: {First Times}

Oh mercy. You had ask this, didn't you? I must admit that until I was at least twelve, I hadn't the slightest inclination toward being a writer. Well...I had dabbled in poetry. Ahem. I can recall one very silly verse that I blush over now.
"I think my favorites books
Are Where The Sidewalk Ends
Or Where the Pigeon Flew...
How about you?"

Oh puh-leese. This is *so* utterly ridiculous. I believe it was an attempt at a tribute to Shel Silverstein...but I'm sorry. I never ever ever had or have since heard of a book called Where The Pigeon Flew.
And then there was Molly Ann McGee and something about bugs in candy or sweets...? *Unpleasant Shiver* When I was twelve I moved on from there to my first novel: A Year With the Manders, for lack of a better title. I can assure you that anything that is possible in the way of illness, accidents, calamities, scrapes, and confusion happened to the two main characters. *Slumps on desk and pounds head*. Really, it was a horrible hash of vague remembrances of Anne Shirley, Laura Ingalls, and my own budding sentimentality. Of course I had a French girl in there, and since I didn't know any other French names, she was christened Antoinette. :P There was something about Scarlet Fever (a must for any self-respecting novel, I then thought) and a death...or two....and an attempt at mystery...and a week home alone, and various other silly adventures. I had no concept of plot or characters or anything, and I prefer not to recall it.
It really wasn't until my Seasonings story that my writing took wings. :)
*Phew* glad that terrible "first-time-phase" is over. :P Now you may read a little vignette about my morning at the market and a lesson I learned...

"The Bird Woman"
By Rachel Heffington

It's noon at the Saturday farmer's market. I've been here selling our produce and baked goods since seven, running off of a twelve hour day of preparation, four hours of sleep, and a slice of zucchini bread. Not much to go on.
I start zoning out, trying to ignore the intense pain in the bottoms of my feet, the stiffness of my back, and the all-too honest reality of the fact that the day's not over. It's been a good day, despite my exhaustion. Most of the baking we slaved over yesterday has sold. Many of the gorgeous flowers in the five-gallon buckets lining our stall have been wrapped in wet paper and carted off by proud little girls, polished moms, or comfy grandmothers.
In my half-comatose state I hear Dad peddling the remainder of our baked goods: "Ma'am, please step over here. I've got something for you--something I'm sure you've never tasted. Italian herb bread made with fresh herbs, not dried. The flavor's unique--much stronger than what you've ever tasted." He pauses, sample plate in hand and gestures to me. "It's a new thing Rachel's trying. She's modest, but she makes a great loaf of bread."
I muster a smile, commanding the corners of my mouth to curve up. I've heard the spiel so many times I could quote it backwards, forwards and upside down. I blush each time I hear it, for my personality is not that of a salesman. I would quietly offer samples, and quietly sell the loaves here and there. But I have to hand it to Dad--we're almost sold out, thanks to his efforts.
I drag my donkey-ing thoughts back to the market, rattling off a string of information to a wondering customer. These people are blessings--if we didn't have them we'd never sell anything--but they have to be educated. Many don't know an apple from a cucumber.
Over the morning I've become adept at managing to appear interested in the stories our customers have to tell. They've ranged from the strange--"I'm gluten intolerant so I can't have any baked goods. If I wanted to commit suicide I'd walk through a bakery eating everything, then run across the street to a pasta shop!"--to the downright weird--"Your kidney filters a half-cup of blood every hour."
I wonder, through a haze of vague thoughts, why that piece of information is necessary to relate to an exhausted seller of vegetables, but I remember just in time that my job is to be pleasant and helpful. I straighten my back and tuck the loose strands of hair back into my sagging up-do.
The last customers have dwindled away toward the other stands, onto more engaging company. The napkin covering the sample-plate flutters off, and for the hundredth time this morning I replace it, pinning it down with a crumb-spattered knife. I glance at a man's watch as he fingers through our basket of cayenne peppers, red as the blood filtering through my kidney--strange thought, that. I grimace and try to corral my thoughts into something worth thinking. Only a couple of minutes have inched by. Still the better part of an hour to go.
And then I see her.
If I had not bothered to look down I would have missed her completely--a tiny old woman, frailer than frail, and only attaining the towering height of four feet with the help of a pair of black high-heels. They always remind me of the Wicked Witch of the West, only cheerful and spry. I don't know her real name--I call her the Bird Woman.
Her keen blue eyes open wide as she approaches, and a real smile lights my face as I catch sight of her lime-green ankle socks. Lime green, and ankle socks? On a little old lady who is nearer ninety than anyone I've seen for a long while?
"I like your sign," she says in a chirruping voice, like a merry little cricket. "The Lord is good."
At first I am confused, and then I recall our farm's verse: "Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good."
Dad understands first. "He is good indeed. If He wasn't, we wouldn't be here."
The Bird Woman's eyes twinkle. "If He wasn't, I wouldn't have these!" She shakes a bag of peaches bought from a stand down the way and laughs. Such a chirping, dry, sparrow-like laugh I've never heard.
I grin and uncover the sample plate, letting the napkin blow across the table. "Would you like to taste a Welsh cake?"
"Now what is a Welsh cake?" She pricks her way along the table in her patent-leather heels and stops at the canister of Welsh Cakes. Her head barely reaches the top, and I can just see her round blue eyes.
"It's a sort of cross between a shortbread and a tea-cake...it's great with coffee or hot tea." I give the description with more enthusiasm than I've felt all morning. The Bird Woman is such a novelty.
"And do they keep well?"
"Yes, they do well if you keep them in foil."
"Oh!" It's more of a chirp than an exclamation, and she flutters a little to the side. She pulls a little wallet from some pocket in her lime-green shirt and lays it on the counter. Her gnarled fingers, decorated with several gold rings extract a few bills from the inside. She flicks through them like a finch picking through a pile of crumbs. "One, two, three! I'll take three dollars' worth!" Her eyes crinkle up and she giggles and cheeps as she hands the bills to me.
As I dole her cakes into a paper bag and hand them across the table, I feel a queer sensation as if I was feeding seed-cakes to a little starling. The Bird Woman tucks the cakes away, smooths her white, wavy hair and flutters off to the next stand. As I watch her departure I realize I'm still smiling. The Bird Woman has reminded me of a most important truth. The Lord is good.

Indefinable, and Day 2 of Writing Challenge

To begin with I give you Day Two of the 15-day Writing Challenge! :)

Day Two: Your Favorite Male Author

Why, oh why, oh why must these question be so difficult?! I cannot choose just one favorite male author. It's a physical impossibility, I think! :P But I suppose I can limit it to two:

1. Charles Dickens--his brilliancy never ceases to amaze me. The masterful way in which he sketches the foils and idiosyncrasies of his characters and Victorian society is stunning. He has a wicked sense of humor...he's entirely quoteable. :) And I can say I know him pretty well, having made my way through several of his novels:

Little Dorrit

Bleak House

Nicholas Nickleby

The Chimes

The Cricket on the Hearth

The Christmas Carol

Great Expectations

Barnaby Rudge

A Tale of Two Cities

And David Copperfield, which I am almost 1/2 way through. :)

2. Close second behind Dickens is C.S. Lewis because....he's amazing. His writing says the things my heart longs to find words to say. I have never read a more beautiful allegory than The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Some of the times I yearn for Heaven most is when I'm reading the ending bliss of The Last Battle. It's beautiful, and reflects the relationship Lewis had with his Lord and Savior. :)

And now I find I must leave you on a bit of a sober note, for last night I was pen-slain. Ahem. ;) I read something that completely challenged my opinion of my own writing and caused me to wonder if I was a writer after all. The only remedy for that was, I felt, to write about it. And so I did. :) You can read the musings of my bewildered pen below. And though I am not quite so gloriously dismayed this morning, I thought I'd let you read it, that it might encourage or sympathize with one of my dear readers. ~Rachel

“Indefinable: a confession of beauteous pain”

By Rachel Heffington

I sit down to the computer and pull my chair closer to the desk. It is a new writer’s blog—new to me, a least—which I am visiting. Scrolling through the recent posts, my heart warms to this author. “She has good imagery and technique,” I think in my settled, complacent mind. I click on a page marked “writing” and prepare to read a cute paragraph or two about her literary endeavors—something like the page I have on my own blog.

I read her descriptions, then settle myself in to scan through her sample chapter. The first words capture my attention. Beautifully written, neatly-turned sentences.

All at once the sheer talent of this author hits me with blinding force. Her descriptions are perfect, her imagery flawless. I am captivated by the bewitching flash of her turns of phrase and my heart aches with…a feeling indefinable.

Indefinable, why? Because I have realized, with shocking, white illumination that my pen, my mind, my imagination is too feeble to even define the sensation, let alone attain such splendor.

The hour’s work I had been so proud of yesterday shrivels, pales, and wizens into a shabby child’s picture-book challenging a leather-bound, gilt-edged novel. I shrink from this realization as one does from a celestial light.

This writer’s words are beautiful, and yet painful to me. Like one who tremblingly steals a glance at a sight too lovely for mortals, I continue to read the singing lines, the shimmering prose.

How can I ever think I am a writer after seeing such an example? My heart throbs at the thought that my beloved passion already has one who can serve it better than I myself can.

And yet, the pain is purifying; it has touched the deepest chords of my heart, and evoked a melody pregnant with longing. Longing to be a better writer, longing to spin such webs of enchantment over my readers.

I can see I have only dabbled on the surface of the great depths this writer has dredged. My words are pretty and quaint, hers beautiful and knowing.

I will never be such a writer, will I? And yet a few drops of the purifying light cling to my heart like the fairy-lamps of the fireflies in the many-hued dusk. The ache her words awaken is not a new ache. I am familiar with the sensation, for it keens in my chest when I gaze on the evening sunset cupped in the hands of the pines—a goblet of golden light spilling onto an azure cloth in the banqueting hall of the heavens.

This writer has done what I have not yet managed to do: She has found words in which to liberate the beauty on wings of passionate expression…

Her pen has cut deep. It has shaken the very foundations of my craft and shown me how very transient my writing is. It has caused me pain and made me question my fitness as a writer.

And yet it is strange. I cannot despise her for it. No indeed. The wound is like gold thrown into a furnace, that the dross may be purged. And perhaps my wondering heart may take comfort in the imagery: my writing and talent may be, in some part, valuable. But I must welcome these cuts to my pride, these wounds in my flesh, that the gold will emerge from the wondrous pain a purer and lovelier piece of craftsmanship.