You made it! Whee!

Thou ought comment here and love it and bookmark it and call it Lady Georgina!

In congratulations, I offer you this amazing image which is a complete non sequitur.

Thank you for coming to visit. NOW SAY SOMETHING WITTY BELOW~!

I hope that everyone who reads this will accept all the love and good intentions here, the genuine attempt to overcome the sad with the beauty.

—

Hello, my name is Anna. I’m a Dark Fairy Queen.

No…not really. I’m actually just a young woman with an overactive imagination, a passion for writing and for coalescing my own wishes.

I have run several notable flash fiction competitions. You may have heard of one or more of them (Fairy Ring, Once Upon a Time Writing, Faerypin, and Behind the Curtain).

Or, you may have seen me on Twitter, creating havoc with my wombat cannon and my absurdly long and peculiar hashtags (#whozadarkfairynow, #cannibalismforfunandprofit, etc.)

Or you may have seen me on Facebook, flouncing around, caterwauling about one wonderful indie author or another.

Anyway, in the last few years, the aforementioned activities have drawn a little bit of notice from other authors in social media. Many of these people have become dear friends of mine. The catch? I have never met a one. Not one.

I used to angst about this (does this mean we’re really friends? does it matter they don’t know I love Cinnamon Toast Crunch and cold skim milk?). I don’t any more. I accept it for the gift it is. I have friends all over the world: most of the States, Canada, England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, France, Holland, Greece, Australia, South Africa, the Philippines, and who knows where else.

These people know strange trivia about me that my nearest and dearest may not know, such as my propensity for megalomaniacal laughter. Wait…my nearest might know that.

Gradually, many of these people have become my dearest and not so nearest. To me, that’s a kind of magic. Someone that I would never ever in a hundred years have met in the natural course of history knows me and likes me and laughs at my goofy jokes and understands my writing angst.

I shan’t name names. You know who you are.

Anyway, on to the Dark Fairy Queen Writerly Bridal Shower or #DFQWBS.

You may say, WHUZZAH? In short, a flash fiction celebration of weddings in general and, um, I guess me and my sweetie in specific.

I point you this-a-way: Dark Fairy Queen Writerly Bridal Shower for the official theme and rules page. You can use my Pinterest page for inspiration. And join the madcap Facebook group.

I am not reading any of the entries till they are officially presented, but it is my understanding that they range from tales of unicorns to assassins to “twue wuv”.

If you write, I hope you will consider joining my sweet friends who have already written. You can also include a short toast at the end to my groom and I.

—

I should add, this whole thing has overwhelmed me to an extent that I’m hardly able to verbalize this entry, so if I degenerate into emotional gabbling at this point, you must forgive me.

I’ve never met any of these people, yet they each reached into their creative selves and pulled forth a tiny literary gem to place at my feet.

As much as I act the egomaniacal goofball, this touches me and flatters me and bewilders me and fills me with great rapture.

The first night, as the entries started piling up, I fell asleep in something of a happy fugue. I felt like I could reach over the seas with my fingertips and touch the fingertips of one of my fellow writers and they could reach beyond their shores to someone even further away. (No, it wasn’t the sinus meds)

Thank you so much to those who choose to participate. I am more honored than you can ever know, both at your participation and your friendship. Also, a thousand thanks to the #DFQWBS hard-working hostesses, Rebekah, Laura and Miranda.

Just goes to show, even a Dark Fairy Queen can learn to be a good friend.

……………

……………

……………

FIRE THE WOMBAT CANNONS!

First of all, THE BIGGEST NEWS. I’ve made you wait this long; I won’t torture you any further.

In the past few years, I have become aware of a surplus of writing talent in my social media circles. In most cases, I noticed that this talent was not getting the attention, recognition or promotion it deserved.

I tried to do my best to share the love, retweeting and sharing on Facebook, but it didn’t seem enough.

Then, one day, the skies opened up and I was suffused with a golden glow of inspiration. Well, not exactly, but it sounds better than “I almost drove off the road.”

Why not create a small, digital press to publish and promote the work of a select group of authors that I could offer full promotional and sales support? Why not put my money (or at least my time and talent) where my mouth is?

So with only a little more fanfare *cue angelic trumpet blast*, I present to you Nine Muse Press:

Go ahead. Go read about it. I’ll wait.

*munches on pistachios*

OH GOOD. You’re back.

So, you might ask how you can be a part of this.

Well, you can follow NMP on Twitter. #followorperish

You can Like them on Facebook.

More excitingly, I have developed an amazing blog affiliate program.

You can qualify for this program if you:

A) Have a blog

B) Talk about books sometimes

Look how particular we are.

Wondering what the advantages of this program are?

GO SIGN UP FOR IT RIGHT NOW – you will be glad you did!

Related to this announcement, I am pleased to announce that we are releasing our very first e-book, Edgar Wilde and the Lost Grimoire by Paul Ramey. You can click on the link or the cover photo to go to Amazon to purchase. You will love this mystery/adventure!

Catch Edgar Wilde news and events on Facebook

Follow Paul on Twitter at @paulramey  #followorperish

Also, please add Edgar Wilde to your TBR shelf on Goodreads. If you do read it, a few kind words of review on GR or Amazon is SOOOOOO appreciated. Extra MWA to you!

…

And finally, last, but never least!

Nine Muse Press would like to announce our second author, Daniel Swensen, whose high fantasy adventure novel Orison will be the second release from Nine Muse Press. Welcome aboard, Daniel!

Phew! Now all I need to do is go get married! Thanks to everyone for enduring yet another magically annoying announcement!

With that little tease, I present to you COUNTDOWN CLOCK OF DOOM!

She draws funny cartoons of olives, cats and other creatures. The winner of her contest will get their story illustrated by her.

Artwork owned by Confessions of a Stuffed Olive

You may recall the last time I did a zombie-themed story. That little story won the Fan Favorite contest run by J. Whitworth Hazzard.

I swore then that I would not write another zombie tale.

I lied. Not only did I have to write another flash fiction zombie tale, it had to be a funny one. CURSE MY LUCK!

Of course, my sense of humor is a little warped, so you can see the result:

A Life-Long Dream

She carefully traced a carmine line around her lips. They weren’t nearly as full as they used to be, so she had to employ all her arts to evoke youthful beauty. A hint of blusher, a quick hairbrush and she was ready to go.

“I, Norma Jean Pintucker, accept the crown of Miss Yuba City; it’s a life-long dream for me. I’d like to thank my agent, Quincy…”

Norma Jean frowned. What –was- her agent’s name? It rhymed with “squirter”, she was fairly sure. Her memory was worsening.

As she drove her 2006 Audi to the Convention Center, she fretted, “Werter. Frankfurter.” She examined her reflection in the rearview mirror, “Ugh, my skin looks so pasty.”

Once she reached the stage door, she patted her hair into place and whispered, “Showtime.”

The crowning ceremony had already started without her. That wasn’t right. She struggled through the heavy velvet curtain, applause ringing in her ears.

“I’m here!” she shouted, pushing some highlighted blonde stranger in a showy dress away from the microphone.

She plucked the tiara from the velvet pillow and stepped into the spotlight.

“I accept the crown of Miss Yuba City today. I’d like to thank my agent, Quincy-“

She was saved from recalling his name by the scream in the audience.

“Quincy-“

Just then, her lower jaw fell off and clattered to the stage floor.

She gingerly placed the tiara on her head, kicking her jaw into the orchestra pit, “Thank you, ish been a life-long dream.”

Copyright Brian Cameron

I should start by saying that I came to the Downton fold most reluctantly (see: Dratted Downton Abbey). I actually missed all of Season 1 when it aired and only started on Episode 1 of Season 2, so  I saw it all backwards. I watched all of 2 and then returned to 1, devouring it whole.

I loved it, the sparkly wit, the airy Edwardian costumes, Highclere Castle, loved it, loved it, loved it. I waited for the premiere of Season 3 with all the fervent passion of a girl waiting for her first dance.

SPOILERS AHOY! I don’t know how you missed seeing all the news of what occurs in Season 3 if you are on social media AT ALL, but stop reading now if you don’t wish to have all the plot twists ruined for you. (That’s you, Angie Richmond )

 
With the Earl’s foolish investments, the way of life at Downton is at risk. The wedding of Mary was a lovely bright spot (if a bit scanty on the actual ceremony) and it seems like they’re destined for true happiness, especially once he agrees to save Downton. Matthew seems a bit overly tortured by his conscience and perhaps a touch whiny, but it all ends well.

There was much made of Shirley MacLaine’s turn as Cora’s mother. I thought it worked okay, but her actual part was completely disproportionate to the fuss made over her appearance in the show’s promotions. She was only in the one episode.

I was sort of uneasy about how this season was unfolding. Mrs. Hughes may have cancer, the family may have to leave their home, Tom dumps a pregnant Sybil in Ireland. Bates is in jail, the indomitable Anna campaigns to get him released, but all the scenes with him seem lifted from a different show entirely.

Edith gets the short end of the stick AGAIN as she is jilted at the altar. Can’t this girl get a break? The death of Sybil was a shocker, but I thought perfectly believable given the mortality rates of giving birth.

But because that’s one of the first big plot events, it means that everyone spends so much time crying and fighting amongst themselves and blaming each other and suffering. It’s realistic, yes, but not so easy to watch. It’s also slicker and more soap-operaish.

I mean, we should all acknowledge at this point that it IS a soap opera, no matter how gorgeously packaged. But do they have to keep reminding us?

I was relieved at the end of the next to the last episode things seemed to be looking up: Cora and the Earl have reconciled, Thomas isn’t arrested, Matthew’s redeemed himself and everyone plays a rousing match of cricket!

Then comes this screeching halt of a finale. First, I think I’ll dwell on the good, because there was rather large scoopfuls of it.

The jaunt to Duneagle allows for some of the most jaw-droppingly gorgeous shots of the Scottish countryside. It was hard not to hop online and book a plane ticket to just casually drop in on my brother, who is living there right now.

The scenes with Bates and Anna continue to charm, as their relationship develops. The moment where she starts dancing the reel for him was easily one of the most “Awww” moments of the season.

Watching Maggie Smith swat away flies as she delivers with her usual deadpan finesse: “That is the thing about nature: there is so much of it.”

She is concocting the loveliest, most elegant 1930′s inspired wedding ever. She has yet to choose her hairstyle, however. Your opinion counts! Please scroll down to view all four choices and make your selection.

The fate of the Hapless Bride’s appearance hangs in the balance. She is meeting with her hairstylist on Saturday to choose her bridal hairstyle. Scroll down and VOTE NOW!

Gift of Snow

When the snow first arrived, in early October, Anya ran to catch the scattered flakes on her tongue. She and her younger sister shrieked as they darted among flakes thick as white butterflies.

They grafted snow angels onto the hillside, delirious with its chill embrace against their hot cheeks.

They tramped long white trails into the kitchen, melting by the samovar, to the despair of her mother, “Anya, this is not a barn!”

They snitched bottles of Grandmama’s cherry cordial, pouring them over bowlfuls of snow and eating till their lips were numb and crimson. They skated and sledded and rode the sleigh into town, bells jingling faintly.

The snow was a gift, until it caused the barn roof to collapse. All the animals died of exposure that night. All the stored food, the supplies to last them through the endless winter, were ruined and spoiled. The root cellar remained, but unending turnips paled after a while.

The snow drifts grew higher. Her little sister’s small belly distended painfully. They could no longer leave the house; fuel was scarce and it required too much to warm them again.

Late one night, when the moon was high and the wind stopped its shrill north howl, Anya put on all her sweaters, three pairs of socks and wrapped Grandmother’s shawl around her face. The snow surrounded her like two chill walls, a slender dazzling ribbon to guide her into town.

After a few hours, her legs grew treacherously heavy. Anya burrowed down into the snow. The stars were very bright. She shook her arms and legs to restore circulation. Her sodden limbs moved slower and slower.

When the guardsman found her the next morning, it just looked as if she’d created another angel, with the gift of snow.

Image courtesy of Jean Ladzinski Photography | Creation Inspired Prints, Art Cards and More
Copyright © Jean Ladzinski 2005-2012, all rights reserved.
www.jeanladzinskiphotography.com

“Music is mediator between spiritual and sensual life.”
- Ludwig van Beethoven

The moonlight spilled over his windowsill.

Age-creased hands tapped rhythmically at a keyless keyboard that sounded only in his mind. Dark clouds fled swiftly across the sky, scattering the light. A storm was coming.

He was not there. He was lost in a summer, 24 years ago. The glow of Giulietta, her fire, her elusive smile. He’d written her a sonata. He could not hear her voice, but he remembered the touch of her hand: the slight pressure and then slipping away, a sylph of light and air.

An octave in the left hand and a triplet in the right, repeated, repeated, as he felt the thrill through his veins again. He played his windowsill piano, feeling the Adagio Sostenuto pour through the tips of his fingers. A brisk wind was kicking up and he felt, rather than heard, the distant thunder.

“Delicatissimamente,” he murmured. Italian always captured Giulietta better than the dissonance of the German.

The rain started then, thick drops spattering the sill. Heedless, he played on.

His face, that rough-hewn clay, held little attraction for such a lovely young Countess, but his playing had always drawn her like a moth to the flame. She would sit beside him on the bench, whispering into his unhearing ears. He would rest his hand atop her small one and guide it through the roll of her sonata.

The blanket tucked around his legs fell away. The thunder cracked its bass and the wind lashed his face with water. He rose, with the intoxicating spiral of the final swell, her only kiss on his lips.

They found him the next morning, crumpled by the open window, a faint smile remaining for the music only he could hear.