Launch of Dawn’s End Outworld Apocalypse

There’s nothing better than finishing a good novel, with a satisfying ending… except, possibly, knowing there is another one in the series. The final book in the Dawn’s End trilogy is scheduled for publication by Noble Young Adult on May 21. If you’ve read the first two, Dawn’s End and Dawn’s End Poisoned, you’ll be happy to know the grand finale is finally here. If you haven’t, this is the perfect time to start the series.

Each book can stand alone and can be read out of order. But why do that when you can read one after another? Dawn’s End, a suspenseful and romantic tale, sets you up for the gritty sequel in Dawn’s End Poisoned. Then Poisoned ups the stakes, pulling you into the exciting conclusion in Dawn’s End Outworld Apocalypse. The books are available on Noble Young Adult’s website or Amazon.com. Just type in “Bonnie Ferrante” to get the list. Reviews are always appreciated.

Here’s a sample from Dawn’s End Outworld Apocalypse.

Anastacia was hand-watering the vegetables when she heard cracking and crashing through the green space behind her house. A deer, she thought. They had been wandering in and around the city for years. This close to Centennial Park and Boulevard Lake, the long-legged graceful creatures were familiar sights and frequent garden pests. Now that food was even more precious, more and more elaborate deterrents were used.
This time, though, it was not a deer. On gangly but powerful legs, a massive bull moose emerged from the trees. Taller than Anastacia, it staggered unsteadily across the dead grass behind their property. The dewlap hanging under its chin swayed left and then right. It’s dying, thought Anastacia, of thirst or starvation or both.

The moose looked at her with bulging, desperate eyes. Its rack was small, three points only. Its brown fur was matted, dusty, and shabby. Awkwardly, it staggered into the yard and headed for the garden. Anastacia realized it would destroy all the struggling young plants.

“No,” she shouted as she set down the watering can and waved her arms. The moose kept coming, a determined, dogged expression on its long, melancholy face.

Anastacia was six feet tall, but the moose was almost a foot taller and, even though its ribs showed, five or six times her weight. The leaf rake was lying against the deck. Anastacia raced for it, picked it up, and intercepted the moose. She smacked the rake across its face. The moose tossed its head and bellowed but kept staggering forward across the burnt grass. She slammed it again. It lowered its head and tried to butt her. Nimble as a cat, she dropped, rolled out of the way, and sprung back to her feet. The moose turned away and took the last few steps to the garden.

Caging the Cats

When we brought our first two cats home from the pound, we were committed to keeping them indoors. I had vivid memories of the black tom named Fluffy from my childhood. He would disappear for days, then return looking like he’d escaped the dungeons of the Marquis de Sade. He was slashed, bruised, lost half an ear, blinded in one eye, and often infected. When he meowed on the doorstep, I hesitated, not knowing what grotesque sight would await me.

In addition, he was often ill from something he’d eaten, birds, rats, frogs, or garbage. He’d hack and gasp until finally discharging it under our kitchen table whereupon shrieks of “I’m not cleaning THAT up” would begin. (In addition, the vet told us, cats pick up fleas, parasites, and disease. I’m not cleaning THAT up either.)

Indoor cats share the peculiar instinct to eat whatever strikes their fancy. Our three ingested elastics, Construx rings, string, rubber washers, and Barbie doll shoes. Patch chewed any pen that was been previously chewed by my husband. Virgil, ate anything that once contained food, including take out plastic ketchup packages. Still, we tried to limit what went into their stomachs and provide them with a healthy lifestyle. We gavn them the opportunity to get outside without risk.

The first year, we tried a harness and leash. While Patch was content to watch the butterflies, Misty worked herself up into a fevered hysteria. Whenever a crow passed overhead, she raced in the opposite direction, choking herself on the leash, then scrambling and clawing free. I wondered if she viewed Hitchcock’s “The Birds” before we got her.

We decided to try a cat pen. Since this might be worse than the harness and leash, we haphazardly slapped scrap lumber together and wrapped it in chicken wire. The neighbour’s children came to watch. Then the neighbours. The pen turned out larger than we intended, causing someone to question whether we’d recently rescued a panther from the pound and failed to tell them. Afterwards, everyone dragged over their lawn chairs and we watched the cats try it out. I guess there’s not a lot of excitement on our street. We doubted the wretched pen would make it through the winter.

The summer it was four years old, we decided to replace it and do it up right. We planned and measured. We also used treated lumber. This pen was going to last until the last cat died of old age. We made it a little smaller, so I added entertainment. There is a long platform for stretching out in the sun, a cosy corner seat for privacy, a trellis for climbing, a swing for batting or dare-devil tricks, a suspension bridge for working out Marine style, and a double thick scratching post. I’m still searching for a plastic tunnel for hiding and crawling. My son wanted to know why we never built him such a neat playground. Perhaps if he’d let me scratch him under the chin more often.

Afterward we watched the cats try out our three days of work. The neighbours didn’t join us this time. I guess their lives have more excitement now. Patch put one foot on the ground, stared around, then the second, paused, then the third. He kept that fourth paw inside the window as a safety anchor until he started to stiffen up. The cats realized there was soft dirt where the old pen used to be. Immediately, two started to dig their way out. Ungrateful wretches! Patch touched the swing, then leapt straight into the air when it moved, frightening all three back into the house for a full ten minutes. When they returned, they sat in a row at one end of the pen and stared through the chicken wire as though the Shrine Circus Parade was passing by. That side had been boarded over before. They’d never seen our patio area. I don’t know what they expected the picnic table to do.

The entrance to the cat pen was through a barred basement window. The cats were just small enough to fit through the bars. We let them come and go during the good weather.

Occasionally, they woke us up fighting under our bedroom window but usually the disruption was from someone else’s cat. I wondered what they are hissing and yowling through the chicken wire, “Ha, ha, I’m free to run onto the road, kill the baby birds in your birdhouse, and mess in your master’s garden.” To which Patch replied, “Yeah, but you ain’t got a swing,” and Misty added, “And all the Barbie shoes you could ever eat.”

So, you can see, I love cats. Unfortunately, my husband (the new, improved version) is allergic to cats, so I can only write about them. Perhaps that’s why they show up in mutated form in both Dawn’s End and Dawn’s End Poisoned. They even appear in the third, and last, of the Dawn trilogies now with my editor and coming to you soon, Dawn’s End Outworld Apocalypse. Watch for it.

 

Rejections

A fellow writer was asked which magazine ran her articles and stories. “Oh, I write mostly for rejections,” she joked. The inquirer responded seriously, “I don’t think I’ve read that one.”

None of us have. That’s the problem. With the increase of multi-media entertainment, and the spiralling cost of books, publishers are far less likely to gamble with new writers. The buzzword is “marketability.”

To be fair, there seem to be more new writers than ever, many victims of unemployment. A popular or prestigious magazine may only have space to publish one out of hundreds of submissions. The competition for books is even worse.

Take a look at what’s available in children’s books today. There are still incredible works of art and charm, but they are competing fiercely against the “market-driven” fluff generated by kids shows. Not only does every super hero, cutesy puppy, and valiant pony cartoon generate lunch boxes, stuffed toys, action figures, and clothes, but books as well. Many of these books have as much art, depth and originality as the cereal box.

Sadly, the scene is not much different for adults. The public’s voracious appetite for talk shows has spilled over into writing. (By the way, you’ll know they run dry when they feature TALK SHOW HOSTS WHO INTERVIEW TALK SHOW HOSTS.) Magazines run more sensational pieces than they used to, as in “Women who cheat on their husbands…and don’t feel guilty,” followed up by, “Husbands who know their wives cheat…and don’t feel angry.” Spill your guts novels are rampant, as in “The Life Story of The Girl Next Door: Alcoholic, Sexual Compulsive, Self-Mutilator and Collector of Hood Ornaments.” Many of these are written with the same slash and report style as a talk show.

Any celebrity, who is famous for any reason, will be rushed to the front of the publishing line – he or she already has a “brand” name. Add to that the proliferation of cheap self-published books, and you have a glutted market.

Still, there are editors and publishers who’ve managed to keep their standards intact. Swamped by submissions, they do not have time to personally critique a writer’s work. You may find it strange that an “emerging” writer will be happy to receive a private comment on a rejection form. The personal connection can be enough to spur a three month rewrite. There are those, though, who find it painful because they still don’t know where to head.

For example, Lisa Powell’s fictional biography of Elizabeth Tudor has received the following rejections: “This is indeed an outstanding historical and lives up to all the fine things you said about it…as I admired it, I didn’t feel we could do the right job with it in the current market.” And “You should not be at all discouraged by the fact that we will not be making an offer for the book, because this is an extremely publishable novel, and a more commercial publisher, I’m certain, will positively leap at the chance to publish it.”

Some editors try to soften the blow with humour. Here’s one I received - “Congratulations! You have been chosen to receive this beautiful hand-lettered rejection slip! We know you will be proud to add this attractive notice to your personal collection. For additional copies, send your contributions to:… Note: In the event that your next contribution is accepted for publication we cannot send you another card, and you will just have to be satisfied with money…Sorry. -The Editor.”

Thankfully, there are editors out there willing to satisfy me with a contract.

So, if you haven’t read Dawn’s End and Dawn’s End: Poisoned, there’s still time before the final book in the trilogy becomes available.

How Long Until Spring? by Bonnie Ferrante

There was an extra reason to celebrate in December. In addition to Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, and Bodhi Day, we passed through Winter Solstice. Finally, the light on winter days is lasting longer. Living in the city, as many of us do, we tend to forget the importance of this special day. Forget, that is, unless we work outside.

I’ve always had a tremendous respect for people who work outside all year round. My father was a night watchman in a paper mill. Many of his rounds were done outside. Alone, in the dark, negotiating through ice and snow, he would check the grounds carrying only a flashlight. He never expected to meet anyone, human that is.

On more than one occasion, wolves followed him out onto the ice. When he stopped, they stopped. When he walked, they walked. If they came a little too close for comfort, he would wave his flashlight in their eyes and shout. Not exactly a big game hunter technique. Still, they never threatened him. Eventually, he realized, they were probably hoping he’d drop something edible, like a chicken leg (not his).

On frigid, black nights, his biggest fear was of falling on the ice, or possibly, through the ice, and not being missed until morning. I know the feeling.

My son used to have paper routes. I never really knew how quiet and empty the city can be until I headed out at 6:00 a.m. when it was pitch black and frostbite weather. Some crescents have few street lights and those houses on the opposite side might as well abide in a black hole. I realized by the third house that in order to read the addresses and find the mailboxes, I’d have to head home and pick up a flashlight.  It was an embarrassing surprise when I accidentally traded a paper for a mailbox lid. I wanted to say, like Bart Simpson, “I didn’t do it.”

Although I was never followed by wolves, I did get the occasional shot of adrenalin. Driveways with a light dusting of snow hiding ice below sent me into Olympic freestyle skating leaps and twists.

Sometimes, after I popped the paper in the box by the front door and head across the driveway to the next house, a sensor would be triggered by the side door. Suddenly blinded by light, I would pause and get my bearings, checking for the ever so nasty hidden extension cords of automobile block heaters. Like pythons, they lie in wait, ready to wind their orange cables around my ankles and fling me into the nearest car grill.

The real heart stoppers were the sleeping dogs. I had every intention of letting them lie. I couldn’t have been quieter if I was a Watergate graduate. Yet, somehow, they knew I was afoot. They waited until the paper was delivered and I walked past the window, whereupon they launched themselves at the glass. I responded as if under mortar attack. Eventually, I realized that no dog would be outside at forty below. Only humans are that dumb.

The biggest challenge of all was moving while “dressed for the weather.” It was no mean feat to learn how to remove a single paper from a full bag, roll it and put in it in a mailbox while wearing both gloves and mittens and clutching a route list against the wind. Even David Copperfield would have felt challenged at that sleight of hand.

Without constant blinking, ice crystals formed on my lashes. I tried ski goggles, but they fogged over, then frosted. Next, I tried completely covering my face with a thin scarf that I could see through. This worked for about 30 minutes. It became so wet from my breath that the cold wind froze it to the tip of my nose. I had no wish to rip the tip off later along with the scarf.

I bought a balaclava. My rerouted breath kept my eyes warm. I learned to carry a package of tissue. Not just for blowing, but to wipe my eyes and face. They become soaked with exhalation and a good blast of wind will frost them. I could hear the wind coming, like the sound of the water surging in a tidal pool before the wave hits.

Balaclavas, though better than goggles, are not known for their visual freedom. With all the winter clothes on, I tended to walk stiffly and awkwardly as well. Numerous trees took advantage of this, throwing their branches up suddenly in my face. Car mirrors crouched in wait, attacking my hips. Snowbanks appeared in the middle of nowhere. Yards were landmined with doggy doo-doo. I knew if I fell, dressed as I was, I’d be trapped, like Charlie Brown. I would lay there, alone, until someone went to get their paper.

Eventually, I got it down to a science. Sometimes, as I replaced my child on a cold, windy morning, I often wondered if anyone was watching from their front window. As I flailled wildly trying to regain my balance in Charlie Chaplin style, then bounced off a cloaked fire hydrant, I had to admit there was some advantage to the cover of darkness. Perhaps shortened winter days are really a blessing in disguise.

Now, I stay indoors on cold morning, cup of Earl Grey in hand, and silently bless those forced outdoors, “May all their boots have solid grips. May they only step on sanded ice. May their snaps, laces, buttons, and zippers keep out the northern wind. And, may they arrive home with all their body parts the right colour and in the right places.”

Happy New Year everyone. Only four months until spring.

Image by Marcus74id

* * * *

While waiting out those long, dark nights, pick up Dawn’s End or Dawn’s End Poisoned to read. Romance, adventure, and fantasy just for you.

Beauty by Bonnie Ferrante

It never ceases to amaze me, what women will do in order to fit their generation’s idea of beauty. Since I have watched a surgeon perform a face lift on television, I have never skinned a chicken with the same mind set again.

Not all attempts to be beautiful are so drastic as the ultimate face peel. Most women settle for superficial makeovers. As long as I can remember, women’s magazines have taken the dull and dowdy for feature makeovers.

Miss Plain Jane is described in the “before” picture as having limp, lifeless hair, an uneven complexion, eye makeup from the fifties, and clothes that do not suit her figure. After Jane is remade in the image of her sponsors, she might as well have her entire body dipped in shellac. Everyone who read the magazine now knows how horrible she looks when she grooms herself. Every morning, she must stare in terror into her mirror, praying she can reach the “after” level on her own.

More than once, there have been aspects of “before” pictures that I preferred to the makeovers. The most obvious disaster was when Chatelaine decided to redo Audrey McLaughlin. In the before picture, she looked like a hard-working, nicely groomed, dignified, quietly attractive, middle-aged woman. After litres of hair spray and makeup, she had an entirely new look. Well, not entirely new. It had been done before. She looked just like Betty Davis in the movie “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?” It was the kind of picture political rivals could have used for blackmail if it hadn’t already appeared in thousands of homes and stores across the country.

I think the “beauty experts” are not very big on admitting mistakes. What would it take for them to say, “Oh, this didn’t turn out as we expected? Let’s go back to the ‘before’ look?” More than I can imagine. I suspect they would insist that a third eye gave the woman a chic look of introspection.

Some women will spend a small fortune in order to smell attractive. “Opium” costs almost as much as the real thing. A certain large drug store chain has built the perfume counter by the entrance. That way when people with sensitivities come in to pick up their prescriptions, they also leave with an antihistamine.

In an effort to attract busy working women who no longer have time to sample perfumes at department store counters, companies now insert scented strips into their advertisements. Consumers have complained about perfume samples in magazines that cause an allergic reaction. I think the paper cut across the wrist is worse.

 Lotion, shampoo, and makeup samples are inserted as well. More and more are for older women. Recently I was talking about a cream sample that was supposed to reduce my crow’s feet. In wide-eyed wonder, my neighbour’s child demanded that I take off my slippers.

In spite of accidents, medical complications, and high expense, liposuction is still a popular surgical make over. Fat is loosened from the overly plump body part (read that sliced and diced), then sucked out through a small hose. For a number of years, women have used this as a method to finally fit high cut swimsuits.

Another innovation is fat relocation. There isn’t anything necessarily wrong with the fat. It just isn’t in the spot where men favour it. Now surgeons will move the fat to a more preferred part of your body. Fat from marbled thighs or heavy buttocks can be moved to your lips, (not all of it, I assume). Fat can be repositioned to your breasts. Your lover won’t realize he’s being turned on by the very same fat that used to repel him.

Whenever you ask a man in your life to “kiss my fat lips”, only you know what you really mean. Perhaps, more women should be telling the beauty experts to do this instead.

In my books, Dawn’s End and Dawn’s End: Poisoned, beauty comes in all shapes, sizes, and colours. Stretch your ideas of what is beautiful and buy a copy today.

 

First Big Snowfall by Bonnie Ferrante

We’ve had our first heavy snowfall and I’m already tired of winter. As a way to avoid the winter weight-gain and improve my posture, I bought my husband and myself memberships to the city fitness centre. He jogs and lifts weights and I swim. Unfortunately, after the heavy snowfall was a quick melt followed by an overnight freeze. Consequently, my husband slipped out on the ice in the fitness centre parking lot. Now, he’ll have to take it easy for a while. So much for good intentions.

I miss walking outside without a jacket or with just a loose sweater. We’ve already had several days of the northern walking position – hands buried deep in the pockets, back curved into a semi-fetal position, parka hoods drawn forward (no wonder polar bears can sneak right up on Inuit hunters), feet shuffling as fast as they can to grip the icy sidewalk, and head down against the wind. So much for improving my posture.

It seems the most common pastime I engage in is “warming up the car.” Our new one comes with a remote start and seat warmers. However, for these to be useful, I have to remember to turn the defrost on high and click in the seat warmer buttons before I shut the car off every night. Every morning starts with “Why oh why do I never remember that?” followed later by “Why oh why didn’t I get a bigger mortgage and buy a house with a garage?”

With the long winter ahead, those of us who are not snow birds often wonder why we live here. Surviving winter does give us a commonality, a shared trauma as such, much like living through an earthquake that lasts five months. It also encourages us to take stock of things, like emergency flares and whether job security is worth having to climb through the car hatch because all the doors are frozen shut.

One good thing about winter is NaNoWriMo. This is an international event where writers are challenged to do their first rough draft of a novel in 31 days or less. This year, I prepared my outline on cards and jumped in November. Dawn’s End: Restitution is now resting before I tackle the first big edit.

For those of you that haven’t read Dawn’s End or Dawn’s End: Poisoned, they are still available. What’s better than jumping into a new book curled in your favourite chair, especially a series, while the winter wind blows?

Charm by Bonnie Ferrante

Charm

“The power to make someone else feel that both of you are “wonderful” is THE THINKING MAN’S DICTIONARY’s definition of charm. It takes talent to accomplish mutual wonderfulness without high fat, sodium, condoms, or financial risk. Feeling wonderful is a gratifying thing, in moderation. Unfortunately, gold-diggers, sales people, con-artists, pushers, sexual conquistadors, and corporate climbers have used charm to manipulate others to such a degree that many people are suspicious of charm.

A poet once said to me of a warm, supportive writer, “I never trust a charming man, and he is very charming.” Perhaps the level of acceptable charm corresponds to the amount of control involved.

Charm has also developed a bad reputation due to attitudes toward co-dependency. The Thinking Man’s Dictionary also stated, “All charming people have something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others.” Sounds like 99 percent of entertainers, yet we’d miss the charm of Eddie Murphy’s contagious laugh, Martin Short’s confused grin, and Mel Gibson’s sultry smile should they learn to get along without our admiration.

There was a time when the charm of Rhett Butler and Scarlet O’Hara were emulated. It was shallow and pretentious, but, oh, they had such style. GONE WITH THE WIND did not bring happiness, but at least it brought the occasional heart flutter. Not so with the “in your face” attitude of the present. Heart flutters today are based on the flight or fight response.

Throughout history there have been those who lacked intangible charm, or sought to strengthen it with other means. Tangible charms have been in use for as long as the wink and compliment. A rabbit’s foot is a charm still used today to bring good luck. Obviously, it wasn’t very lucky for the rabbit or he wouldn’t have been caught in a trap. Lucky pennies are still used, though you’d be hard pressed to find anything for that price. Crystals and gems, considered new age, have been around since man dug his first hole with his first sharp stone.

Men, especially athletes, seem to prefer their charms grubby. Apparently the amputated foot of a small, fluffy, vegetarian is not gross enough. On television’s “Coach”, Luther had all the football players rub his lucky jersey in order to ensure their winning streak. Kelly Gruber refused to clean the grub off his helmet during the 1992 World Series for fear of washing away the luck.

While many people will admit to using good luck charms on occasion, few accept the opposite. Voodoo dolls and potions are denounced charms used to control others. Miniatures have often been used in the occult as a method of charming someone. It was never acceptable to charm someone into sickness, unless it was love sickness.

Charming someone into nausea became a fashion statement of the late sixties and early seventies. Remember when everyone owned at least one silver or gold charm bracelet? When you think about it, isn’t it strange that women would cart around a pound of precious metal shaped into sports equipment, pets, and buildings that she often saw every day? Those with gold bracelets selected their expensive charms carefully, but those with silver were as insatiable as twelve year old boys collecting baseball cards. I learned never to comment on the thirty-five miniatures strung on a woman’s wrist. It was tantamount to asking her life story. Charm bracelets gave license to stories of poodles who had to be put to sleep, grandchildren who were potty trained early, knitting needles that represent one of her many skills, and hula dancers who invited the owner on to the stage in Hawaii eight years previous. It was as bad as a tour of spoons. Home videos seem exciting by comparison.

These charms have not disappeared. Nowadays, women and men wear one or two on a chain, usually gold, around their necks. They can be a conversation starter without leading into a therapy session. Quality has replaced quantity.

Marion Zimmer Bradley, award winning writer, wrote a futuristic novel entitled The Shattered Chain. She may have developed the idea from an old charm bracelet. Women were completely subjected to men in her story. (What an unusual idea.) All females past adolescence wore wrist chains, similar to handcuffs. They were connected by a longer chain that threaded through the woman’s belt, enabling her to work, but not lift her arms over her head or fling them in an outstretched manner. This would make hurling a drink impossible, allowing men to abandon any guise of charm. “Pampered” women had solid gold wrist chains decorated by gold and jewels. Scarlett O’Hara would have garrotted herself.

As sick as the idea is, Bradley may have been on to something. Not as a method of subjecting one gender, but as a deterrent and punishment for lawbreakers. Instead of offenders wearing handcuffs, they could be subdued by charm bracelets weighted down with all the symbols of their crimes. The criminal could be forced to explain the significance of his “guilt charms” to a designated number of citizens. Part of the punishment is in the struggle to get people to listen. (This might also negate the interest in the sadistic docu-dramas of murders and rapists and the spill-your-guts talk shows freeing television for better things.) In order to complete his sentence, the criminal would have to file the names of the required number of listeners. How would he find people willing to provide the time? I guess he’d have to develop some good, old-fashioned charm

Aubin, in Dawn’s End, is a charming man, and he knows it. Unfortunately, celebrity status can even go to a panther man’s head. Here is an excerpt from Dawn’s End.

Alaric Sabella rose as a male approached them. With a flutter, Nicole realized it was the passionate dancer, now wearing a scarlet jumpsuit and a gold headband and bracelet. He nodded, with cocky confidence, to young admirers in passing.

“Stop strutting and sit,” said Sabella as he reached them.

Aubin smiled and kissed their hands in turn, lingering over Nicole’s.

Zareen called from across the village square, “Alaric Sabella. We need your advice.”

“Coming, dear,” Sabella turned to the dancer and said, “Try to behave, Aubin.”

“Aunt, you wrong me,” he said as she departed. He sat beside Nicole on the bench. “Well, she of the sunrise hair, did you enjoy the entertainment?”

“Excellent,” said Nicole. “I can see you’re the star of the show. I enjoyed it very much.”

“I thought you did,” he responded, lowering his voice and moving closer.

Nicole stiffened, realizing he was coming on to her. Her eyes searched the crowd for Morrel.

“Relax,” purred Aubin. “I am Alaric too.” He held up his panther bracelet.

“You’re Morrel’s cousin, aren’t you?” she said.

“We are of the same lineage,” answered Aubin. “But I am not innocent, dull, and serious like Morrel. A woman with fire in her hair would enjoy my company. I would make sure she found it . . . satisfying.” He slid closer to her until their thighs were touching on the bench. His musky scent flooded her nostrils. “I could Meet with you instead,” he whispered, his breath on her cheek. “It would be such a Meeting that you would wonder what you ever saw in Morrel. We would experience great enjoyment.”

“But you would not enjoy the challenges along the way,” said Morrel, suddenly over their shoulders.

“I could face any challenges you could,” snapped Aubin as he stood to face him, the bench in between.

“Perhaps,” say Morrel. “But would you learn from them?”

Aubin snorted and said to Nicole. “Always a scholar. Even in this.”

“Especially in this,” said Morrel. “And you are always rash.”

Aubin jumped over the bench and faced Morrel. Aubin’s face was flushed and contorted; Morrel’s was calm and steady.

“What’s wrong?” asked Nicole, getting to her feet.

“Nothing. Right, cousin?” said Morrel.

Aubin hissed like an angry cat and strode away.

 

What to Do With a Dead Pet by Bonnie Ferrante

Halloween is around the corner and everywhere I look I see renditions of the dead. Zombies, ghosts, ghouls, and skeletons – human that is. But what about our dead pets?

Dogs and cats have been treated like people for generations. They’ve been fed table scraps, allowed to sleep in their master’s bed, and even worn little caps, shirts, and jackets. Perhaps the next logical level was to make them accountable, much the way we do our children. In return for love, shelter, good nutrition, and support, we expect them to get good report cards.

Once I was used to the idea of my cats receiving mail from their vet, I should have expected the next step – report cards. These were modern reports, mind you, with checklists instead of A to E, yet an owner still knew when one’s pet had not measured up. Our cats were all treated the same, fed the same, kept in the same house, yet their check marks translated to A, C, and D. This lent support to the nature over nurture proponents. The cats couldn’t read the report cards, and since they’re indoor pets, I couldn’t ground them until they improved. What could I do to make the low achiever shape up? Cut back on his tummy rubs? Use an inferior brand of kitty litter? Send him to the pen? Perhaps, I could refuse to honor his memory.

A number of people have had their pets cremated in the past and the ashes returned in an urn for the family mantel. I could have arranged them in order of achievement. My low achiever would be way at the back, behind the matches. Other pet owners purchased a pet burial site. I could have given him the economy headstone, made from compressed tuna fish cans. People have had their pets stuffed by taxidermists and tucked in between the fern and the stereo. I suspect this would genuinely traumatize any remaining pets.

A bizarre fad in honoring the dearly departed Fidos and Felixes was fur clothing. For the human. By saving the hair from the pet brushes, the owners could have a permanent keepsake. The fur was spun and then knit into hats or mitts, or in the case of collies, even a sweater. Some people might get off on the idea that they could rub their dog’s tummy and their own as well.

Dog spinner Alese Schroeder of Cave Junction, Oregon commented in a newspaper article that the “doggy” odor of wet fur shouldn’t bother anyone who loved their pet. How romantic. No scent of Old Spice on that man. He’s 100% Brut Canine.

Where do owners store the fur when collecting it? Are there giant furballs in stacking cartons in the corner of the closet waiting for FooFoo to bite the dust? Can they use fur off the couch and behind the stove?

What I really want to know is, how does wearing a sweater made from dog fur affect a man’s life? Do cats hiss when he passes by? Do large dogs become aggressive and fight for their territory? Does he shed? Does he get fleas? Does he get overwhelming urges to scratch the inside of his ear with his bare foot? Does he carry frisbees and balls in his mouth? Would he rather chase a car than drive it? Does the lady of the house pat him on the head when he’s good and whack him with a newspaper when he’s annoying? Does he drop to the middle of the floor when he gets a private itch and start nosing for the problem?

How do you care for this kind of clothing? If it’s made from cat’s fur it would have to be dry clean only. No self respecting cat allows anyone to wash him in a tub. Then again, perhaps it can only be wiped with a damp tongue shaped cloth. Do you store pet fur clothing on a padded hanger, fold it in a drawer, or roll it into a ball at the foot of the bed? Do you take it to a pet grooming shop when it starts to lose its shape?

With three cats, I would probably have been able to coordinate an entire feline ensemble. Actually, this could have be my low achiever’s only opportunity to get an A in anything. He did have the softest fur under his chin. There was probably enough to make little slippers. ‘Course, I’d have to fight the urge to leap on the kitchen counter every morning and lick the milk out of the bottom of unrinsed cereal bowls, right after I finished shredding the living room furniture.

* * * *

In Dawn’s End: Poisoned, the line between human and animal has been blurred for generations. Here’s an excerpt.

The allies assembled at the Canice home and checked their weapons again before traveling.Kentoiled, dried, and polished his sword and knife. From a distance, his eyes were a peacock blue, framed by thick, blond, child-soft lashes. His complexion was smooth, lightly tanned. Anastacia admired the bone structure of his face, high, yet masculine cheekbones, straight nose, well-formed jaw, and a hint of a dimple in his chin. His curly hair was blonder than his moustache, with one rebellious lock breaking free to twist above his left eye. His lips were a delicious bow shape, yet everything about him exuded sensual masculinity. His soft handsomeness was set off by a tall, strong body. Women would adore him.

Anastacia had shown little interest in boys since her mother died. It was easier to lose herself in sport than try to deal with all the emotional baggage that came with having a crush. She had enough emotion in her life, dealing with the death of her mother. Someday, she hoped it would get easier, and then maybe she’d feel differently about boys. The guys she hung out with saw her as one of them, and she preferred to keep it that way. Besides, this guy was about a decade older than she was. Still, he was so freaking hot!

Trying not to stare atKent, Anastacia closely examined the dagger she had been given. Her brow furrowed at the thought of actually pushing this into someone’s flesh, cutting their skin, veins, muscle.

Kentwatched her expression. “Rest assured. We will protect you. You’ll probably never need to use that.

“I’m having second thoughts about this,” said Anastacia. “It seemed like an exciting adventure at first. But I don’t want to die for the problems of strangers, nor do I want to kill anyone. I’m kind of a pacifist at heart. I prefer to outskate my opponent rather than muscle them. Peace out, and all that.”

“None of us want to kill,” said Misty. “The weapons are mostly to protect us against robbers and bandits. Usually, a good show of arms is enough to frighten them off.”

Anastacia looked doubtful.

Kentpatted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. You think anyone’s going to get near you with Durward’s sword and mine at the ready, Misty with her crossbow, and Sacha being a panther?”

Anastacia managed a smile. I guess I’m safe, she thought. She looked into his gorgeous eyes and thought, I wonder if he’s married. Does his family know he’s off on a crusade? I guess I shouldn’t talk. What would Jamail do if I disappeared? He’s already lost so much. And Ali. He would be frantic if he knew where I was. The best thing is to get this done quickly and get home. She glanced at Kent, who helped Misty pack food into parcels. There’s no reason why I can’t enjoy this crazy expedition, though.

Sacha yawned, showing her large, pink tongue, black lips and mouth, and wicked sharp fangs. The hair on the back of Anastacia’s neck rose.

“I still don’t understand about Sacha,” said Anastacia. “Why is she here if no one controls her?”

“Because I choose to be,” came Sacha’s rumbling reply.

Anastacia’s dagger clattered to the floor when she realized it was the panther speaking.

Kentwalked over and picked it up. “I gather from your reaction that panthers don’t speak in your world.”

Anastacia shook her head, dumbfounded, as she clumsily replaced the dagger.

Sacha sniffed, stretched like a house cat, and padded away.

“I have a feeling there are many things in Dawn’s End you will find interesting,”Kentsaid with a mischievous grin.

Living in the North by Bonnie Ferrante

Both my novels, Dawn’s End and Dawn’s End: Poisoned take place partly in and around Thunder Bay, in northern Ontario, Canada. Growing up in the north, where snow lasts about six months a year, women must acquire skills that may, or may not, be applicable elsewhere.

We have our own style. The mosquitoes, sixty degree temperature variations, twisting highways, black spruce, and multitude of lakes make a unique mark upon inhabitants.

If you can say yes to 20 or more of the following statements, you ARE a true northerner.

1. You suppress a laugh when southern news broadcasts that say their city was paralyzed by three inches of snow and the temperature dropping to twenty below.

2. You can button, snap and zip while wearing mittens.

3. You can blow your nose on a tissue used on two previous outings.

4. Rock salt and antifreeze are on your weekly shopping list.

5. You learned to drive a snowmachine before you learned to drive a car.

6. You can hold your own in an argument over who has the most frostbite scars.

7. You’ve brewed your own beer or your own wine at least once.

8. You’ve never owned a car without a block heater.

9. In fact, you were shocked to discover that cars without block heaters were even sold in Canada.

10. You call both a two room shanty with an outdoor biffy and a ten room bi-level with two baths “camps”.

11. There’s more salt on your car than passes through your kitchen in a year.

12. You have your own opinion about whether beer or tomato juice gets the smell of skunk out of dog fur.

13. Swerving your car to miss a moose triggers either a hunting story or your favourite recipe.

14. You don’t know why southerners think northerners speak differently. Youse guys know that’s pretty dumb, eh?

15. You know how to remove porcupine quills, fish hooks, leeches and ticks.

16. You can explain the entire process of ice filtering beer.

17. You’ve had Chinese fried rice, lasagna, perogies, partridge, and Persians all at the same meal.

18. You wear a baseball cap to a hockey game (peak to the front).

19. You call your spouse “the wife” or “the old man”.

20. You run the hockey pool at work.

21. You know more than one pizza delivery telephone number by heart.

22. You’ve camped in rain, hail, lightning, and snow…all on the Labour Day weekend.

23. Sixty percent of the labels on your clothing contain the words “down-filled.”

24. You master walking in high heels on carpeting when you’re eleven, tile floors when you’re twelve, and snow when you’re thirteen.

25. All your footwear is two-tone; black and salt, navy and salt, brown and salt, and red and salt.

26. You sign up for mid-winter exercise classes to get you out of the house on those long, dark, depressing winter evenings and then miss the first two because it is too cold to go out, go to the third and then decide you are too far behind everyone else to continue.

27. You have a sign over your kitchen sink that reads, “You catch ‘em, you clean ‘em.”

28. Half of your friends have more vowels in their names than consonants.

29. You play on a mixed baseball team sponsored by a sports store at which you never shop, and a mixed curling team sponsored by a Tavern at which you are known by your first name.

30. You feel physically ill when you forget to play your numbers in the lottery.

31. You’ve owned at least one vehicle that had holes hidden below the floor mat through which you could watch the highway flash past.

32. You always pronounce “sauna” correctly. (The vowels sound something like ou in ouch.)

33. You think there is too much stick handling in hockey.

34. You order your garden seeds (all beginning with the words “Quick Grow” three months before planting.

35. You’ve actually eaten, but more probably drank, a food product made from dandelions.

36. You know the difference between a fiddlehead and a conehead.

37. You know how to put chains on winter tires… when they’re buried in a snowbank.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * *

Here’s an excerpt from Dawn’s End that takes place in the snow.

The next day, she missed those warm quilts as well. Even with the extra layer of clothing, Nicole’s extremities tingled with cold as they hiked.

“I can see my breath,” said Aubin. “It steams like a cooking pot.”

Nicole smiled. “You are new at this.”

The trail steeped quickly, zigzagging up the mountain pass. The air was colder with every step. When her feet felt like wooden blocks, she stopped and traded her running shoes for the boots resembling mukluks.

They reached the level where patches of snow dotted the frozen ground. Morrel and Aubin surrendered their feet to boots as well. That night, the men donned their extra clothing. Nicole put on the bulky cape, thumbless mittens, and scarf. It was not enough.

They chanced a fire. The dark things couldn’t survive this cold either, could they? They formed a triangle around the campfire, Larina surrounded by their packs on the outer side. Nicole spent a restless night alternating her position. She seared her back against the fire while she froze her front. Then she did the opposite.

They started out the next morning while it was still dark. Morrel and Aubin examined the ice that had formed on each other’s beards. They were too cold to sleep anymore, and the daylight was getting dangerously short. The ghostly moon lit their way. Even though they were wearing the outer clothing, the men were astounded at the temperature.

“I bet we ain’t seen nothing yet,” warned Nicole.

They reached the level where packed snow covered everything. The crust was clean and unbroken. Small whirlwinds danced across the surface, shaping the tiny loose granules into miniature dunes. Their feet broke through the top layers, caving the edges in, leaving behind unrecognizable prints. In places where the snow was shallow, it squeaked underfoot.

Nicole tucked her thumbs into her palms and clenched her fists. She curled and uncurled her toes, urging the circulation. With each step, her feet numbed.

The wind increased, burning their cheeks with the threat of frostbite. They took short, shallow breaths trying to keep the cold from the deepest part of their lungs. Their nostril hairs froze, creating prickles with each intake of air. Nicole warned them that to blow or squeeze their noses would create a risk of a nose bleed. Morrel’s frosted face was now as white as his cousin’s.

The frigid temperature wore them down. Talking was a strain, so they hiked in silence, each step harder than the last. Nicole fantasized about hot chocolate, blueberry muffins fresh from the oven, and steaming pea soup. It wasn’t fair that she had just survived five months of winter and was now back in an arctic world. Her eyes stung. She wiped away the water before it could freeze to her cheek.

 

I’m Thankful by Bonnie Ferrante

We’re heading into the overindulgence season. Thanksgiving (Canadian) is the time of overindulgence in poultry and pumpkin. Halloween is the time of overindulgence in terror and treats. Christmas, the ultimate blow-out, is the time of overindulgence in everything. Appropriately, these days of decadence are followed by New Year’s Day, the time of reparation and resolution.

Those of us whose gardens barely yielded spinach, peas, and lettuce, may feel Thanksgiving Day has lost its impact. It is difficult to be thankful for a dry, hot, humid summer with intermittent wind, hail, and thunderstorms. It is difficult to express gratitude for peas that didn’t germinate and kale that did, beets the size of a quarter, and lettuce that finally sprouted only to be eaten by the resident groundhog.

But, in an effort to achieve the appropriate holiday attitude, I will consider the many things for which I should be thankful. First, I was able to construct that pervious sentence without a dangling participle. Second, I am not a farmer whose survival depends on the productivity of my garden. Third, my car managed to be everywhere but where the largest hail fell this summer. Fourth, although it rained ash from forest fires, none were close enough to endanger our home or health.

I am thankful I’m alive and live in a country where the death rate is 7.4 per 1,000 people unlike Sierra Leone (22.1), Swaziland (21.2), Angola (20.5), or Afghanistan (19.9).  I am thankful to be in the top 20% of Canadians with regard to literacy. A shocking 22% can’t read and 26% experience difficulty reading and writing.  I’m thankful that the peregrine falcon is no longer endangered on the prairies and that I live in a country that has the resources and the concern to have saved them. I’m thankful that smile wrinkles are more attractive than frown wrinkles. I’m very thankful we had the resources to fill my shopping cart with thanksgiving fare. And, of course, I’m thankful for my wonderful family – they give me the reasons to smile.

I am super-thankful my husband bought me a GPS. It is so liberating. No matter how far off the beaten track I go, I can always find my way home. I’m thankful that I live in a region of the world that still has large quantities of beautiful wilderness to get lost in. I’m thankful that this wilderness makes such a great setting in much of my writing.

How about you?

* * * *

Except from Dawn’s End:

Dusk sprinkled over the park like pepper as she walked down the path. She passed the last visitors heading toward the parking lot, a couple in their forties with an adolescent daughter. They looked curiously at her, probably wondering why she would be heading into the park so late.

A young goose glided over the pond, sporadically dipping for roots. It bobbed to the surface, its little splash the only sound. Nicole climbed onto the quartz rock and waited. Slowly, her mind cleared, as though she woke from a long dream.

Was last night a hallucination? Perhaps she was having a breakdown. Perhaps they would find her in the morning, smearing mud on her face and talking to imaginary people. Was the dark man real? If so, who was he? A crazy person, too? Perhaps a dangerous crazy person. A criminal who hid in the woods watching for lonely women. This whole Dawn’s End idea could be a trick, an attempt to lure her away from the safety of her home. Perhaps he planned to make her his personal slave. Chain her in his basement. The only thing that would make this more classic was her being barefoot and wearing a skimpy night shirt.

What am I doing? Nicole thought. No one will even miss me. I’ve put myself in the perfect position to disappear. I’ve got to get out of here!

She leaped to her feet. A passing blue jay startled her, interrupting her flight. “Ready to go?” The man’s deep voice came from the woods.

“No!” shrieked Nicole. Then, realizing it would not be advantageous to appear hysterical, she continued speaking in a more normal tone. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“No reason. I just don’t want to go.” She edged down the path, her steps slow and careful, and her eyes scanning the bushes.

“I told you she was useless.” It was Larina’s voice.

Who is Larina, Nicole thought, and why does her voice sound half-child, half-woman? Nicole didn’t care what Larina said. She was concentrating on each step, on reaching her car as quickly as possible without drawing an attack.

“Are you sure that is what you wish?” asked the dark man.

“Yes,” said Nicole, her steps quickening. She hurried toward the parking lot, shoulders tense, expecting a man’s hand to grab her any second. Nothing happened.

Street lights shone on the lot, which was now empty of all cars but hers. A cool breeze blew. Night had settled in.

As she hurried across the pavement, Nicole heard a shuffle behind her Sunfire. A muscle tensed in her chest in a spasm of pain; her heart thumped. Eyes sweeping the lot, she paused. She remembered the key was hidden under the front bumper. She cursed her lack of foresight.

A low growl reverberated from the other side of the car. It wasn’t the dark man; it was a wild animal. A massive shaggy shadow rose above the hood. A large predator! Nicole recalled stories of people mauled by huge black bears, dragged into the woods to a brutal death. Eaten alive! Ever since the spring bear hunt had been cancelled, the bruins had become bolder and more aggressive. She had jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

She knew better than to run. She froze, trying to remember all the rules about encountering a bear—make a lot of noise, look big, move slowly while keeping an eye on the animal. When the animal growled loudly again, she backed away. With a primeval roar, an enormous, hairy, black body lunged toward her.

Nicole screamed, spun around, and raced back down the path. There was no way to stop a charging bear without a weapon. Her only slim hope was to find refuge. The animal pursued, its claws churning up the gravel. A few meters before the pond, Nicole left the path in search of a tree to climb. White and black birch and rough maples loomed within reach. She scanned their trunks for a foothold. Useless! She tore into the blackness of forest.

Branches whipped against her body. She would never be able to outrun a bear. A stiff limb poked her face just beneath her eye. Her breath came in harsh, dry gasps. She stumbled over stones, mounds, roots, and fallen wood until her foot caught on something. She went down. Hard. A sharp pain shot through her knee. She locked her hands defensively over the back of her neck and curled into a ball, expecting the bear’s leap any second. She kneeled, panting, her body shaking and sweaty. The woods were silent. How could she have lost it? Bears could outrun a horse.

She listened, trying to quiet her breathing. Finally, she rolled over to a sitting position. She waited until the trembling stopped, then dug out her flashlight and flicked it on. The white beam arched back and forth, silhouetting an entanglement of growth in the ghostly quiet forest. The strangely gnarled tree trunks were discomforting. Which way was the path? Her leg throbbed and burned. She tasted vomit in the back of her throat.

She was lost. The only sensible thing was to sit it out until morning. It seemed a good time to start being sensible. What had she been thinking? What had she done?