by Various Authors
Release Date: November 30th 2015
Summary from Goodreads:
Good witch. Bad witch. White magic. Black magic. Kitchen magic. Pick your potion. Ready for Halloween? The authors of the Blazing Indie Collective, who brought you the Falling in Deep Collection, are brewing up something new. Check out all the novellas in The Witching Hour Collection coming October 2015:
Melanie Karsak: Witch Wood
Claire C. Riley: Raven's Cove
Claire C. Riley: Raven's Cove
Eli Constant: Sleeping in the Forest of Shadows
Elizabeth Watasin: Charm School: The Wrecking Faerie
Erin Hayes: I'd Rather be a Witch
Carrie Wells: Playing with Magic
Evan Winters: The Witch of Bracken’s Hollow
Minerva Lee: Spun Gold
Blaire Edens: The Witch of Roan Mountain
Poppy Lawless: The Cupcake Witch
The
Witching Hour Collection
Limited
edition box set!
This
collection will be available until the end of the year only!
Good
witch. Bad witch. White magic. Black magic. Kitchen magic. Pick your
potion. he authors of the Blazing Indie Collective, who brought you
the Falling in Deep Collection, are brewing up something new. Check
out all the novellas in The Witching Hour Collection
Melanie
Karsak: Witch
Wood
Claire C. Riley: Raven's Cove
Eli Constant: Sleeping in the Forest of Shadows
Elizabeth Watasin: Charm School: The Wrecking Faerie
Erin Hayes: I'd Rather be a Witch
Carrie Wells: Playing with Magic
Evan Winters: The Witch of Bracken's Hollow
Minerva Lee: Spun Gold
Blaire Edens: The Witch of Roan Mountain
Poppy Lawless: The Cupcake Witch
Claire C. Riley: Raven's Cove
Eli Constant: Sleeping in the Forest of Shadows
Elizabeth Watasin: Charm School: The Wrecking Faerie
Erin Hayes: I'd Rather be a Witch
Carrie Wells: Playing with Magic
Evan Winters: The Witch of Bracken's Hollow
Minerva Lee: Spun Gold
Blaire Edens: The Witch of Roan Mountain
Poppy Lawless: The Cupcake Witch
Find
our authors on Amazon!
Join
the authors of The Witching Hour
Collection
SUMMARY
OF BOOKS
The
Cupcake Witch by Poppy Lawless (Sweet Romance with Paranormal
Elements)
When
Julie inherits a magical recipe box, she never could have dreamed it
would turn her life upside down. Too bad Horatio Hunter wants to turn
those newfound dreams into ashes. They say the course of true love
never runs smooth. That’s nothing a magical cupcake can’t solve.
WITCH
WOOD BY MELANIE KARSAK (Dark Fantasy)
Harm
none, and be ready for zombies.
In
the little town of Brighton, Amelia’s practice of Wicca marks her
as a curiosity both at home and at school. However, when modern
treatments fail to make a dent in the flu outbreak sweeping the
globe, those who once ridiculed her white witchcraft turn to Amelia
for help. The residents of Brighton soon depend on the very magic
they once ridiculed to save their lives.
THE
WITCH OF BRACKEN’S HOLLOW BY EVAN WINTERS (Horror)
Damon
knows that the Witch of Bracken's Hollow is just a myth. However,
when a voice whispers Damon’s name at the witching hour, he must
sort out history from myth, fact from fiction, and he must do so
before the children he is charged to care for suffer the same fate as
Rachel.
TWISTED
MAGIC BY CLAIRE C. RILEY (Fantasy Romance)
It’s
a darkness that doesn’t want to let go...
'The
only way for Sarah and Peter to rise out of the ashes is to first
burn everything down to the ground.
SLEEPING
IN THE FOREST OF SHADOWS BY ELI CONSTANT (Dark Fantasy)
Going
to the voice that summons her may heal Tilda’s body, but it will
also cause her to lose everything she’s come to love. And once she
enters the forest of shadows, returning to human life might prove
impossible.
PLAYING
WITH MAGIC BY CARRIE L. WELLS (Paranormal)
Liza
Scott is far too busy enjoying life in college and playing video
games to be bothered by recurring dizzy spells. But she is soon faced
with life-altering information about herself medically and
metaphysically. Overnight, Liza has to face the changes in her life
and her new role as witch royalty. But what she really wants to focus
on is the gorgeous Fathom Burke who suddenly seems to know who she
is. Maybe it’s coincidence, but maybe, just maybe, it’s magic.
I’D
RATHER BE A WITCH BY ERIN HAYES (YA Fairy Tale/Paranormal)
Jordyn
wasn’t careful with what she wished for. After making a reckless
choice that destroyed her life along with the life of her high school
sweetheart, Jordyn fled her small town and became a professional
mermaid. Being around water suppresses her earth-based magic,
something she desperately needs. Yet Jordyn can't suppress who she
really is --- a witch. And she will finally have to embrace being a
witch to learn the truth which will change her life forever.
THE
WITCH OF ROAN MOUNTAIN BY BLAIRE EDENS (Paranormal Romance)
Campbell
and Maeve are thrown together in a quest to find out why Delphine was
branded a witch. It will take both of them to get to the bottom of a
nineteenth century story love story that may impact them more than
they realize. Can they banish a ghost without rekindling an old flame
of their own?
CHARM
SCHOOL: THE WRECKING FAERIE BY ELIZABETH WATASIN (Lesbian Romance)
Teen
witch Bunny has a perfectly wicked girlfriend in vampire biker Dean,
until a dark faerie comes along. When Bunny resists Fairer Than's
charms, what will Fairer Than do about it?
SPUN
GOLD BY MINERVA LEE (Fairy Tale Retelling)
Spin
this straw into gold or die... Will Stiltskin is last of his clan and
heir to its fortune and sorcery. Lyra, the shy, beautiful daughter of
the town's Miller, prefers books and walks by the river to suitors.
But when her foolish father's boast lands her in the king's dungeon,
Will's love unlocks Lyra's secret and forbidden magic. Together they
must save her life and the future of their love from a cruel King's
impossible task....And keep the power of gold away from selfish
hearts.
Author
interview with Melanie Karsak, Author of Witch Wood
Author
Interview:
-
What's your favorite witch movie or novel?
I
like my witches a little old fashioned. I would start with The
Mists of Avalon
by Marion Zimmer Bradley to see the roots of the modern pagan
movement. In terms of movies, I would definitely avoid seeing “The
Blair Witch Project” again because I totally puked my guts out
midway through that cult classic, but I like something light like
“Practical Magic” as well.
-
What was the inspiration for your witch novella?
The
Harvesting Series is a genre mashup. It begins like a classic zombie
horror story then the series begins to slowly reveal that there are
other supernatural forces in our world…vampires, fey shifters, and
so on. These dark forces have been trying to exterminate us for eons,
and they finally discovered a way by causing a virus that turned
mankind into zombies. Along the way, some people with special powers
emerge…a medium, a tarot reader, and in this novella, a white witch
named Amelia. Mankind is about to make their last stand, and they are
going to need Amelia’s help.
-
Tell us about your main character: white witch, dark witch, or something in-between?
Amelia
is a Wiccan, a white witch. She’s someone who has a special gift.
She can see, and heal, people’s energy, their auras. She’s also
not bad at casting spells and doing herb work. Her special talents
have always set her on the outskirts in the past, but that’s about
to change.
-
Cast your characters. If your novella was made into a movie, who would play your main characters?
For
fun, check out the image graphic I made!
-
Do you believe in magic?
Yes,
I do. I do believe people have the ability to use energy to influence
their environments in positive or negative ways.
-
What else should we know about your novella?
This
novella is a tie-in for my larger series, but it hold its own as a
stand-alone. We will see Amelia face the early days of the outbreak
and how she and her friends handle that situation. There is an
epilogue at the end of the novella that features characters from the
main series, so if that strikes your fancy, check out The
Harvesting
after you read Witch
Wood
to get started!
Excerpt
from The Cupcake Witch by Poppy Lawless
Holding
the whisk tightly, I
swirled the pale-yellow batter around the bowl, the sweet scents of
vanilla, brown sugar, and bitter dark chocolate perfuming the air.
Even though it was a cool autumn morning, the heat from the oven made
the kitchen feel toasty warm. I’d been baking all morning: expresso
mini cupcakes with cappuccino flavored frosting, matcha green tea
macaroons, and strawberry rhubarb coffee cake. The kitchen smelled
divine. Now, with a pot of coffee brewing and a batch of chocolate
chip walnut cookies just about ready to go into the oven, I could
almost relax.
“Here,
taste this,” I said to Dad, scooping up a small bite of the dough
with a spoon and sticking it into his mouth before he could protest.
“You’re
going to give me salmonella poisoning,” he said then sighed deeply.
“A little food poisoning is worth it. So good, but they
taste…different.”
“Bad
different?”
Dad
shook his head. “Tasty different.”
“Organic
brown sugar and sea salt.”
“I’m
going to gain ten pounds before you go back to college next week,”
he said with a laugh then turned back to his paperwork.
Sighing,
I placed the cookie dough on the baking sheet and stuck it in the
oven. How was I going to tell Dad I wasn’t planning on going back?
With Mom gone…well, I just didn’t even know why I was there
anymore. It wasn’t like I had ever wanted to go to college. I
wanted to be a baker. But Mom wanted me to be a dentist, so I was
studying pre-dentistry. Now, Mom was gone. The pain of her loss still
felt like a huge lump in my chest.
I
poured Dad and myself coffee and sat down at the table. He was
thumbing through a heap of real estate briefs. Dayton Real Estate was
busier than ever, and with Mom gone, an agent short. Dad was running
himself ragged.
I
spooned some raw sugar into my cup and tried to think of something to
say other than the fact that I hated school. It was nearly the end of
October and thus far junior year had been a bust. I told Dad I wasn’t
ready. After losing Mom that summer, I just couldn’t get my head
back into the game. I didn’t want to waste my life pursuing a
career in dentistry just because everyone, but especially Mom,
thought it would be a good move for a smart girl like me. Mom’s
death had taught me many things, the most important being that life
was short. Why was I working so hard for a future I felt pretty
apathetic about?
“Here
is the property in Chancellor I was telling you about,” Dad said,
saving me from having the dreaded conversation once more, as he
handed me an envelope. From inside, I pulled out a yellowed
photograph of a tiny little Tudor-style cottage. Under the photo, the
words Serendipity
Gardens
had been written in faded pencil.
“It
looks like a witch’s cottage. Mrs. Aster, the woman who left us the
building…how did you say we were related again?” I stared at the
photograph as I twirled one red dreadlock around my finger. The
little building was a mess, the glass nursery overgrown, but there
was something quaint, almost fairy tale like, about it.
Dad
was eyeing the table full of sweets, finally settling on one of the
mini cupcakes, popping it into his mouth. “These are amazing,
Julie. Seriously,” he said after a moment. “Mrs. Aster was
Grandma Belle’s husband’s sister.”
“And
how does that make her related to us?”
“Through
marriage only, but we are her closest living relatives,” Dad said
then shrugged. “I’ve got the property into the MLS system, but I
need to run over to Chancellor this week and put up the signs.
Probably won’t be hard to move the old place. I already have a
message—which I haven’t even managed to return yet—from
Blushing Grape Vineyards inquiring on the property. Need to get that
sign up, see if I can fish any other bids out of the pond. Maybe the
college will want the property, turn it into an office or something.
On the corner of Main Street and Magnolia, the location is great.
We’ll probably get a good price if we can get some competition,”
Dad said then paused. He looked up at me, a serious expression on his
face. “You know, Chancellor College offers science degrees. Jules,
I know you aren’t happy…” he began then stopped. Trying again,
he switched directions by saying, “Maybe if you were closer to
home, things might be easier.”
Panicking,
I picked up the envelope. “Chancellor, eh? Don’t they have a
harvest festival at this time of year? Why don’t I take the signs
over? I’ll grab a pumpkin spice latte or something.”
My
dad pushed his glasses back up his nose then ran his hand through his
hair. Was it my imagination or did his hair look whiter? His face was
certainly more drawn. He must have shed twenty pounds from his
already thin frame. Mom’s death had hit us both hard. It was just
manifesting differently. Dad was running thin, and I was running
scared. I didn’t want to waste my life following the dream Mom had
lain out so neatly for me. My real passion had always lain in the
kitchen. Fondant. Buttercream. Meringue. Ever since I got my first
Easy-Bake Oven, I knew what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be. My
dream, however, had never jelled with what Mom had wanted. And as
much as it hurt, Mom was gone. I could keep going to college for her,
but that didn’t feel right. I needed to do something. Something
needed to change. And in the meantime, I was failing my classes.
“Walk
around the campus while you’re there. Check out its vibe. See if
you like it.”
“Or
not,” I said absently. The last thing I wanted was more college:
more homework I couldn’t get myself to complete, more classes I
couldn’t get myself to go to, more anything.
“You
know, they also have a culinary program,” my dad said carefully. “A
letter came from your college’s advising office. It said you’re
failing all—”
“I…I
know,” I stammered, standing. “Can we talk about it tonight?”
He
nodded. “I love you. We’re both just trying to manage here.” He
lifted a macaroon then looked from it to me. “The culinary program.
Mom and I always disagreed...tonight, let’s talk. But you’re
making dinner.”
“Of
course. It’s pizza night! I bought portabella mushrooms, arugula,
and goat cheese.”
“You
had me at portabella,” Dad said with a chuckle. “Anything would
be better than those damned frozen dinners.”
“Dad!
You can’t eat that garbage.”
He
shrugged. “What can I say? I don’t have time to cook. Speaking of
which, did you know it only takes five weeks to get a real estate
license? Without your mom, I could use the extra help,” he said
then patted the massive stack of inspection reports, loan documents,
and other paperwork that was my dad’s—and had been my
mom’s—life’s work, “and a home cooked meal, on occasion.”
I
picked up the envelope then kissed my dad on his balding head. “Home
cooked meals I can handle.”
My
dad patted my hand.
“Take
the cookies out when the timer goes off?”
“Of
course. I’d never let a Julie Dayton cookie burn. Too precious a
commodity.”
I
wrapped my arms around my dad and hugged him tight.
“Love
you,” I said.
“Love
you too, Julie bean,” he replied.
Letting
him go, I grabbed my purse and keys and headed off to the witch’s
cottage.
Interview
with Carrie L. Wells, author of Playing with Magic
-
What's your favorite witch movie or novel?
I
hated scary movies when I was younger, and I honestly am not a huge
fan of them now. However, I love magic and the idea of the white
witch. With that said, Hocus
Pocus
is my favorite witch movie.
-
What was the inspiration for your witch novella?
This
novella came from watching my students’ lives change in unexpected
ways as they continue through college. I also love the idea of a
witch being less than excited by her new powers and considering how
they may negatively impact her life.
-
Tell us about your main character: white witch, dark witch, or something in-between?
Liza
Scott hasn’t quite figured out what type of witch she is. We get to
watch her discover her power, but she has decisions to make in the
next books. She has considerable power, and now we get to see what
she plans to do with them.
-
Cast your characters. If your novella was made into a movie, who would play your main characters?
Mix
sassy Anna Kendrick as Liza with her BFF Jake T. Austin as Felix! Add
a dose of the lovely Jane Levy for Darcy and the eyes Zac Efron as
Fathom! Finish off with a splash of Olivia Wilde in the magical role
of Fallon.
-
Do you believe in magic?
Absolutely!
Magic can be found anywhere and is the best part of life!
-
What else should we know about your novella?
This
is my second novella, and I fell in love with the idea of writing
about someone on the cusp of her life. College is an amazing time,
and I just wanted to make it more amazing. To make it magical!
Author
interview with Claire C. Riley, author of Twisted Magic
Q1.
What’s your favourite witch movie or novel?
It
has to be either The Witches of Eastwick or Hocus Pocus. And yes, I
know how completely different those two films are, but they are both
classics to me, and I watch them every year.
Q2.
What was your inspiration for your witch novella?
I’m
a huge fan of Romeo & Juliet, the whole ‘love that cannot be’
thing really grips me, and so with this in mind I tried to twist the
story on its head and incorporate it into a more modern setting. And
of course include witches haha
Q3.
Cast your characters. If your novella were made into a movie, who
would play your main characters?
I
imagined someone like Clare Danes to play Sarah, but that could be
because I had the whole Romeo and Juliet thing in my head. For Peter
I definitely saw someone like Kit Harrington :0)
Q4.
Do you believe in magic?
In
short, yes.
Q5.
What else should we know about your novella?
If
you like dark romances and tortured heroes, then this is for you.
Excerpt
of Sleeping in the Forest of Shadows by Eli Constant
Chapter
One
Through
the Glass
It
calls to me. It is calling to me now.
The
thing that has no face—that thing that is nothing, but is somehow
everything—is hiding outside my window, far off across the field,
past the fence, cloaked by the forest’s dark shadows. Once, some
time ago, before my mother was forced to leave this home, it called
to her. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. Now, I am here and
I’m like her in so many ways. The same crow-dark hair atop my head,
the same olive green eyes with rings of silver that are often
obscured by my thick-framed glasses, and the same aristocratic upturn
at the end of my nose—a physical trait that is infinitely
unattractive in my opinion.
It
thinks I am her. So, it calls to me.
But
my mother was vibrantly alive and healthy and adventurous when she
was my age.
I
am not vibrant or healthy or adventurous.
I
am crippled, wheelchair-bound. If I’m honest with myself, the voice
that I hear in my head could be nothing more than the imaginings of a
girl who has lost so much, a girl who has a great and terrible desire
to be wanted. But something inside of me says the thing is real. So
very, very real.
At
nearly eighteen, I should be starting my senior year with all of my
friends…with my best friend Charlie. Especially her. There’s so
much that we’d planned to do together Senior year and now I’ve
ruined that along with the laundry list of other things my touch has
spoiled. I just could not bring myself to face that life with all its
walking, talking, chatting students. The kids who thought life was
about parties and books. Because I know the truth now. Life is not
fun and games. It’s not about tomorrow. It’s a tragedy in which
you inexplicably live when everyone else—all those who are better
and kinder people than you are—die.
Sometimes,
I wish I hadn’t survived, that I’d died along with my mother and
father and little brother Toby. But I did not die. I’m very much
alive and breathing. And self-pity is an ugly, ugly thing that keeps
life at bay. That’s something I have to keep telling myself. Don’t
feel sorry for yourself, Tilda. Other people have it worse off,
Tilda.
I
only listen to myself sometimes.
I
only believe myself sometimes.
My
life is loneliness, like I am still outside our home hoping the
firemen will carry my family out and that they will be unscathed. But
when they do carry them out, they are burned, blackened,
unrecognizable, and they are dead. My eleven-year-old baby brother. I
still see him in my nightmares—how his pajamas, several inches too
short in the legs, are burned through in places to reveal flaking,
charred skin.
Looking
through the glass, which is bubbled and wavy so that the world
outside is always a distortion of reality, I can hear my Aunt Jen
yelling my name. Her voice is loud and threatens to ruin my
connection with whatever lies beyond the wall of great pines and
thick foliage. Real or not, the ever-strengthening threads that
connect me with it are something I can cleave too, a tether of
security as I stand on the precipice, my childhood behind me and the
great chasm of adulthood yawning in front of me. Life isn’t always
beautiful. No, sometimes it is a gnarly, thorn-bearing fruit that
cuts the throat as you swallow. Reality is bitter and bloody.
A
singular tear, wet and salty, escapes my right eye and crawls down my
face. The slowness of its movement is nearly unbearable. I wipe it
away with the corner of my shirt and stare at the woods, one part of
my brain cataloging the details of the landscape as the rest of my
mind wanders away to other things.
The
bright shades of the emerald forest have just started changing, their
tips becoming ochre and crimson. I do not look forward to the dull
browns that will come after the fleeting and vivid shades of fall.
Even though autumn has always been my favorite season, when I can
hide my tall frame and thick hips beneath the folds of fuzzy sweaters
and patterned scarves, I do not relish in it now. Besides, I am
always sitting these days—my hips out of sight and away from
scrutinizing peers with slim hips and perfect skin.
In
my old life, the changing of seasons would bring Thanksgiving and
Dad’s turkey; it would bring Christmas and decorating the tree.
Toby would place the star atop the fir. That was always his job.
Truly,
fall and winter hold little magic for me now.
Magic.
As if there is such a thing. Magic can’t be real in a world where
families senselessly die.
“Matilda
Elisabeth!” Jen yells my given name, even though I hate it with a
passion, and that hatred is what destroys the veil and disconnects
the faceless thing from my mind. As its calling fades, I feel the hum
of discomfort returning to my body. The siren call from the forest
often makes me forget how much I hurt inside. The aching pain that
swells so large at times that I think my chest will burst. “Tilda,
seriously, come on! Your appointment is in twenty minutes!”
“Coming.”
I don’t bother yelling back at her. The house is not gigantic; my
voice carries easily down the hallway. I think Jen just likes raising
her voice, hearing the octaves change as she gets louder. My
responses aren’t always so calm; often, I scream back at her until
we are both mad and brash things filling the house with discord.
It
takes me time to move from the bay window seat to the wheelchair. I’m
still getting the hang of it. Aunt Jen has picked me up off the floor
more than once. I’m lucky the house is one story, that the doorways
are wide—which is unusual in such an old farmhouse.
Despite
everything, I love it here with Jen and I can’t imagine what would
have happened to my mother’s family home if my grandparents had
sold it rather than willing it to Jen. It was in poor shape and my
aunt has put her life’s savings into restoring it the way it once
was when she was a child—bright white siding, hanging flower pots
screaming with irreverent color, hunter green storm shutters and even
the rooster-shaped weather vane atop the roof. The only thing Jen
hasn’t repaired is the fencing along the edge of the woods.
Several
of the fence posts are crooked in the ground and the paint is
peeling, but it is still white enough to be stark against the
darkness of the thickly grouped trees in the forest. Sometimes,
leaving something undone is a promise for tomorrow.
It’s a stupid thing to think.
Finally,
I am in the wheelchair, but I find that I do not want to move.
I
hate to leave this room and reenter the world outside, because Jen
has made my room so wonderful. It is my own little sanctuary.
The
walls are a soft gray and the curtains are an ethereal, gauzy white
embroidered with delicate ivory flowers. The chandelier above my bed
is original to the house, but it has been restored so that the pale
yellow flower sconces are sunny and re-glazed. Everything has been
picked out with so much care—the paisley pillows, the pastel throw
blanket, the faux fur rug that is so soft. I’ve felt the material a
hundred times with my fingers, imagining how it would feel under my
feet, imagining how my toes would sink into the luxurious fibers. It
makes me sad that I cannot stand on it each morning after waking.
My
room is the best room in the house really, the largest. Jen doesn’t
want the room for herself; maybe she just feels sorry for me after
everything.
When
they were children, Jen and my mom shared the room—up until my mom
was shipped off to boarding school at sixteen. My mother never
explained why she was forced to go and Jen was allowed to stay. Maybe
the room just reminds Jen too much of mom. Maybe it reminds her that
her sister is dead. I find it comforting, because I can feel mom
here. But I can also understand. I see the grief and pain in Jen’s
eyes sometimes when she looks at me—how her expression goes blank
because of how much I resemble mom. She’s called me Heather once or
twice and she rarely comes into the room while I am here, like I am
the ghost of my mother and seeing me in the room is too much to
handle.
“Seriously,
Tilda, come
on!”
Jen’s voice is louder and more insistent.
“It’s
not like this is easy,” I mumble under my breath, trying to call up
some angry, but I can’t really be angry, not with Jen. She didn’t
have to give me a place to live, assume the burden of caring for a
crippled niece, but she did. And she chooses to care for me every
day. I half expect her to wake up one morning and have changed her
mind.
As
I begin to move toward the door, I feel a pressure in my stomach. A
hook in my navel linked to a line that is desperately trying to yank
me backwards—to the window, to the thing that is calling to me. I
am connected once again. The call is getting louder. I’ve only been
here a few months and each day the summons becomes more compelling.
My
hands are already hurting from gripping the wheels of my chair and
I’ve barely moved at all—just a few yards out of my room and down
the hall towards Jen’s little art studio next to the kitchen. I
know I need to get stronger, that recovery will be a long road. If
I can recover. The doctors say there’s only a fifty-fifty chance
that I’ll walk again. The beam that fell on my back was so heavy. I
remember the sound my body made when it crashed into me and how it
felt—that unsettling crunch as my body caved inward, the way the
lower half of my body went numb after the initial sharp, excruciating
pain.
My
aunt is standing, still wearing her paint-covered apron and working
on a large piece, the largest yet. It nearly blocks the longest wall.
It’s a line of three robed figures and the only colors she is using
are purple, blue, and white, but somehow she’s created such depth
that the figures seem to walk off the canvas and come towards me. It
touches me for some reason. I want to be one of them, a robed girl
hiding me from the world.
But
they are walking.
And
I am not.
“Do
you like it?” Jen says over her shoulder, not looking at me. “It’s
almost finished.” She turns around, hands on hips, a satisfied
smile on her face.
“Yeah.
It’s nice I guess.” It’s such an understatement. I love the
painting, but it’s so hard to be positive about things these days.
“Why were you yelling at me if you’re not even ready?” I huff,
rubbing the palms of my hands roughly to drive away the soreness.
“Because
I can give you a rolling head start, take off my apron, put on my
shoes, grab my purse and still beat you out to the car with time to
spare.”
“I’m
not that slow.” I grumble, not amused—but my aunt certainly is;
her face is stretched in a self-satisfied grin.
“Don’t
mumble.” Jen turns away from me and applies a streak of bright
white next to a stretch of deep blue.
“I
grumbled. There’s a difference.”
“Oh
really?” She turns to me, cleaning her brush with a stained cotton
cloth.
“If
I mumble, it can be for any reason. Grumbling means that I’m
mumbling because I’m unhappy, displeased, despondent or generally
grumpy.”
“If
you say so. Grumbling or mumbling or anything in between. How about
we toss the ‘tude and get to your appointment.” Jen unties her
apron, takes it off, and lets it fall to the floor. “How’s your
bag before we go?”
Frowning,
I feel the collection sack strapped to my leg. It’s still very
flat. “It’s fine.” I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the
catheter and waste collection set up, but it’s a fact of my life
now. One
of the many joys of paraplegia.
Cringing, I place my still-throbbing hands on the wheels again and I
make my way to the kitchen door—it whines like a dying cat when you
open it, because Jen forgets to oil it, no matter how many times I
remind her. I’d do it myself, but the spray is in a bottom shelf in
the pantry—one of the only rooms in the house with a doorway too
narrow for my chair.
We
always enter and exit out the back, because that’s where the ramp
is. Jen has taken to parking on the lawn by the ramp instead of the
front drive. It makes it easier for me, but I always feel bad when I
see where the grass is dying.
Things
seem to die around me, especially things that I love.
And
I love grass, as stupid as that sounds. I love the feel of it on my
bare feet; I love stretching out on it beneath a warm sun, and I love
the way it smells when it is fresh-cut. So, inevitably, all the
beautiful emerald blades are turning brown. Because
things that I love die.
This is a fact that haunts me.
Excerpt
from The Witch of Bracken’s Hollow by Evan Winters
Standing
in the backyard of the Unity Road Baptist Church Retreat, Damon
Daugherty gazed out across the black waters of Deep Run Lake to the
woods that ran into Bracken’s Hollow and for unknown miles beyond.
For the umpteenth time that day, Damon struggled with the strange
feeling that he was somehow peering not just through space but
backward through time. There he stood in the present on a chilly
October day. The sound of laughter came from inside the lodge where
his friends were preparing dinner in the kitchen. Damon, on the other
hand, labored with refuse. In each hand, he held a trash bag, both of
which sagged heavily under the weight of discarded bottles, cigarette
packages, and all the rest of the debris that had been left on the
trails around the lake by local kids over the course of a long summer
worth of secret parties in the woods. Damon had spent the afternoon
cleaning up the campsite in preparation for the teen retreat he would
be hosting that weekend—his first as the youth minister of Unity
Road Baptist. His labors that day had been simple and
straightforward, requiring little in the way of mental effort.
But
even after several hours working under a cold October sun, Damon
couldn’t help but feel out of step with the present moment.
Excitement ticked in his chest, a childish impatience so strong that
it bordered on anxiety. Damon supposed it was to be expected. Though
he was a grown man with a set of new challenges before him, he had
grown up a member of Unity Road Baptist. He had attended many
retreats at Deep Run as a kid, and it had been over ten years since
his last visit.
All
afternoon, as Damon had worked along the bank of Deep Run, he had
found memories waiting to ambush him around every corner. For the
first few hours, as he picked trash out of the trail that ran along
the lakeside, he couldn’t help but glance from time to time out to
the dock expecting to see his junior high school buddies
cannonballing off the end or challenging each other to dive all the
way to the bottom and return with a handful of mud from the mucky
bottom.
Later,
as he cleaned out the fire pit in the clearing along the eastern path
and gathered a batch of firewood for the next night, the nostalgia
was so strong that Damon could almost hear the hymns he’d sung
around that fire pit so many times in his youth. Then, as he cleaned
trash from the trail that led into Bracken’s Hollow, Damon’s
memories of hikes he had taken with his father were so strong that he
could almost feel the man’s footsteps following along the dirt path
behind him.
But
for all these fine memories of his youth at Deep Run, one memory
lurked under them all, rising up from the depths of Damon’s
consciousness like some submerged leviathan coming up for air. So,
after depositing the trash into the bins at the corner of the lodge,
Damon turned back to the lake and gave it a long, thoughtful look.
Over the course of the past week, as he had been making arrangements
for the retreat, Damon had been quietly bracing himself for his
return to the lake. Damon’s ten-year absence had not been
accidental. Damon was no fool. He had known this memory would come
for him. And as he gazed out across the dark waters shimmering in the
late afternoon light, he let it rise up in him in the shape of a
single word, spoken aloud.
“Rachel,”
he said.
Then,
as if in reply, a voice called to him from inside. “Damon! Come on!
These steaks ain’t getting any more done than they are. Least not
on my watch.”
“Be
right there,” Damon shouted in reply. Then he turned away from the
water and went inside, forcing himself not to look back. He’d had
enough of the past for one day.
Interview
with Blaire Edens, author of The Witch of Roan Mountain (PNR)
-
What's your favorite witch movie or novel?
I
love Practical Magic, both the movie and the book. I also adore The
Witch of Blackbird Pond and recently reread it for old times’ sake.
-
What was the inspiration for your witch novella?
In
the summer, I went on a hike to Roan Mountain, a magical place on the
North Carolina/Tennessee border. I knew instantly that it was my
setting. It was misty and mossy and provided a great backdrop for
spooky.
-
Tell us about your main character: white witch, dark witch, or something in-between?
Delphine
is ghost. Having been accused of witchcraft and murder, she’s
determined to wander the mountains until someone can clear her name.
Maeve, a down-on-her-luck attorney sees Delphine and is so drawn to
her story that she makes it her mission to get to the bottom of a
century-old mystery.
-
Cast your characters. If your novella was made into a movie, who would play your main characters?
For
Maeve, I think Jennifer Lawrence would be awesome. Bradley Cooper,
with the American Sniper muscles, would make a great Campbell. I’d
love to see these two together on the screen again because they have
such great chemistry. As Delphine, I think Anne Hathaway could pull
off the perfect ghostly witch. And Paula Deen for Granny, cause she
can make biscuits in real life.
-
Do you believe in magic?
Yes.
Magic is everywhere. You just have to know where to look.
-
What else should we know about your novella?
As
a native of the area I’ve written about in this book, I’m
incredibly proud of my Appalachian roots and I hope you’ll Roan
Mountain enough to come visit me someday!
Interview
with Minerva Lee, author of Spun Gold (fairy tale retelling)
1.)
What is your favorite witch movie or novel? I loved watching re-runs
of Bewitched on TV. I always wanted to wiggle my nose like Samantha!
I would love to clean up dirty dishes this way. My favorite
Halloween movie isn’t really a witch one...I love the Legend of
Sleepy Hollow in all its versions over the years. What a classic
timeless creepy story.
2.)
What was the inspiration for your witch novella? Rumplestiltskin. I
love fairytales and legends of all kinds and I like thinking of them
in different ways. I began wondering what the story could be if
Stiltskin was a magical hero and he and the Miller’s daughter were
in love.
3.)Tell
us about your main character, white witch, dark witch or something
in-between? Lyra and Will possess a special kind of white
magic...they are able to transform one element into
another...Alchemy. Lyra has forgotten her magic but Will helps her
find it.
4.)
Do you believe in magic? Yes. If you don’t the world is a dull
place indeed. It may not be the wiggle your nose or wand version, but
magic is there and every once in awhile it reaches out and touches
us.
5.)
What else should we know about your novella?
It
is just the beginning to a bigger story. Will and Lyra’s story
leads to another and then back again. Nothing brings out magic more
than love.
The Authors
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