" WHATTA LINEUP "

WHATTA LINEUP!

WHEN AN AUTHOR

 MEETS AN AUTHOR,

COMIN' THROUGH THE WRY

Psssst ~  Word around WebTowne is  ~

"The Shadows of Our Noir"

are summer-sizzlin' 

~ with ~

DAVID BARBER

PAUL BRAZILL

RICHARD GODWIN

KATE LAITY

GRAHAM SMITH

and

ABSOLUTELY*KATE

from the 

MATT HILTON

ACTION: PULSE POUNDING TALES 

a u t h o r  c r e w   o f   r e n o w n

{ Psst ~ Click title above ~ Get the palpitating book yet? ~ You read my tough tale, "ANGEL TOUGH"? ~ Whatcha think? ~ You read Barber's & Brazill's & Godwin's & Laity's & Smith's & Hilton's of course in the course of your heightened awaresness that this book is so hot it *sizzzzzles*? After that, there's but 30 more in store . . . gonna go twist their elbow for an AT THE BIJOU show next. You'll see. }

* AT THE BIJOU *

Sashay or Saunter in every
summer*weekend!

The popcorn's better buttery,

and the hits?

Heck, they just keep comin'.

Dateline ~ JUNE 17th . . . NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS

The 17th of June ~ 


The Battle of Bunker Hill
The Watergate Break-In thrill
OJ Simpson's unglorified white Ford Bronco ride
  
~ And this year, once again,
my Birthday and Father's Day side by side by side.

In childhood days, Mom's mastery with aqua icing put a ripple right smack dab down the middle of our cake. Chocolate cake, buttercream white, piles of happy lovin' laughin' ~ sharing day and life with my hero, my Dad ~ THE ultimate delight.

My Dad is why 

my Spirit is undauntable.

My Dad is why

 I believe in believers,

and that those whose lives we touch or reach or jostle with jazz are the true enrichments of 

our Life's greater show.

Dad's my heaven on earth today.

We'll share a cup of coffee, together, some way.

And having my cake and eating it too?

Same cake, same aqua ripple ~ an act of love of the love o'my life . . . He knows ~ that what matters in the soul of how you got to be who/how you are should always matter.

Happy Celebrations to Dads

 and fellow Gemini charmers 

Such Thanks to all of you . . . *AT THE BIJOU*

as our interactions shine through and true.

~ Absolutely*BirthdayKate,

~ sharing Father's Day . . . once again

with my Dad, the star in my firmaments,

knowing great shows of Life always go on

( Cue music ~ Hit it Mr Berlin )

I love you Dad.

Thanks . . . for letting me know 

people who love people are the

luckiest people in this here world.

~ Absolutely*Kate

Oh, you did so good Kid ----

Proudly Presenting ~ "NOVEMBER, 1955" by Leon Jackson Davenport . . . back AT THE BIJOU for "THE SHADOWS OF OUR NOIR"

November, 1955

By Leon Jackson Davenport

She was beautiful. Tall and slender with dark-brown eyes, (the kind in which one can lose his soul); her light skin was perfect, her smile mesmerizing, and her taste in clothes impeccable. She was the kind of woman, we all dream of attracting, one that will be the envy of both genders; the women want to be like her, and men need her to love us.

It was November 1955, and I was still basking in the glow of the Dodger’s victory over the Yankees in the World Series. It was made even sweeter because the Dodgers did it with so many Negro players: Joe Black, Don Newcombe, Roy Campanella, Jim Gilliam, Sandy Amoros and the man, Jackie Robinson all played pivotal parts in helping the beloved team from Brooklyn win.

I was drinking Jack Daniels, in a little bar near my office, which I frequent, just to be sociable, and to keep up on what’s happening in the neighborhood. The combination of good reliable information, a quick right hand and a ready smile usually gets me what I want, I’m not bragging just laying out the facts.

She walked over to me, gliding as every eye in the place watched her.

“Mr. Gunn? Mr. Jacob Gunn?”

“Yeah, I’m Gunn. What can I do for you, Miss, ah?”

“Jones, Amanda Jones.”

“What can I do for you Miss Jones?”

“I’d like to talk to you in private Mr. Gunn. Can we move to that booth over there in the back?”

“You’re new here aren’t you?” I said smiling. “That booth belongs to Tommy Brown. He runs the numbers in this neighborhood. Nobody sits in Tommy’s booth, not even me. Lets go over there,” I say pointing to a booth next to Tommy’s, a little closer to the back door.

“It is quiet, and we can talk.” She led the way, and every head in the bar turned to watch.

She told me about her predicament: a former boyfriend was threatening her, and she was scared. All she wanted was to be left alone, and she asked if could I pay him a visit and convince him that the best course of action, for him, was to move on. She made it very plain, that it was all right with her, if he was slapped around a little in the process; after all, he slapped her around, more than a few times, over the three years they were together. I asked if she had a current boyfriend, and her answer was vague. I figured she did and he must have been white and married. He couldn’t get his hands dirty, or he didn’t know about the old boyfriend; however, the old boyfriend knew about the brand-new boyfriend, and he was threatening to louse up her new life. I told her that I’d talk to him. She slid an envelope across the table. In the envelope were three $50 bills and a card with a name and address along with a picture of the gentleman in question. She said there would be another couple of hundred in it for me when I completed the job. I told her I’d have something to tell her in a couple of days. She gave me her thanks, a smile and then disappeared into the night.

~ ~ * ~ ~

The next morning I went to the address on the card. It was a prewar apartment building with black-and-white tiles in the lobby, high ceilings, ornate moldings, and grand archways; it was a beautiful building. I wondered if they had any vacancies, I would have liked to live there. Then I thought about the business I was about, and I decided it was only a pipe dream; I was going to kick the snot out of one of my perspective neighbors, not a good way to introduce yourself.

It was an elevator building without a doorman or front desk, so, once I got someone to buzz me in; I could go right up. I had a photo of the target, and as I walked by, a guy resembling my client’s former boyfriend came walking out the front door. He had a lunchbox and was wearing coveralls with his name on one side and “Quality Auto Repair” on the other.

While he was gone, I decided to go upstairs and make myself at home. The guy I wanted, lived on the third floor near the back. The front door was locked, but I knew from experience, with a little patience someone will let you in. It could be a teacher going off to work; or a factory worker dragging in after third shift; a kid off to school or a mom off to buy groceries. Sometimes it would take a nice smile and nod of the head, but someone will always let you in.

Today it was the teacher; she eyed me up and down, noticing how sharply I was dressed. I wore a fedora; brim pulled low; neatly pressed tan pants with a white dress shirt, light starch and a blue blazer with gold buttons and my shoes shone to a high gloss. I smiled; that confident, friendly, useful smile that has gotten me out of more scrapes than I could count.

“Thank-you ma’am.”

“That’s miss.”

“Oh, thank-you miss.”

“Gloria, Gloria Powell, from 4C. Are you new to the building?”

“I’m thinking of moving in. Do you know of any vacancies, Miss Gloria?”

“I think 2D is moving. But check with the super and don’t let him swindle you, he sometime tries to add $10 or $15 to the rent for new people.”

“Why, thank-you Miss Gloria, with that information, I’ll be ready for him.”

“Hope you get that apartment.”

“Me, too. Thank-you Miss Gloria, have a nice day.”

“Good-bye Mr.?”

“Gunn, Jacob Gunn.”

“Good-bye Mr. Gunn.”

I offer my hand, and she takes it.

“Please, Miss Gloria, call me Jacob.”

“All right, good-bye Jacob,” she pulls her hand away teasing my fingers. I hold open the door and watch her walk down the street and around the corner; she didn’t look back, but you could tell she knew I was watching.

I walked up to the third floor and tried the lock; it was open, amazing in this day an age, that people still left their front doors open. I looked around the apartment. Mr. Little lived simply; a small black-and-white TV was on a table in the corner, and the radio on the kitchen counter was tuned to a jazz station. The living room was furnished with a couch, and an easy chair placed in front of the TV; a cheap turquoise dinette for two was next to the counter separating the kitchen from the living room, no pictures, not of him, my client or his parents, he’s a loner or maybe an orphan. In the single bedroom, he had made his bed; he was most likely a military man, judging from the Spartan furnishings and the shoes shined and placed neatly in the closet; one, no two nice suits, they looked tailor made, no women’s clothes, no clothes that didn’t belong to him. He was a big guy 52 long; most of the clothes came from Macy’s, there was one suit with a fancy Italian label probably a gift, but from whom? The client dropped a hundred and fifty beans without batting an eye. Maybe she gave it to him; she was the kind of woman who would want her man to look good if she was going to be on his arm.

I found his checkbook and savings passbook; he has a balance of $318.76, really $328.76 in the checking, (he forgot to carry the one) and $1521 in savings. That seems like a lot of money for a mechanic, he could be saving for a car, he could almost buy a new Chevy, or Ford, but if he wanted a Pontiac, he was a few hundred short. I wondered if he earned it the old-fashioned way, or if it was a payoff to keep silent.

Well, I got the lay of the land, and it was time to go; I put everything back the way I found it, because I was going to come back tonight and have a talk with Mr. William Little. I checked the hallway; no one was around, and as I closed the door, I thought “Mr. Little it has been a pleasure getting to know you.”

~ ~ * ~ ~

He left for work around 8 am. So, I figured a half-hour on the subway, arriving at work about 8:30 am; eight hours working; a half-hour for lunch means he’d clock out at 5 pm; another half-hour on the subway home, arriving around 5:30 pm; add another hour to clean up and eat he should be ready for our little chat around 6:30 pm tonight.

I came back around 6 pm just in time to see him leaving. I admit I was curious how Mr. Little spent his evenings, so I followed him. He stopped at a payphone and made a call. It was a local call because he only put in one nickel. I was too far away to hear to whom he was talking or what was said, but I could see that he was very upset. A minute or two into the call he began to strike the side of the telephone, over and over, harder and harder, faster and faster; like he was beating out a message, suddenly he shouts something into the telephone and violently hangs up.

“I bet I know where he is headed next,” I say out loud.

The name of the bar was Kate’s, it was a nice neighborhood bar that served food, which looked and smelled good; it had my favorite beer on tap, Schlitz, and if you were of a different mind, Budweiser and Miller High Life. The prices were reasonable, Kate was friendly, and the other patrons were into minding their own business.

I took a seat near the back, ordered pastrami on rye and a beer, and watched Mr. Little drown his sorrows.

It seemed that Mr. Little preferred Budweiser, which was the only thing I found, so far, that wasn’t likeable, well, except that he likes to slap dames around. I couldn’t do much about the former but the latter I was going to address later tonight.

I finished my sandwich and left a healthy tip for Kate; and then I went to Mr. Little’s apartment and waited for him to return. Again, he left the door open, and I slipped inside. I sat in the living room chair with the lights off thinking I’d surprise him; he was a big guy and even after a few drinks, he could be hard to handle.

By the time he got home, he was tight, not drunk, but you could tell he was feeling it. Fumbling with the door, he managed to get it closed and was feeling around for the light switch when I spoke.

“Mr. Little?”

Startled he hit the light switch and spun around.

“Who are you and why the fuck are you in my living room?”

“Mr. Little I have been asked by a young woman, Miss Amanda Jones, that I believe you know, to ask you to stop bothering her. She feels that your time together, while somewhat amusing, is over and the smart thing to do would be to have no further contact with her.”

“What business is it of yours? That is between me and Amanda.”

“I was asked, by Miss Jones, to deliver this message to you.”

“Right, like I give a good God damn.”

“Mr. Little, you should give a damn. I’m here to deliver the message; and come to an equitable accommodation; so, I can overlook your unfortunate outburst, but understand I will protect my client's interest, vigorously.”

“Okay, what’ll she pay?”

“I’m not authorized to discuss that with you.”

“Then why am I wasting my time talking to you? It is like I told her on the phone tonight, she gives me what I want or I’ll tell her fine, married, white boy, not only she isn’t white but (here is the cherry on top): I was there first; big, black, me. I’d bet that little cracker will run for the hills or back to his wife’s bed, if she’ll have him, and Amanda will be left out in the cold.”

“Mr. Little, I‘m here to see that doesn’t happen.”

“Who’s going to stop me? You?"

”Yes.”

He was three inches taller and 35 or so pounds heaver and well muscled. I was a star football player in college, starting at fullback and linebacker, and I was the place kicker too. I never did mind a little scrap; I enjoyed it occasionally; it felt good besting another man with fist, knife, or gun, it didn’t matter to me.

Mr. Little charged me; I stood up and relied on a skill learned on the gridiron. I gave him my 35-yard field goal kick, right in the balls, which dropped him to his knees. A quick left, left, right, and he was done, curled up on the floor holding his nuts and trying to regain feeling in his face.

I sat back down in the chair and waited until he could talk. After a while, he spoke.

“You son-of-a-bitch! I’m going to rip your balls off.”

“Really? That was my 35-yard place kick; you know I made field goals from 40 and 45 yards, too. Would you like me to demonstrate? I usually don’t like to kick a guy in the nuts, (there is something unmanly about it), but for a guy who likes to slap dames around, I will make an exception. So, Mr. Little are you going to leave my client alone?”

“No way! She tossed me aside. I was saving up for a ring. We could have been happy, next month I start with the Transit Authority, that is a real good job; it pays well, and we would have had a good life. I just don’t understand, why wasn’t that good enough, why wasn’t I good enough?”

“Get off the floor, Mr. Little and sit over there,” I say pointing to the couch, he groans, rises and sits gingerly on the couch.

“You got a hell of a kick mister. I guess this is where you tell me that if I don’t stop you will come back and show me that 40-yard kick, huh?”

I nod.

“You won’t have to come back, I got the message. Mister, would you give her a message?”

“What is it?”

“If it don’t work out for her, she can come back. Tell her, I‘m sorry I hit her and it won’t happen again. You are right; I was listening to a man on the corner from the Nation who said, “If you berate and beat your women you damage yourself,” he was right. Tell her mister, please.”

“Alright Mr. Little, good-bye.”

As I closed the door, I looked back, at the broken man sitting with his head in his hands. Like I said before, she was the kind of woman we needed to have love us, so, imagine the heartbreaking pain, to have her, and her love, and then lose it.

©2012, Author Leon Jackson Davenport

for ~ "THE SHADOWS OF OUR NOIR"

*AT THE BIJOU*

Photo Cred: Kate's Bar is really the Houndstooth Pub on 37th in NYC,

but hey, Kate so dug Leon dubbing her a bar, she picked one she liked.

LEON JACKSON DAVENPORT ~

Crime time author and all around good guy, but don't let that ruin his tough image. Leon's an Emmy nominated TV editor, fine art photographer and one of the booming voices you'll recall aboard this season's sailing of HARBINGER*33, manifesting authors' destinies. He's a smooth, wry storyteller who's gonna bring you back for another shot of this Gunn character . . . Watch for him where shadows come out to have their say.

That Leon, he don't say nothin' he don't mean, huh? And our Katie sure knows how to pick'em -- Youse writer-guys are aces in a stacked deck here AT THE BIJOU.

The Shadows

of Our Noir

 -- are runnin' fast as slick getaways on rainy nights you never saw comin'. 

Katie's gonna celebrate her national holiday, that birthday hoopla she does come Sunday, then she's cornered a bunch o'hoodlums that wrote with her in that crime-time book from hot shot Matt Hilton, you know, the bestseller, feller. What's it called again? Yeah, yeah ~ ACTION: PULSE POUNDING TALES. Catchy title Hilton. You're no slouch.

So Toots, brighten your peepers next for ~ 

Absolutely*Kate . . . Matt Hilton . . . 

Paul Brazill . . . Richard Godwin . . . 

with somethin' you never 'spected ~

David Barber turnin' noir to poetry.

 {Hey, I can't make this stuff up - Katie absolutely writes my lines anyhow). 

Be there or be square ~ 

*AT THE BIJOU*

"Where Writers' Raves are Readers' Faves"

A SMILE, REFLECTING ~ Lily Childs

   

A SMILE, REFLECTING 

By  ~ Lily Childs

She’s seeing as though through a mask, its hugging surface woven of fine leather and peeking with thorns. Woe betide the kissing man who will surely die from her spikes.
 
Counting down the seconds with bites of her blackened nails she begins to worry her lovers won’t come. They must! She is tearing at the skin now, ripping sore shreds away. Saliva slips into the wounds, puffing the flesh.
 
At last their car pulls into the driveway. He gets out first, does a comedy run around to her side to open the door. She’s looking beautiful tonight – he’s probably telling her that as he lifts her hair and speaks softly into her ear, his hand slipping down that long, slender neck.
 
It’s strange to see them together. She is used to having each of them to herself. Is this wrong? Can I do this, can I share? The plan doesn’t seem as solid as it did yesterday, when she’d whispered the invitation.
 
“Don’t tell.”
 
They’d each acquiesced with a flush of the cheek; he in the morning, she - just minutes before midnight.
 
But they must have told.
 
It changes everything.
 
They let themselves in, as instructed. She hears them utter meaningless words in low voices as they pour themselves drinks from the bar. Hers will be green gin and his, a dash of single malt. Their giggles entice; the ice in their glasses chimes louder than bells in the expansive hallway. She hears the clatter of heels and soft shuffle of Brogues on parquet. Her breath rises a notch in the dark, keeping time with every step of their feet as they mount the creaking staircase.
 
She will greet them as never before.
 
Her look is of love as she opens the bedroom door - naked as the rose petals that cover the floor, the windowsill, the bed. Her hands drip with blood as red as the rose petals that cover the floor, the windowsill, the bed. The daggers are sticky in her hand – one for each neck, one for each heart.
 
She can share after all.
 
As they stand - adulterous eyes taking in her body - she opens her arms. They cannot help themselves, and move towards her. His fingers reach for her waist. He slips them into the open holes she has slit beneath her ribs. His wife drops to her knees; her kisses will sting.
 
The descent is all she has dreamed of. Slow, an emptying of life-force, a giddying plummet towards the fabled little death. She smiles as they carry her to the bed; she has been waiting to offer herself up to them this way for so long.
 
They are clumsy. Surely they share the desire to drink her dry? Light flares in her memory and she swallows a missed beat of the heart. Who are these people? How did she get here?
 
Lights off.
 
The lovers fall and fall again, sobbing with tears of seduction, eyes wide open, throats wide open – giving themselves to her in a rush. The game is no longer hers to command, she tells herself, slipping over wet skin. She wonders if she ever really told them the game was theirs all along. Their faces reveal a different truth and she wonders then, if they even know she is.

  

Outside, sirens scream like banshees; closer – closer still. She wonders at the noises in her head. They’re of radios and cell phones and panic and fear. Someone else’s fear. They slam doors and bang doors; break doors down and come running.
 
She twists her head this way and that. Her lovers lay on either side, throats glistening. His still has the stiletto blade standing erect, though the flow has ebbed. Her dagger has toppled to join the one at her heart making a crucifix between her small breasts.
 
“Oh, hell.”
 
A man creates a shadow on the wall. She watches him lift his phone to his mouth.
 
“Emmerson? We’re too late. They’re dead.”

She hears him talking to Emmerson and the others that now crowd the room, of stalkers and escapees and mental health and danger and delusion. Of Mr and Mrs Radford, newly-wed.
 
Her mask is lifting, taking with it the cobweb barbs and the cord that has tightened itself around her thoughts for so very long. In the rush of release she observes the scene in all its stark reality, seeing clearly for the first time in years – and understands what she has done.
 
“Stop her! Somebody, stop...”
 
She reclaims the knives, studies them for a lucid moment, then remembers. Her little lovers; glistening steel and sharp as the razors with which her mother cut her own wrists. When was that?
 
All is well. All is well. She plunges the daggers into her neck, welcomes the warmth that sprays over the sheets and onto her skin.
 
The growing crowd makes the oddest of sounds. She watches them spill their insides; opens her mouth to tell them she is sorry but all that comes out is red.
 
It feels better now, this darkening, wet place. She doesn’t know the man and woman beside her, though she’s been in their house for a while. At least they will always be together. The thought makes her happy and she is filled with joy at having learned to truly share – their home, their love, their lives – whoever they were.
 
Pulse.
 
People blur in and out.
  
Pulse.
 
Someone leans over her to press her scarlet fountains, leaving the blades in situ.
 
Pulse.
 
Lightning, is it lightning? It flashes over and over, turning the world into negative and negative and negative and so maybe, just maybe - it’s a camera and... 
 
Pulse.
 
...why would they want photos of me?
  
Pulse.
 
Of us?
 
Pulse.
 
Perhaps we’re a work of art.
 
Pulse.
 
“Smile for the camera”, someone should say.
 
Pulse.
  
She does.
 
Pulse.
 
‘We’ve lost her.’
  
Pulse.
  
Pulse.
  
She grins. Her smile reflects back from the stilling steel.

© Author Lily Childs

~ Another stunning Debut ~ AT THE BIJOU

Now I've seen everything. 'Stilling steel' and 'blades in situ'. Me ~ a man of evocative suspense and mystery. Imagine that. 

Absolutely*Kate has cajoled the one, the only, the wilds we know as Lily Childs to debut AT THE BIJOU ~

Our Ms Kate tried to tell me the projectionist was running "THE SHADOWS OF OUR NOIR" show, but I told her shadows were but mere pinpricks of undeterred light once she let Lily in AT THE BIJOU. She's put all the staff into such a fright.

Absolutely*Kate:  Oh Al, come on, it's not that terrifying. Lily Childs is the epitome of suspense, gut leveling as it may be. We're lucky to have her here. So the jujubes got shook up and the Snickers bars quit laughing. Lily's going places, star to the firmaments, that kind of lofty launch. The gal has stage presence, I tell ya.

Presumably, the voice of Mr Hitchock: "Luck is everything... My good luck in life was to be a really frightened person. I'm fortunate to be a coward, to have a low threshold of fear, because a hero couldn't make a good suspense film."


Absolutely*Kate:  Mr H ~ But you're a hero, cinematically speaking. You give pleasure to millions of movie'goers. 

AH: "Give them pleasure - the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare."

Absolutely*Kate: Ahhh, AH, I see . . . teeming talents such as you and our Ms Childs simply let your 'style' be your enigmatic voice-over. Here comes Lily now, why don't you announce to the folks who she thinks she is and I'll ask her who she's going to be.

Aspiring? 

Lily is a writer of horror, twisted crime, dark fiction and poetry who sees beauty in everything. She is the author of the Magenta Shaman urban fantasy short novella series and has recently released the first volume of her extreme horror short stories Cabaret of Dread through Ganglion Press. Her ebooks are available to download from all Amazon platforms.

Lily is Horror Editor at award-winning ezine Thrillers Killers ‘n’ Chillers, alongside Crime Editor/writer Col Bury, and Thriller Editor/best-selling author of the Joe Hunter series, Matt Hilton. She blogs regularly at Lily Childs Feardom  and you can follow her on Twitter @LilyChilds and facebook.com/lilychildsfeardom

CURIOUSITY OF THE KATE sails on .  . .

 Absolutely*Kate: Ahoy there Lily! All you've done in your professional writing career is quite daunting. Your debut AT THE BIJOU is natch, a killer tale, a bloody taste of dark Noir pulsed out to the finish. Your followers, from Feardom come . . . are legendary in their legions, so Predictioneers have preached, but Lily where do YOU see yourself in your own realms of reality?

LILY CHILDS ~ Feardom's
Voice intuiting Time itself

You ask for Manifesting? 

Hmm, Lily is currently working on various supernatural mystery novels in a lighter than usual literary style. Her third Magenta Shaman novella is taking shape and Lily is considering a related non-fiction book on shamanic journeying. She continues to write extreme horror short stories and already has enough dark tales to fill Cabaret of Dread Vol. 2.

And my dreams? You wish your BIJOU audiences to know my Dreams? To become a full-time author of traditional books that carry the logo of a great publishing house on the spine; of books that fill physical as well as virtual shelves. And not least, to become that “proper writer” her daughter already believes in.

  

Absolutely*Kate ~ But Lily, when did spirits speak that you had the inner knowledge to communicate through your vivid stories?

 LILY  ~ They called me as a child, made me ask questions that ‘the grown-ups’ didn’t seem to be able to answer. They still can’t.
  
I’d write about invisible dancers in the grass and bluebell-capped, winged faeries; I rewrote biblical tales to meet myth and other diverse religions. No-one approved so I gave up – on and off. Now I write for myself, because I can’t help it. But the spirits are still there, oh yes.

 A*K  ~ Oh, believe you me, we sense those spirits. But ~ Why / What / How (or all three) make a Lily Childs story so fluent, so vivid . . . and yet while endearing to sense or senses . . . so startling?

 LILY  ~ Flow and trances; I just let it all hang out and don’t question the emotions the act of writing raises - whether stark or sensual - nor how inappropriate the content is. Plus I rarely stop once I start and have completed many a tale with one eye open and the other all-a-twitch, but as soon as it is finished I’ll put the story away for a few days before looking at it again. I love it when I don’t recognise everything I’ve written, but then anyone that knows me will be aware of my sieve-for-a-brain – I don’t remember anything. Maybe it’s a defence mechanism, but for writing short fiction, it works. And that’s why when I’m working on a novel, I have to keep notes.

 A*K  ~ Ahhh, 'awareness' speaking ~ Any place or time ~ where would you be right now with your out-of-body-transfer skills in full soar?

 LILY  ~ Dallying in Crete or Samos during either Equinox – any century, not that you can often determine time when you’re picking herbs, wandering though olive groves or offering a libation at sacred stones.
 
I’m a forest rather than a mountain girl, so would be happier running with a boar than flying with an eagle; though that’s not to say I haven’t ruffled feathers in a meditation or ten. Currently I’ve been walking with man-sized herons; they’ve not got a lot to say for themselves but they walk tall – with grace. I think that’s all about dignity. It’s something I need to learn.

 A*K  ~ Dignity? Grace? I sense those time'old truths underlying so much of your scribing. It's your *magick* toppling over traits which intrigues. Is it truth and not madness that you can turn a creature into something other than their apparent self? What then, dear Lily would you turn *me* into?

I'm in Lily's spell ~ You?

Bohemian Kate, it is my belief that we exist on many levels and layers, and whilst we might not perform True Blood-like shape-shifts in the physical realm, I know we can do it on the spiritual – and of course, in fiction.

 
I have no doubt; you – my jewel-gathering friend are a Magpie, neither earth-bound nor sky-trapped. I would set you free on shamanic flight to dip in and out of psyches and souls, discovering and rescuing and – why not, occasionally stealing something pretty for pleasure.
 
My father has always affectionately called me Maggot (sounds lovely, doesn’t it) from the original country name for this curious bird Maggot-Pie – a nod to my child-like obsession of all thinks twinkly. This is heightened in you, me thinks. You seek out the sparkling on this earthly plane, soaring high and gathering your finds with an astute beak and welcoming wings/arms. You appear here, there and everywhere – a single bird but seemingly in flock, and like in the English tradition, we writers all nod a greeting to you, with no pecking order.
 
You’ll perhaps appreciate that this warm evening – after answering your question this morning - I sat in my parents’ lush garden in the late sun watching a pair of magpies that have nested in a fir tree. They flew round and about us whilst my father waxed lyrical on their habits, with no prompt from me, until the female climbed - no danced - up the trunk of the tree as though it were a ladder. An allegorical ascent perhaps.
 
Finally, the great beauty of this bird is that the unimaginative simply see black and white, but anyone that cares to look closely will experience every shade of blue and green in its feathers, contrasting with pale and pure crystal translucence. That’s what you are, Absolutely*Kate, never simply pie – and you don’t need me to turn you.

Wish your Greater Truths, Lily . . . 

Wow, soft sigh and heartfelt knowing your words stroke my spirted heart. They take the cake, as we say here in America. In this case . . . how fortuitous for *energy* AT THE BIJOU, that it's YOUR birthday cake at this moment in time!

HAPPIEST CELEBRATING ALL YOUR LIVES, LOVELY LINGERING-ON-THE-MIND, LILY CHILDS. Our thanks for greater truths sparking spots, kliegs and yes, magick moonlight you've morphed through mahoghany double doors AT THE BIJOU.

Thank you so much for publishing A Smile, Reflecting and for this gorgeous chat. It’s been a pleasure to laze on your sofas. I might just take a nap... 

                                                                                                  xx Lily Childs

          

Pleasure is truly Ours 

~ *AT THE BIJOU* ~

"Where Writers' Raves are Readers' Faves"