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A Collective Short Story

Instalment 21 of the collective short story, written by Bonnie, is now available!


Welcome to an exciting writing project! This is a collective short story which is being written by all of us members here at The Shameless Lions Writing Circle. Each member is being called on to add to our developing story, the opening of which was inspired by the photo above. Who knows where it will end up?

Feel free to use this button (which people can click to link to this site) in your sidebars.

You will find the html code for this button over on the right, in the sidebar. You need to copy and paste the code into your sidebar (for Blogger users, choose the option "add html" in the section "customise"). The size is already small, so it should fit into most sidebars. Also, the basic rules for the short story project are shown below.

Now, without further ado, here's the story so far:


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The new watch that Grace's husband had given her the week before slipped inside the sleeve of her coat as her arm went up in the air. She felt she had no control over the movement, as though it were completely natural for her to be hailing a cab in the middle of New York. She felt as if she were being directed by remote control. 4:42pm, October 7. She made a mental note of the time, thinking it might be something she'd always want to remember.

"I just want you to drive," she said as she got in, avoiding the driver's eyes.

"Drive? Drive where, sweetheart?"

He sounded like he might be Middle Eastern, although the writing on photos and cards above his head looked like it could be Greek. She also noticed African music coming from the radio.

"I'll let you know. For now just drive anywhere. Wherever your instinct takes you."

"That is strange."

"Yes, it's strange. Please just drive. Anywhere."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

During the few minutes it took for the cab to rejoin the flow of angry traffic, she stared at the entrance to the subway that she'd been using to get home every night for the past 12 years. Ample time to change her mind. She turned off her mobile as the cab swung into Third Avenue. Happy trumpets played as a grainy picture of Sebastian and the two little ones faded into black. (1)

Grace sat back and tried to relax. All her muscles were tense. She moved her head a little from side to side to try and release some of the tension in her neck. She made an effort to relax her face muscles that she was sure were drawn up into a tight mask.

As the cab swooped along with the stream of homeward-bound traffic, a sudden gust of wind swirled fallen orange and red leaves into a mad dance. She found their dance mesmerising. It reflected her mood of being drawn into a wild dance, almost out of control. Where the dance would lead, she had no idea.

“Ok, sweetheart?”The cab driver sounded uncomfortable with his role of just driving anywhere.

She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. She wished he would stop calling her sweetheart. She didn't feel like anybody's sweetheart. She looked down at her tan boots and noticed one of the toes was scuffed. She fingered the money purse inside the large red shoulder-bag sitting beside her like an obedient pet. She would have to watch the fare. After all, she only had so much money to go on. She made herself stop biting her fingernails as she tried to figure out just where she wanted the taxi cab to drop her. (2)

Grace closed her eyes and thought of the gaping entrance to the subway that she'd just abandoned. It was a turning point; she'd finally turned away from him, but to what? Never back to the barren arctic mausoleum; that prison home that the train had returned her to for so many nights, so many years, devoid of warmth, of love, of anything she really needed. She refused to lose another precious moment of her life to it, she knew if she went back again, there would be no more life.

Her thoughts were a blizzard through which she could only take a step at a time; slowly, carefully, blinded by the unknown ... but feeling for it desperately, going anywhere as long as it was away. She had to escape. The storm of his loathing and anger raged around her in her mind and her heart began to pound, her pulse started to race and she knew this was it.

Reality seemed to fade into a dream and she fled the monster at her heels in uncertainty ... could she make it? Could she really leave and be free? At last? The thought of it beckoned to her like a distant star in her dark night and the shadow of an image began to take form and make its way to the forefront of her mind. Jack. It was her only chance.

The possibility of it was slim ... but, perhaps. She had to try. Leaning forward, she instructed the cab driver with urgent directions and he was relieved that she'd finally determined a destination.

For the first time in ages, she stood at the base of the stairs that led up to his door and willed herself to move. How many years had it been ... a hundred at least? What if he wasn't home? What if he didn't care about their friendship anymore? She'd let the winds of time carry it away in small fragments ... like the leaves swirling about her feet, that skittered on the air and vanished. Grace carried the weight of the world and the bulk of the past with her up the steps and hesitated before pressing the button by the large door of the brownstone.

Time never passed so slowly. Her heart pounded in her chest and blood rushed in her ears. She drew a shaky breath. He might be gone. Maybe he had company. He probably wouldn't even want to speak to her. What if he didn't recognize her? How could she even come here at all? What was she thinking? Certainly he must be angry that she'd let their friendship go. All those years ... best friends since they were children, and she'd let it go. How could she have done that for the monster she'd married? She began to breathe, shallow and quick. He had seemed so hurt the last time they'd talked.

She gasped and jerked her head up. He'd opened the door, shock and disbelief registering on his face. She froze.

"Grace?" He whispered her name like a prayer from the heart. There was more emotion in that one word than she'd felt from her husband in a year.

"Jack... I ..." she stammered, unsure that she should have come at all.

In a single movement he came through the doorway and pulled her into his arms tightly. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" He only let her go long enough to cup her face in his hands and peer into it closely, searching for any sign of pain, as a parent might do to his long lost child. He saw it there and pulled her back into his whole embrace. Anxiety and hope filled her clenched lungs as she allowed herself to breathe deeply.

"Come. Come in and we'll take care of it," he said quietly, as he brought her into his home.

He sat with her on the couch and watched her, listening intently as she spoke.

"I'm so sorry to just show up like this ... I ..." She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and stared straight through them.

"Grace, please don't apologize, there's no need at all. We're best friends, and you know time can't touch that. It doesn't matter what brought you here, you are welcome to stay as long as you need to and you know that you are safe. No one can touch you here. I'll make sure of that."

She stared at his unwavering countenance. Into his bottomless, dark eyes. Time ceased to exist then, time that had passed and time that would have come after this moment. It was as if they'd never been apart even a day. She launched herself into his arms again.

"I've missed you so much, thank you."

"You are one of the strongest women I've ever met. You are unstoppable, vibrant and passionate, and you are so full of secrets right now! This is not the Grace that I know," he said skeptically, as he raised one eyebrow, and with his hand on her chin, turned her face from side to side. "Where's that wonder woman that could take on the world? Why have you hidden yourself away behind this mask?" He paused and whispered, "What happened to you mon ami?"

Grace looked around for an answer to his question, as though the welcoming walls in the room might offer her the words that she could not find. She opened her mouth to tell him, but somehow the brave front that she had shielded herself with crumbled in this sanctuary where she knew she could finally fall on her knees and find solace. Tears carried the pain away as they streamed down her pale cheeks like a long overdue rain on parched land. Saying nothing, Jack drew her to his chest, held her close and stroked her hair until she cried herself to sleep. He laid her head on a deep pillow and covered her with a thick quilt. Grace drifted off into a deeper slumber than she'd had in months, and Jack watched her for a long time.

It was late when he reached for his phone and dialed the number. He spoke softly, his eyes never leaving her as she slept. "Sebastian, you won't believe this. Grace is here ... she finally came; she left him. Now she can begin." (3)

* * *
Sebastian replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair. Twelve years was a long time and Jack sounded elated, almost triumphant. Poor Grace.

He picked his way through the darkened office and across the hall to the kitchen, avoiding the light switch so as not to wake up Amanda, who was snoring softly in the bedroom next door. It had been her night noises that had woken him and not the late night call from the nearly gloating Jack. Amanda was becoming far too much of a sexual habit, it was nearly time to call it a day, but that could wait. The past had just called him up and he knew that sleep was not going to be on the cards tonight.

He made a pot of strong coffee and returned to the office, rousing the computer as he placed his cup in its usual position. That was another thing about Amanda, he thought, she would love to fill his desk with any amount of gaudy clutter. He liked his apartment the way it was, free from everyday untidiness, useless objects that could remind him of useless memories.

The screen bounced into life and he once again admired the neatness of his files. He liked the order of a computer; it reflected his attitude to life, an attitude that had developed over the last twelve years. What he didn't like was the fact that his finger had now found a file called 'Unfinished business' and was busy opening it.

Sebastian watched as the photo file revealed itself - row upon row of snapshots from another time, another place and one that he would rather not be reminded of. The photo at the top showed three friends, Jack, Mike and Sebastian, arms around each others shoulders, friends for life. The rest of the hundred or so meticulously captioned pictures ran through three years at college and showed only one woman, posed, un-posed, summer, winter, laughing, crying. Poor Grace. (4)

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, ran his hand over the stubble on his chin and afforded himself a thin smile. So, she had finally turned up in Jack's life again. Just like the proverbial bad penny. He flicked through the images on the screen. Grace laughing. Grace dancing. Grace lazing in the sun. His eyes ran over the curve of her body, lingering on the rise of her breasts, the pert roundness of her backside. Ah yes, Grace the Temptress. Grace who could have been anyone, had anyone. Grace who knew the world lay at her feet. And by god, she'd meant to conquer that world. Ultimately it hadn't mattered to her who she might trample on to grab her dreams.

Sebastian chewed his lower lip, remembering the advice he'd given her long ago. "Be careful what you wish and dream for, Gracie. Make your choices wisely." But she'd just laughed, ran a hand over his face and flicked his hair from his eyes – with that casual sense of ownership she had with every man who'd crossed her path.

Funny how things came full circle. From owning, she'd been owned. Strange that she should have fallen for Sebastian Carrebreu, the sauve Frenchman – his namesake. He had no doubt she'd long forgotten him, Sebastian Comptom – but at least she'd remembered Jack. He remembered the night she'd told them. He and Jack were on their way to the Hampton's to Jack's folks' place –Grace was supposed to join them. Instead she had waltzed into the apartment, her hair flying, her cheeks flushed and declared, "Boys, you're going to have to go without me!"

The smile on Jack’s face had crumpled. "Why, what's come up? Whatever it is, can't you cancel?"

"Absolutely not! See, I'm getting married, darlings!" The glittering diamond on her ring finger flashed as she thrust out her hand.

"To who?" He remembered how Jack had clutched the back of the sofa.

"To Sebastian!"

He remembered the pain, the betrayal in Jack's eyes as he'd turned to him, gasping.

"Not me," he'd said. "Dear God, she'd never marry me. Nor would I ever ask her." He'd noticed how she'd narrowed her eyes at him.

"Of course not. Don't be daft, Jack. Oh, no offence, of course, Seb." Her voice had been loaded with meaning. "No, I'm marrying Sebastian Carrebreu. Remember," she said, her eyes gleaming, "we met him at that protest and then at the conference his company gave."

"But you barely know him!" Jack cried. "You can't! He's ..."

"Why ever not?! Oh God, Jack, don't get all possessive on me now. That would be so tedious."

She'd blown air kisses at them and flounced from the room. Twelve years. It might have been yesterday. But now she was back ... and in Jack's arms. Oh how the mighty are fallen. Sebastian smiled. It was a cold smile which didn't reach his eyes. He took a last glance at the photographs in front of him, closed the images and glanced through the notes in the file. Unfinished business ... but not for much longer. He opened his email and began typing. (5)

* * *
Swimming out of her deep sleep, Grace stretched and saw Jack slumped in a chair across from her.

"Welcome back, sleeping beauty," he said quietly.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Almost midnight."

"No!" Grace sat up, holding her head. "Then Sebastian knows I didn't come home."

"I suspect so."

"I have to..."

"Grace, wait!" Jack said, coming to sit beside her on the sofa. "Let's talk."

"I can't believe I did this with no more planning than..."

"It's okay."

"What? How can you say that? I haven't even told you why I'm here."

"I can guess, but I would rather you tell me about it."

Grace pulled back to take a good look at Jack's face. "You know something, don't you?"

He nodded. "I've sort of kept up with you over the years."

"Me? Why?"

"Because we knew the man you married, and we were worried about you."

"We? We, who?"

"Sebastian and Mike and I."

"Sebastian?"

"Oh, sorry, Sebastian Compton. Friends in college, remember? Not your Sebastian."

"You're telling me that someone I barely remember has been worried about me? That doesn't make sense." Grace lurched to her feet, with Jack right behind her.

"Grace, take a deep breath and listen for a minute." Jack raked his fingers through his tousled hair, wondering where to start. "We have files on your husband, files that could send his sorry ass up the river, but we sat on it until ... until ... you chose to leave him." Jack lowered his face to hers. "That is what you've done, isn't it?"

Grace closed her eyes. "I don't understand any of this. I didn't even know I was coming here until I was already in the taxi. Who are these people, Sebastian and Mike?"

"Have you totally forgotten my old college buddies? We used to hang out together, then Mike became a cop and Sebastian went to law school. Me? I'm ready to take over my dad's business when he retires, but mostly I'm the guy still trying to watch out for you, just the way I've done since kindergarten."

"But the others?"

"They think I'm crazy, but they're my friends," Jack said. "And we are so ready to take on your husband." (6)

“What do you mean Jack,” Grace inquired, the strain obvious in her weary voice. “Who exactly is going to take on Sebastian ... and why?”

Her voice trailed off to an exasperated whisper. The why was not so much a question, as an exhalation of confused frustration. She seemed to know the answer was much too complicated to address at this hour, and she was too spent, physically and emotionally, to want to hear it.

Grace turned away from Jack, head lowered. Her arms fell limp at her side, fingers splayed. She was trying her best to process what Jack was saying, to understand him –to understand the recent events that had brought her to this place in time ... to make sense of anything. Her head was spinning, and she could feel the fatigue deep in her bones.

She dropped back onto the sofa, half sitting, half lying down – an exhausted slouch. She felt paralyzed, thoughts racing through her mind – fragmented, disconnected thoughts.

She looked at her hands, palms down in her lap, her eyes glazing over. Her vision drifted to her wrists, her left wrist in particular — to her watch. Slowly it came into focus, and she realized she was staring at the broken crystal face of her Audemars Piguet Promesse.

Ever since Sebastian had given her this watch for their anniversary, her life had turned upside down – but it had also turned a corner. Fate had pushed her round that corner, and she would never turn back again. Her life as Mrs. Carrebreu was over.

She knew this, knew it as surely as she knew she missed her children. Something must be done to get them out of that house – his house. It could no longer be her home, but they would always be her children – and she feared for them. They had to be part of whatever direction fate was leading her.

It was fate that had broken the crystal – fate, and her quick reflexes, blocking Sebastian with her forearm as he struck out at her in anger, following their anniversary dinner.

He had apologized, explaining it away as the result of stress. “It will never happen again,” he’d said in his most gentle and sincere voice – but she was familiar with this empty promise. This was not the first time, and the incidents of abuse were escalating.

She’d only come into his office that evening to thank him again for the gorgeous timepiece. She thought this was where he’d retired after leaving the dining table. But she could see, in the subdued light, that he was not there. The mahogany paneled room was empty.

She loved the aroma of his Classic Port pipe tobacco that permeated the walls. Her father had also smoked that blend in his Barling Meerschaum, and the heady fragrance was comforting to her – so she lingered. That’s when she noticed it, on his desk, silhouetted by the light from the Tiffany lamp.

Her curiosity drew her to it. She’d just picked it up when Sebastian entered. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put that god damned box down,” he’d shouted — then flew into a rage.

Why had her discovery of the leather box sent Sebastian over the edge? What were those letters that spilled out when she dropped the box upon being struck?

They’d looked terribly official, with their seals and embossing – and written in a language that she did not recognize. Sebastian certainly scrambled frantically to collect them from the antique Persian rug, and return them to the box. But she managed to conceal one, sliding it under her hips as she lay where she’d fallen after being struck.

Sebastian’s bizarre reaction to the correspondence scattered on the floor, and the strangeness of the language they contained, had piqued Grace’s interest. Instinct drove her to hide the envelope until she was able to fold and slip it into her pocket, as her husband hurried from the room, with the leather box in tow.

Grace felt it was important that she take this letter she’d spirited out of the room, and put it in safekeeping. She’d planned to somehow learn more about its origin and content.

It was again fate that lead her the next morning to the jewelers, seeking a new watch crystal. It was while standing at the counter, waiting to be served, that she’d spied Sebastian coming out of the restaurant across the street, in the company of a woman — a stranger to Grace. They had climbed into a waiting limousine.

Grace had broken from the counter in a hurry, and bolted through the door to get a better look. Unfortunately, as she’d reached the sidewalk and acquired a reasonable view of the vehicle, it had sped away. She had noticed markings on the door, and a license plate, a type she had not immediately recognized – but she could read neither.

Fate had revealed this convoluted mystery to her, but what was she to do with it. Where could she begin to unravel it? All this was flooding through her mind when she was startled back to the present by Jack, returning to the room with pillows and a blanket.

“I will take the sofa tonight,” he said, “You’re completely burned out. I’m putting you in my room,” he continued in a kind and caring tone. “My bed is amazingly comfortable, and you need sleep – lots of good, deep sleep.”

He reached down and took Grace’s hand, helping her to her feet. Gently wrapping his arm around her waist, he escorted her down the hall and into his room. Stopping just inside the door, he said, “You will be safe in here. We’ll talk about everything in the morning,” and he gave her a warm hug, stepped back into the hall, and closed the door.

Grace realized there were too many questions to answer, too many mysteries — just too damned much to even think about right now.

“Yes, in the morning,” she mumbled to the door.

Then, hugging her red shoulder bag with the mysterious envelope tucked safely inside, Grace shuffled across the room and collapsed on the bed. (7)

* * *
As he rolled over, he was startled awake by the absence of a warm body.

Sebastian Carrebreu couldn’t remember the last time he had woken up alone. Even on his frequent business trips he never needed an extra pair of socks to keep warm, and yet here he was, caressing an unwrinkled sheet.

He sat up slowly, his head weighing down his upper half like those fishing sinkers his English grandfather used to make — only Sebastian had used whiskey and rum and whatever else had been in the liquor cabinet instead of lead. Sure felt the same now though.

Nine thirty. I can’t believe she really stayed out all night, he thought, as he wrapped his silk robe around him and shuffled to the bathroom mirror. He turned on the hot water and stared into his dark grey eyes until the steam rising from the sink snapped him out of his trance.

As he looked down and stuck his fingers under the stream of water, he noticed something glimmering on the edge of the sink. The diamond necklace he had bought for Grace as a wedding gift — the necklace she wore every single day without fail.

“That bitch!” he yelled and splashed the scalding water on his face, making it only a shade redder than it had been a moment before.

He half-toweled off his face and went immediately to his cell phone in the nightstand. He turned it on, and a drop of water from his nose hit the number 5, taunting him with Grace’s speed dial position. He managed to dial anyway, or at least simply hit # and the number 1.

A recording told him that Armand wasn’t available and so Sebastian did the only thing he could do in response. He hurled the phone at the antique carriage clock on the fireplace. His arm wasn’t as strong as it used to be, though, and it fell just short of the mantle.

He smirked at his own ineffectiveness and breathed deeply and slowly on his walk over to the fireplace. He picked up the phone and turned it on all sides to inspect the damage. It was still turned on and it looked just fine so he dropped it inside his robe pocket and headed for the kitchen.

The maid was off, so there’d be no coffee. Goodness, did he even remember how to make coffee? As he scanned the counter for a container that might hold the beans, his phone rang.

Armand.

“She’s left me, Armand,” he said, without even a hello, and dropped his weight onto a stool at the bar. “And I think it’s for good this time.” As he glanced across the city skyline, nights of theatre, dinner and dancing flashing through his mind in an instant. He had never hated his window-lined penthouse more than at this moment.

His lifelong friend sighed and said flatly, “I know.”

“What do you mean you know?” Sebastian asked as he straightened his back and pulled a curtain across the window in front of him.

“Sebastian, it’s better if we talk about this in person. I know where Grace stayed last night, and you’re not going to like it — especially when I tell you what this friend of hers has been up to.”

“Armand, what ...”

“Not on the phone, Sebastian. I’ll be right over. Should I bring coffee?”

Sebastian eyed the empty liquor cabinet. “Sounds like I may need something stronger.” (8)

* * *
The next morning Jack started to fill Grace in on Sebastian's activities. Jack sat Grace down and started by stating the obvious.

"Grace, Jack is a very dangerous man, he ..."

Grace interrupted, "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I have experienced that? Whatever he is up to ... I doubt he will get caught. He will kill you for interfering in our marriage. I don't intend to stay long. You don't know Sebastian."

"I know him well enough ... Seb and Mike have a lot of connections when it comes to getting information. It is not just your marriage that he has been cruel in.”

“What do you mean?”

“Grace, he will stop at nothing ... nothing ... even betraying the very causes he supposedly loves. All those protests and rallies ... merely a sham.

“Sebastian sees you as a valuable asset ... you protect his image of a perfect life. He is not going to let you go. He will hunt you down. We need to act quickly and expose him to the authorities and the media. Your only protection is to act quickly. Sebastian has been ..."

Just then there was the sound of a car pulling up.

“That must be Sebastian ... Compton. He is better qualified to explain. Sebastian, my Sebastian, is the only one that I can trust to keep you safe. Mike can not get too involved ... worried about his family. There are crooked cops on the force but we don't know who they are.”

“Whatever it is just tell me.”

“Okay.”

Jack stood up. Clearly he was very nervous.

“Sebastian has been ...”

Jack still wasn't able to grasp the words to explain how grievously Grace's husband had betrayed her. He knew Grace ... and knew she had a tendency to act unwisely when afraid. Too many lives were at stake for carelessness. He knew that once she knew the truth, she might think that continuing to be the trophy wife would make it all safe.

Just as he thought of how to explain, Jack's friend Sebastian Compton was pushed roughly into the room with Armand holding a gun to his back.

Jack froze.

"Leave him alone.”

Armand completely ignored Jack as he pushed Sebastian across the room. Sebastian tripped and landed on the sofa.

“I would choose better friends. You no longer have to worry about such matters though.”

Armand smiled as he fired the gun at Sebastian. Almost immediately there was a trickle of blood down Sebastian's face. Anyone could see that this was a fatal shot. Armand continued to smile.

Jack and Grace stared ... each temporarily frozen by fear and horror.

Armand looked at Grace with a commanding gaze.

"Mrs. Carrebreu, if you value the lives of your children as much as your husband insists you do, you will come with me immediately."

Grace screamed as Armand lifted his gun again and pointed it at Jack.

“Nothing personal actually ... you shouldn't have gotten involved.” Armand did not hesitate as he fired a bullet into Jack and grabbed at Grace's arm.

Grace struggled to look back as Armand forced her out the door. She could not tell if Jack was alive.

Armand yanked her out the door and across the lawn ... partially by the hair.

For Armand the encounter at Jack's house just wasn't long enough ... he enjoyed inflicting as much pain as possible. He hoped they would be able to dispose of this troublesome woman soon.

Grace's husband was waiting in the car. (9)

“Hello Grace.”

Sebastian’s voice, deceptively soft, sent a trickle of fear shimmying down her spine. She shrank away from him to the furthest corner, wishing that she could somehow dissolve into the leather seating, anything to be away from his oppressive presence.

“I missed you,” he continued in that silky tone, his smoky gray eyes unfathomable, as he peeled off his gloves. Without warning, he leaned towards her, his mouth mere inches away from her own, his hands moving, as if in slow motion, towards her neck.

A strangled scream lodged in Grace’s throat, a crippling fear squeezing every iota of rational thought from her mind. Her nails scratched jerkily at the door, vainly trying to find the button release. Its ominous click sounded like a death knell over the hum of the engine. Through the curtain of hair that had fallen into her face, she caught sight of Armand’s baleful glance in the rear view mirror. Whimpering, she pressed even harder into the unyielding seat.

Tenderly, slowly, Sebastian brushed her hair to the sides of her face, the heady scent of Classic Port tobacco, mingled with his expensive cologne, invading her senses. His breath fanned the wisps of hair at her temples. Strong fingers brushed lightly along the nape of her neck, as he murmured, “You forgot this”, before moving away swiftly to his original position. Glancing down, she saw the diamond necklace, his wedding gift to her, the one she had worn every day for 12 years. Except yesterday.

Dazedly, she stared unseeingly at the scenery rushing by into an unrecognizable blur. Jagged memories of the blood oozing down Sebastian Compton’s face, the empty stare in his eyes, and of Jack crumpling to a heap, haunted her. Never before had she felt so vulnerable, so trapped.

Feeling the weight of her husband’s gaze, she turned reluctantly to see that he was indeed watching her. Closely, like a hawk. Her mind tried to wrap around the fact that this brute was the same man who had won her heart and fathered their children. Images of their fairytale wedding and honeymoon rose up before her like a collage, taunting her. Who was this sinister stranger that had replaced the suave suitor and ardent lover? If he had hit her now, she would have welcomed the blows, rather than this eerie gentleness. It terrified her. He terrified her.

Once again, she turned her gaze to the scenery outside her window, and realized, with a start, that the surroundings were familiar. Several children swarmed the park grounds, several metres away from the road, some soaring into the air on swings, others playing catch or tag, all under the watchful gazes of their mothers or nannies. How often had she taken her children here, most times to gather her scattered thoughts while they played. Suddenly, her beloved Anna and Giovanni came into view. Her heart ached at the sight of their smiling faces, as they squealed with delight at the sight of their friends. Julia, their nanny, walked behind them, talking animatedly to another nanny.

The car slowed to a crawl. Grace hurled herself at the window, her mouth agape, palms flush against the darkly tinted glass. Suddenly she felt Sebastian’s warm breath against her ear, his hand rough in her hair. “Take a good look, darling,” he hissed softly. “You’ll never see them again.”

That’s when the scream freed itself from her throat, when she found the strength to shove him away, to lash out, fury in her fists. She saw, with pleasure, the blood that sprang to the surface, as her nails raked his face, felt sweet revenge as her other fist slammed between his legs, causing him to immediately double over with agony. Armand’s head swiveled around at the commotion behind him, a moment too late, as Grace lashed at him like a feral cat, digging her nails into his eye. He howled, momentarily losing control of the car. It swung drunkenly, tyres screaming.

Adrenaline galvanized Grace’s limbs into action, as she launched towards the row of buttons on Armand’s side of the door, and hit the door release control. His hand swung around, grabbing blindly for her arm, but she shrugged it off, and hit the button on her side of the door. She felt it give beneath her weight, saw the rushing ground inches away from her face, prepared herself for the tearing feel of clothes and flesh shredding. Instead, she felt her head being jerked back with a snap, the searing pain at the back of her head that wrenched a scream from her, saw a patch of her hair in Sebastian’s grip, felt his other hand tightening around her throat.

“Bitch!” Armand spat out, holding his face, as he righted the car and it picked up speed again. “Need any help around there?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Sebastian replied, stroking Grace’s hair with one hand, the other clamped tightly around her throat.

She wasn’t quite sure how much time had elapsed before the car slowed again, this time to a stop. The hectic pace of the city had been left behind, giving way to placidly rolling blue-green hills that walled the area like sentinels. The air was sharp, clean, fresh. A carpet of burnished gold, tangerine, and olive-green leaves crunched beneath her boots, as Sebastian pulled her out of the vehicle and led her to the entrance of the cottage, Armand bringing up the rear.

Inside, the rustic warmth and tasteful furnishings were lost on Grace, as they stood in the hallway, waiting. The strains of someone playing a classical piece on a violin wafted to them.

“Asia,” Armand called out. “We’re here.”

The music ended abruptly, the ensuing silence broken by the click of heels against the hardwood floor. Grace could barely contain the gasp that escaped her lips at the sight of the woman who emerged. Statuesque in an immaculately white, sleeveless, cowl-neck sweater, wine-red leather pants that hugged every contour of her lithe frame like a second skin, and boots, the dark chocolate hue of her flawless skin glowed in striking contrast. Her baldness accentuated the sleek roundness of her head and stunning, oval features. To say that she was a beauty was an understatement. Grace felt washed out and insipid in comparison.

The ebony beauty surveyed both men’s injuries, and then looked at Grace with renewed interest, an eyebrow arched elegantly. She spoke in a strange language to Sebastian, who replied in the same language. Her voice was rich, husky; her accent, thick. Her eyes ran over Grace again, this time insolently, from her disheveled head to her scuffed shoes.

Sebastian released Grace and strode over to the woman. “Asia, watch her until we return.”

Her almond-shaped eyes slid up to his. “How long will you both be gone?”

“Not long.” His hand, against the small of Asia’s back, they both walked a few steps into the adjoining sitting room, speaking in hushed tones. Grace watched as Sebastian reached into the depths of his jacket, pulled out a gun, and handed it to the woman.

Armand, who had moved closer to Grace from behind, noticed her dumbstruck gaze and laughed contemptuously. “She’s not to be messed with, that one,” he mocked. “She’ll cut your heart out before you know it.” He paused, and then leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “I hope she does.”

Grace ignored Armand’s taunts, her mind instead struggling to conjure up an elusive memory. Something about Sebastian’s and Asia’s familiarity with each other nagged at her. Something else was stirring in her subconscious, like the whisper of the changing leaves outside being rustled by the October breeze. Then, like the silent arrival of dawn, a certain scene swam before her. The jewellery store. Sebastian and a strange woman leaving a restaurant. The limousine with the unrecognizable licence plates and strange markings. The woman. Asia!

Grace inhaled sharply. Asia turned slightly, looked over her shoulder at Grace, and smiled slyly, exposing pretty, white teeth. But her eyes were ice. (10)

* * *
Nanny Julia stopped in mid-sentence and grabbed her friend Erica’s arm. The threat of kidnapping was ever present for children like those of her powerful employer and a dark, slow moving car wasn’t normal for midday. “Giovanni! Anna! Come to me now.”

“Shit, Julia, you scared me to death! I was just getting to the best part ...”

“Shhh. Look up there, and watch your mouth in front of the kids.” She watched Erica follow her gaze to the car and then opened her arms to catch the two children racing back to her.

Even at just four and six, Giovanni and Anna were and tall and slim with the same mahogany colored eyes and rich black hair of their father. But that is where the similarity ended. Grace’s children were sweet-tempered and affectionate like their mother.

“Nanny my friend wants me!” Giovanni fidgeted impatiently as he waited to hear why he’d been summoned away from his game.

“There’s a cold breeze picking up, you need to have your jackets on.” Julia dawdled at helping each of the children into their wind breakers, intending to keep them close to her just until the mysterious car had passed. Before she could finish zipping up Anna’s jacket she heard Erica gasp and looked up in time to see a face and two hands pressed against the car’s side window.

“That’s Mommy!” Giovanni yelled.

Julia grabbed his arm before he could race across the field to the slow moving car. “No, Gio, remember? Your momma is away visiting her sick mother. Your Daddy told you that just this morning.” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the car and when it started swerving on the road and then sped off at break neck speed she could no longer ignore the niggling fear that Mr. Carrebreu’s story had been a lie.

“Could you see the license plate? I couldn’t tell who was in the back of that car, but I don’t think the lady was happy to be there,” Erica said before whistling for her own two charges to return to her side. “Too freakin’ creepy out here for me today, I think I’ll take my munchkins home for an afternoon in front of the TV.”

As loath as she was to return to the cold, rambling Carrebreu home, Julia agreed with her friend. She led the children back toward the house, her mind racing with images of her time as their nanny and the odd things she’d observed. Julia watched the children sadly climb the steps to the front door, disappointment at losing their park time evident even from behind them. For the sake of her young charges, she cleared her mind of gloomy thoughts.

“Who wants to make popcorn balls and watch Dumbo?” She called over her shoulder as she took the stairs two at a time to reach the door before the two children now squealing with laughter.

It wasn’t until bedtime that Julia again remembered the odd car at the park. Anna and Giovanni were both weepy and missing their mother as they said their prayers and she tucked them into their little beds. She found it odd that Mrs. Carrebreu hadn’t even called the children to wish them goodnight. Once both kids were breathing with the steady cadence of deep sleep, Julia slipped from the room and made her way through the silent house to the kitchen. In the center drawer of the cook’s desk, beside the wall-hung phone, she knew there was a list of important numbers. Doctors, dentists and family. She’d used the list to contact Grace’s mother just months before when her employers were away on a business trip. Julia fidgeted on the cold marble floors as she dialed the number and listened to the phone ringing.

“Answering service.”

“I’m sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number ...” Julia stammered.

“Who is the party you are trying to reach?”

“Elinore, Elinore Branigan?”

“And your name?”

“Julia, I’m Mrs. Branigan’s daughter’s nanny.” Julia felt her stomach turn with anxiety at this unexpected interrogation.

“Yes, Julia, you are on the authorized list. Mrs. Branigan has left for her annual pilgrimage to the holy lands; she’s expected to return in time for the Christmas Holidays. You may leave her a message or call back at that time.”

Julia slammed the phone receiver back on its base, fear gnawing at her conscious like a starving rat. Mr. Carrebreu had lied. Grace’s mother was out of the country. So where was Grace? And what would she tell the children? Before she could fully wrap her mind around these two questions she was startled by the sound of a slamming door. Cook ambled into the kitchen, hair in old fashioned curlers, her ample body swathed in a tent sized flannel nightgown.

“What has you up Miss Julia? Do you need a snack? Some warm milk maybe?”

Julia looked into the kindly face of the ancient old cook and told her everything that happened that day from the park up to the phone call to Grace’s mother. “I just don’t know what to do,” she said.

Cook stared at the counter top and sighed. “The missus gave me instructions several years ago for just this kind of instance.” She heaved herself off the stool she’d sat on to hear Julia’s story and waddled to the desk. Cook lifted out the center drawer and pulled up a discreetly hinged flap of wood revealing a shallow drawer beneath. Inside this cavity, a single piece of paper inscribed with the name “Mike” and a phone number. (11)

* * *
As he sat in the SICU waiting room at St. Barts, fluctuating between livid anger and cynical hope that his childhood goomba, Jack Creighton, would come out of this intact, Michael Calcatera was mulling over the events of the past few hours.

I’m sitting in the office discussing the situation in Pakistan with the team, wondering where the hell Seb is, and my cell trembles in my right hand pants’ pocket: “Mike, Jack. Been hit. Seb dead. Hurry”. Click. Buzzzzzz.

I’m like, WTF! Jack? Not my Jack. “Hold on a sec. guys, I’ve got to check something out on this call.” Hitting recall, he sees Jack’s home number comes up. He thinks to himself, “Damn it, I just talked to him last night. He’d just put that brat, Grace, to bed, and said we could put our plan into action.”

Closing his cell, he looks at his team and says, “Folks, I’ve got an emergency that needs my attention right now. We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow. Tim, call the chief and tell him to call me in fifteen on my secure phone. Thanks.”

Tim says, “Do you want one of us to go with you Mike?”

“No, I think for now it's best if I check this out alone.”

“Is this a dangerous situation?”

“I don’t think so, at least not now.”

Taking the elevator to the company garage in the basement level, Mike checks his Glock and inserts a full clip. “Jack, Jack, Jack, what have you gotten us into now.” He thinks.

Mike goes to the office and signs out a black Honda, gets the keys from the attendant and walks over to bay 2L and gets in the car.

He knows this city like the back of his hand. Fast, but not reckless, Mike Calcatera, weaves his way through traffic to his friend’s apartment.

His secure company phone vibrates and he answers by Bluetooth. “Godfather here.” “Godfather, Endpoint here, what’s the story?”

“Received message; councilor may be erased. Will check shortly and will call you with details.”

“Waiting.”

Mike ends the call and thinks now about the e-mail he’d received from Seb last night.

----Mikey,----
Jacky boy is doe-eye over his Gracie again, or, still, I guess is the better word. Apparently she’s left that overdressed camel driver in French tweeds. We’ll have to confirm, but if it’s true we can make Carrerbreu’s file active and move quickly to get him to the house in Croatia.
Talk more at conference tomorrow PM.
‘All for one and one for all,’
Seb

He thinks: That was Seb, neat and tidy. Move quick and efficiently, no frills, straight to business. He didn’t like Grace but he disliked her husband even more. He said that, that is why he recruited me to the agency 12 years ago. He said we’d keep me on the force as a cover, but he needed my head to understand how the criminal mind worked.” I was offended at first, but he said that he meant no offense, only that he admired my way of seeing the situation clearly and without too much emotion.

I’ve got plenty of emotion now, but Seb’s right, I do see right to the heart of most situations. Ah, here we are, and look at that, a parking place: "What do you mean officer? What fire hydrant? Here let me show you some ID. Heh heh, everybody has privileges according to their job."

Climbing the fourteen steps to the door of Jack’s brownstone was like climbing Everest. He hurried as fast as his fifty pound overweight frame would allow him. Out of breath, he reached the door and using the spare key Jack had given to him years ago, he unlocked the door. Simultaneously opening the door, drawing the Glock from his belt holster and flicking off the safety, he stepped into the foyer. The archway to the living room was nine steps from the door, and on the left. Back to the wall, he peeked around the edge of the archway and scanned the room. Seb was lying on the cream colored couch, head askew against the light colored matching pillow, small dark spot, dead center of the forehead and a large blot of crimson/maroon staining the pillow. There, on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, lay Jack, unconscious but chest moving shallowly.

Listening for any sound he sidled into the room, Glock ready. There didn’t appear to be anyone else present. Moving straight to Jack’s side, Mike knelt down and put his fingers on the nearside of Jack’s neck over the carotid artery. He could feel a light thready and very rapid pulsation. Putting his cheek against Jack’s nose he could feel warm air touch his skin. He gently shook Jack by the shoulder and called his name. No response. Standing up and moving toward Seb, he took out his cell and dialed 911. He proceeded to follow the identical evaluation of his mentor but it was quickly evident that Seb had left the building.

The 911 operator answered and Mike directed her to send an ambulance to Jack’s address.

Taking out his secure cell he quick-dialed the chief. At the same time he continued to search the apartment. In the bedroom he spotted a large red woman’s handbag. As he combed through the contents, the chief answered. After identifing each other by code, Mike said, "Councilor erased. Important documents found to support our case. I’ll be in your office in one half hour." (12)

* * *
“You have no idea who Bastian is, do you?” Asia said with a smirk, as she walked across the room and poured herself a drink. Grace said nothing, as her gaze quickly shifted from the tall statuesque beauty, who obviously knew her husband intimately, to the gun still sitting on the table in the adjoining room. Asia swirled her drink and met Grace’s gaze, as the ice tinkled annoyingly against the side of the glass.

“You think you’re safe, because you’re the mother of his children, but you’re nothing but a damn fool! I don’t even know why ...” Grace cut her off with an astonished laugh and shook her head in disbelief, “Safe ... did you say safe!? I haven’t felt safe in years, and you’ve got the gall to come off like you know me, or anything about me?” Asia pounced; her face so close that the alcohol on her breath stung Grace’s eyes. She locked her arms on either side of Grace and dug her nails into the back of the couch.

“I know you’re what’s keeping us from being together; you and those goddamn brats of yours!” Asia spat, with venom in her voice. At the mention of her children, a rush of adrenaline shot through Grace and she shoved Asia with every ounce of energy, sending her stumbling backward and crashing through the glass top table that sat in the center of the room.

Grace stood, frozen in shock and fear, adrenaline still pumping and nausea welling deep inside, as Asia’s lifeless eyes stared straight ahead and a trickle of blood oozed from her mouth. Grace hesitated only briefly, before running into the other room, grabbing the gun and making a quick sweep of the house, before she picked up the phone and ... (13)

Who would she call? Who could she call? Jack was probably dead by now. If she tried to contact her children it could mean a death sentence to them. Mike. She had to contact Mike. She’d left a number with cook, and she didn’t have it with her. Her bag with her address book was at Jeff’s place.

She eased her back against the wall and keeping the gun in front of her, twisted into the front hall. She moved to the door and unlatched it. She was in a panic. Frantic movements took only moments but felt like hours. Flinging the door open, she stepped out onto the porch and surveyed the land. There was a Mercedes across the lawn.

Keeping low, she moved close to the hedges and then across to the first tree. No one seemed to notice her. There had to be a gardener or staff on the premises.

From the tree it was a low run to the Mercedes. Mercifully unlocked she dove into the front seat and grabbed for the ignition. No keys. She couldn’t be lucky. She placed the gun in the passenger seat and dove under the steering wheel. She only had to lift the drivers side floor mat to find the spare.

Key in ignition, turn. Engine started.

Now what? Which way out of here?

She pulled onto the driveway and followed it to the main road, about fifty feet. Looking in the rear view mirror she realized in horror that Asia had only been knocked out by the fall.

“Bloody hell!” she said as she hit the gas. The rear window of the Mercedes was blown out by an unheard gun shot.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit,” she said through thinly pressed lips as she drove down the dusty road at break neck speeds.

It was three long dark dusty miles before she came upon the ancient Sunoco station with the last known roadside telephone stand.

She pulled in and leaped from the car. She had no change.

Removing the receiver, she forced herself to start breathing normally, taking in great gulps of air to calm her voice.

She hit Operator.

“Operator.”

“I need to make a collect call, person to person.”

“Please give me the number.”

She did, and waited as she forced herself to calm down.

“There is a collect call from Grace to Cook. Will you accept the charges?”

“Wait one moment.”

There were some hushed movements. Then cook came on the line.

“This is cook. I will accept the charges.”

“Don’t say my name. This is a dire emergency Cook. Please don’t let on.”

“This is cook. May I help you?”

“There are two things I need you to do. I need you to give me Mike's phone number. You have it. I gave it to you years ago.”

“He has already been called.”

“Good. But I need that number, I’ve lost my bag.”

Cook retrieved the number and Grace wrote it on the back of her hand.

“Second. You must tell the nanny to get the children out of that house. Tell her to take them somewhere safe and do it now.”

“Where would you like to have that package sent?” replied the cook.

“Tell her to use her own discretion. Tell her I will call her in a few days on her cell to find her and my babies.”

“I will take care of it.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Is Sebastian there now?”

“Yes, sir? Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Tell Julia to be careful, but please leave.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

Hanging up the phone, Grace rested her forehead against it and prayed, “Please God. Please God.”

Then she lifted the receiver and dialed the operator.

“I need to make a collect call to this number, person to person. My name is Grace. I wish to speak to Mike.” (14)

The phone line burred softly as Grace waited for the call to connect. Time seemed to ooze past her like liquid seeping from an overturned bottle. The seconds involved in each soft burr seemed to roll further and gather themselves into minutes. “Come on, come on.”

The other end picked up.

“Collect call from Grace to Mike, will you accept?”

“Yes.”

Grace’s mind went into hyper-drive. The last time she’d spoken to Mike had been the day after she’d told Jack and Seb about her unexpected marriage. Marry in haste, repent at leisure – oh how the words rang around her head – twelve damn long years of repentance. She remembered Mike’s dark look at her words; he hadn’t said anything. He’d just looked from her down to his coffee cup and back at her, a tight controlled expression on his face, lips pursed, dark eyebrows pulled together. He’d pulled a sip of Americano into him and clicked for the check. She’d been so full of her own delight she’d not really considered the unspoken questions in his face or the shadow that seemed to flit across his face. Funny how hindsight allowed pieces to click into place so long afterwards, another more rational part of her mind thought. She began to speak into the receiver, a stutter of words.

Mike cut across her: “Don’t say anything, Grace. You’re in something a lot bigger than you have any idea. We need to get you somewhere safe. We’ll get a lock on your position in a few seconds: then you’ll need to hide.”

Grace gasped at his coldness. “But... my babies?”

“Grace, you need to understand – you’re the key. If we lose you, we lose the lot. The children too.”

Grace reeled for a second as images from the park swam through her head; Anna and Giovanni with Julia, their smiling faces. What if they were harmed? She desperately hoped that Cook and Julia were able to act on her garbled message. “Okay Mike. What do I...” The line clicked dead. (15)

* * *
The telephone jangled harshly, making Julia start. She snatched the ornate receiver from its golden cradle.

“Yes?”

“Get out of that house. Get out now. Do not wait to collect anything. Take the children and go!” A male voice, unfamiliar.

“Who is this? What do you mean.” Julia’s voice was shrill, cracking on the edge of a scream.

“No time to explain ... get the children and get out of the house. Mr C is coming home and he’s not happy!”

The phone went dead. Julia stared into the receiver as if the face of the caller would be etched there. Then she dropped it and ran out into the hall.

“Children!” she called as she sprinted up the stairs. “Children, we’ve just had a call. We’re going on an adventure!”

Anna and Giovanni tumbled out of their rooms, eyes bright, excited grins on their faces.

“An adventure?” Giovanni was impressed. Anna looked puzzled but followed her brother and her beloved Julia.

“Yes but it’s a bit of a mystery too! I can’t tell you where we’re going!” Julia pushed the children’s arms into their coat sleeves as she spoke. “Now, which car shall we take?”

“The Discovery!” Giovanni yelled. “Then we can go in the jungle!”

“The Discovery it is!” Julia’s voice was brittle, her smile stretched but the kids seemed unaware. They clambered into the vehicle, Julia’s fingers trembled as she fumbled at the fastenings of the children’s car seats.

Tyres scrunched on gravel. Julia froze. Someone had arrived. Car doors slammed and she heard footsteps approaching the front door of the house. If she waited until they were inside then she would have a head start. She looked back at the kids, eyes like full moons. She put her fingers to her lips.

The front door slammed. Julia clicked the remote for the garage doors. The huge sheet of metal slowly began to gate its way up. Too noisy. Too slow. Heart thundering, Julia slammed her foot on the gas. The engine screamed, filling the garage with fumes. In her rear view mirror, Julia saw the adjoining door swing open. Armand’s face glowed red in the rear lamps before being smothered by the exhaust fumes.

“Dammit!” Julia screamed and let the landrover go.

The doors were half open as the car ploughed into them, ripping the thin metal like tissue and cracking the screen. A dark figure leapt in front of them only to roll across the bonnet.

Julia gunned the engine, risking a glance in the rear view mirror. Exhaust fumes boiled from the wrecked garage door, Armand staggered out firing a wayward shot into the night. Julia allowed herself a small grin and hammered her foot to the floor.

“Are you allowed to do that to the garage, Julia?” Giovanni grinned.

“You’re not allowed to say dammit,” Anna pouted. (16)

Julia silently whispered a prayer, which she does whenever she is nervous but doesn't quite admit to it in public. Giovanni and Anna had heard the prayer before in elementary school and they joined in, assuming that's what people do before starting an adventure. They had never been on a real adventure before and were all too excited. Julia made a steep turn, got the SUV back on track and raced, as she had never done before.

Armand rose to his feet in amazement. Blood oozed out from a cut on his forehead. He tried to gain strength and aimed his modern combat pistol at the landrover, which was fast disappearing into the green fields. As Julia sped away she saw Sebastian stare at her from the corner of her eye. And the image of her angry master made her accelerate faster than ever.

No sooner did the red SUV disappear Sebastian rushed indoors to find the children. He wasn't sure if Julia had taken them with her. Armand followed, baffled and deep in thought. He was only thinking about Grace. If she was hiding in the car and went along with the children it was bad news for them. But optimistic and scheming as Armand was, he presumed that the mother had not met her calves yet and the longer they stayed apart, the easier it would be to slaughter them.

Sebastian called the cops and made a complaint about his missing children. He was too tired to talk much. He settled in an antique rocking chair, which Grace had picked up from an auction soon after they were married. Armand made two drinks and both remained silent for a while.

Julia didn't know where to go. She was sure Sebastian would have called the cops by now or sent his armed men on their trail. She turned around and looked at the kids. They were enjoying a packet of chocolate chip cookies. She felt her stomach growl. She wondered how they got that and then noticed Anna's adventure bag, which she always kept ready in case of unplanned trips. They are finally on a real adventure, she thought silently.

Then, suddenly, she remembered a trait of her favorite childhood fictional character: Miss Marple. She immediately saw an escape plan form before her. She took out a railway guide from the cabinet of the SUV. She was looking at Pennsylvania Railway Station, which was 5 kilometers away. She planned a trip to Baltimore but she knew she would be off with the kids mid-way and board another train to Boston. That way it would take Sebastian long enough to trace them. Shuffling was the key, she thought. That was her lifeline. She grabbed it as she knew it would keep the chase alive.

Relaxed, she turned and looked at the kids. "Having fun?"

"Yes Nanny! This adventure is going to be the best ever!" they yelled back.

Julia hoped (and prayed) so too.

* * *

Sebastian was staring at the ceiling rocking to and fro on his chair. He was thinking about Grace. Asia. The kids. He jumped with a start and rushed into his office. Seeing him disturbed, Armand followed. Sebastian frantically searched for the leather box which he had caught Grace with recently. He checked the draws, his file cabinet and the sleek sliding cupboard. It was nowhere to be found. Then he looked on his side desk, which was nothing but a heap of sheets. He finally found it buried under a few plastic files and CDs. Relieved, he opened it. He went through all the papers that were neatly sealed and looked "important". He remembered how Grace was curiously examining them. But his eyes began searching again. He rubbed his temples and scanned the papers with haste and impatience. Armand could see his eyes go cold with anger.

"The Radcliffe deed. It's gone!" he exclaimed. (17)

* * *

They got off the train in Boston. It was late afternoon and the children were out on their feet. They’d been travelling for hours and any sense of adventure had long since palled.

Julia picked up some milk and the makings of some sandwiches and then booked them all into a cheap and cheerful motel. She made the kids something to eat and then they all lay down.

Once Julia was sure the two exhausted children were sleeping soundly she flicked the remote for the battered TV on the high shelf in the corner of the room and avidly scanned all the news channels for any mention of their disappearance, or indeed a mention of anything to do with Sebastian Carrebreu.

There was no mention of either. Julia wasn’t sure what this meant, and she was too tired to try and figure it out.

She was woken early the next morning by the two youngsters complaints of hunger and Anna’s loud protests about the absence of her woolly monkey.

Julia realised just how caught up they must have been in the events of the previous day for little Anna to only now miss her beat-up comforter.

She washed the kids faces and cheered them up with promise of pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast. She paid the bored motel receptionist in cash from the wad of notes that Cook had pushed into her hand as they’d run from the house.

Then she steered the boy and girl towards the nearest diner where they both wolfed down a huge breakfast. After that she trawled them round a thrift shop buying a change of clothes for them all and a plastic bag to pack them in. And for once she was grateful at how easy it was to blend back into the invisible world of the have-nots.

Then she marched them all off to the bus station. They’d head for her Grandma’s old cabin up in New Hampshire. It was wasn’t much, but it was remote enough to keep the kids safe until she could figure out what the hell was going on. (18)

* * *
Grace put down the phone and slowly slumped down to the ground. All strength to fight crept out of her and her thoughts wandered in the dark areas of her mind where she was always afraid to go. Why? she cursed herself. Why had she even thought that she could get way from it all and make a new life? All it had led to was death and pain.

Her dearest friends were dead.

Her children were in danger.

Her own life was doomed and the woman who had made her life hell was out there waiting for a chance to put a bullet through her head.

The stampede of thoughts trampled through Grace’s fatigued mind and something inside her snapped like a dry branch.

“Enough,” said the voice in her head.

“En-fuckin-ough.” The word struck like a hammer driving the nail of a decision deep in her head. Grace wiped a tear from her eye with her palm and smeared dust on her cheek; she had not even realized that she was crying.

“Not any more,” she said to herself.

She got up and walked to the Mercedes sitting idly by the side of the road. The gun sat in the passenger seat like a waiting pet; Grace picked it up and checked the clip. It was full. She re-inserted the clip and clicked off the safety. The time for safety is gone, she thought.

Then Grace reversed the car and drove back three miles to the place she had just run away from. As she neared the mansion she slammed her hand down on the horn and the car became a raging, raving beast headed for the mansion.

As Grace had expected, Asia came running to the porch looking for the source of the noise. Before Asia could raise her gun, Grace gunned the accelerator and drove straight into her. The car slammed into the wall of the porch, with Asia’s lower body sandwiched between the wall and the hood of the car. The airbag deployed and it took Grace a few seconds to get out of the wreck of the vehicle. Asia lay slumped on top of the car, her breath shallow and in gasps. A splatter of blood was smeared on the wall where she was pinned. Grace picked her head up by her hair and saw that life still swam in her eyes, but so did the hate and the cruelty.

Asia took a haggard breath and spat out the word “bitch” at Grace.

Grace sighed, closed her eyes, shoved the muzzle of the gun in Asia’s mouth and pulled the trigger.

As the report of the gunshot echoed through the empty mansion, the phone in Asia’s pocket began to ring. Grace pulled it out and saw the screen showing the name ‘Seb’. She smiled and pressed answer. (19)

"Grace you've made a huge mistake ... and unless we go back in time to undo this, there'll be big problems."

" I'm sorry ... who is this?"

" Asia was meant to live. In the future, a couple of decades from now, she's a key figure in Chinese politics. She negotiates a peace agreement between China and America at the crucial point of nuclear war."

" Who are you? You're not Sebastian."

" You don't know me. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you trust me. I'm using this phone to contact you from the year 2023. Time tremors have been registered ever since a certain watch got broken."

"You mean the gift from Sebastian?"

"That was no watch. It was an Electromagnetic Geostatic Time Cookie, or E.G.T.C, if you like. And the Radcliffe Deed ... that important peice of paper is none other than the vital Peace Settlement, sent from Beijing to Washington ... ooh, in approximately two hours from where I am now."

"But why is it here?"

"Because Jack changed history."

"Jack?"

"Jack is a time traveller who wanted to settle down. With you! But he didn't realise the significance of what he'd done. I, we, Sebastian, tried to explain - but he carried on. Cut himself off. Refused to believe that his actions would set up a chain of events that would subtly change the course of the world. The E.G.T.C was supposed to be a sort of monitoring or warning device.

"Should Jack mess up big time it would send frequencies that would enable us to track him and bring him back. As you know, the device was broken. It meant we couldn't keep tabs ... and ensuing events became increasingly violent and bizarre. And it will get worse. Grace. You've got to help us. You must come back with us to the year before you met Jack. Because it's important that you don't meet him. Ever.

"Grace, if you don't, then in a few years time this planet will be nothing but a lifeless radioactive ball of dust. Grace ... GRACE. Are you still there?" (20)

* * *

Grace started awake and realized she had been dreaming. Drained by the adreneline overload of this maddening day, she had collapsed in a heap at the roadside phone when Mike hung up on her.

She realized she couldn't stay here. Bastian might find her on the side of the road, not that far from the cottage where he'd left her. Grace was shaking when she slid into the driver's seat of the Mercedes and buckled up. Now she needed to sort out what had happened, what was real, what was not, and most of all, what to do next.

The need for action, the need to do something, anything, must have propelled Grace into that realistic dream of avenging herself against Asia. Where had that person come from, the one who thought to check the clip of a gun? Had she been watching too much television? Grace was afraid to trust her own thinking, but who else did she have?

Starting the engine, she drove off in the direction away from the cottage, trying at the same time to use the car's navigation system to figure out how to fly under the radar. She needed to make some decisions quickly before Bastian's henchmen figured out she had this car and found a way to use the car's own system to track her.

As she approached the city, she saw a Starbucks and decided coffee would give her the jolt she needed. And then she remembered she had no money, no credit cards, no way to do the necessary things for survival. Who could she call?

When she glanced into her rearview mirror, she realized that car had been following her for some time now and decided to make a few turns to get rid of it. When she turned left at an intersection, so did the other vehicle. When she turned left again, the car followed suit. Panic began to well up in her, constricting her throat. When she slowed down, the car zipped around her ... and then stopped so suddenly she had to slam on her brakes.

The man who jumped out of the car with his hands in the air looked familiar. Had she seen him with Bastian? Grace was terrified.

The man yelled, "Grace! It's okay!"

She had slammed the car into reverse and was starting to back up when he shouted, "Grace, it's me! It's Mike." And she started crying with relief as she recognized his face.

* * *

They abandoned the Mercedes behind a grocery store so that it was not visible from the road, and Mike was questioning Grace about everything that she had experienced since the day before. When she told him about ramming Asia against the wall and shoving the muzzle into her mouth to kill her, he looked at her gravely.

"That didn't happen," he said.

She began to doubt her sanity. "Did I dream it, as I thought earlier?"

"I don't know, but you didn't return to the cottage, so you didn't kill Asia. Unless she bled to death from the cuts sustained when the glass top of the table shattered," he said.

"I'm afraid to tell you about another phone call," she whispered, and he turned to look at her.

"What phone call?"

"I thought it was Bastian. The name 'Seb' showed up in the caller I.D."

"Seb?"

"Bastian."

"You're saying he called you?"

"No, he was calling Asia. The phone was ringing in her pocket, and I answered it."

"After you killed her?" Mike asked.

"Yes," Grace said tentatively, almost whispering.

"But that didn't happen," he reminded her gently. "If you didn't kill her, then you weren't there to answer her cell phone."

"What's happening?" Grace wailed softly. "Am I going crazy?"

"You are stressed out," he responded.

They drove several miles in silence, but he could see that Grace was beside herself. He knew he'd have to find a safe place to revive her physically and mentally, with coffee and some information. (21)



Authors So Far:


(1) Seamus at Shameless Words.
(2) Kay at As It Happens.
(3) Wanderlust Scarlett at from the shores of introspect and retrospect.
(4) Kate at Inner Minx.
(5) Absolute Vanilla at Absolute Vanilla... (&Atyllah).
(6) Bonnie at Words From A Wordsmith
(7) Rob at Image & Verse Too
(8) Sognatrice at Bleeding Espresso.
(9) The Bluest Butterfly at A Virtual Hobby Store And Coffee Shop.
(10) Jamaican Dawta at Life, Unscripted, On The Rock.
(11) Kat at Kat's Random Thoughts.
(12) Rel at Under the Microscope.
(13) Jill at Wordsmith Extraordinaire.
(14) Roberta at Turn the Page
(15) Cailleach at Barbara's Bleeuugh
(16) Jon at Writing In A Vacuum
(17) Pure Sunshine at Virtual Crossroads
(18) Apprentice at My Gap Year
(19) Nothingman at A Story A Day.
(20) Meloney at Meloney Lemon.
(21) Bonnie at Words From A Wordsmith

Next Nominated Writer:

(yet to be confirmed)



Update on those who have said "pass" (to avoid repeat nominations):

- Shelli at Shelli's Sentiments
- Pearl at Humanyms
- Canterbury Soul at Doors Left Open
- Vesper at Chick With A Quill
- Loretta at Failed Painter
- Catherine at Still Standing On Her Head
- Debi at Debi Alper
- Colleen at Loose Leaf Notes
- Dewey at The Hidden Side of a Leaf (says she would like a go later, though)
- Verilion at A Wanderer In Paris
- Maht at The Moon Topples
- Wilf at Wilf's World


The Basic Rules:

* I have taken the above photo as inspiration for an opening section. We can all make suggestions for a title when it's finished, with a ballot for the favourite.

* The last person to add to the story must nominate another member in the circle to come up with the next section. That person will then nominate another member to add to that. And so on.

* There is no limit on how much can be added, but it has to be within reason. Everyone writes what they feel is right and what takes the story on.

* Everyone is free to develop the story as they see fit - I trust no one will carry out any deliberate sabotage, such as a sudden shift to the absurd.

* There will be no time limit for coming up with the added piece, but everyone should bear in mind that we will all be waiting for the new section. Please be reasonable.

* If members are not able to participate at the time they are nominated, they have the right to decline and nominate someone else in the circle. To save time it might be a good idea for people to check ahead a little, to see if the person they want to nominate is around/able to take part.

* When a member's turn comes around they are invited to write up a post on their blog with the photo and their added piece, linking to this page at the same time. I will constantly update the full story here.

* Everyone is encouraged to promote this as much as they can on their blogs. You are welcome to regularly publish the story each time it is updated, and encourage debate on how it is turning out.

* A number at the end of each new section will identify who the author is.

* Please note that I will be the silent editor. I will correct any obvious typos and make slight changes to format and punctuation when needed, for clarity. I won't butcher though and promise that I will try to leave stuff essentially as it is. You have the right to protest against any edits you feel strongly about, by email.

A Roar For Powerful Words !

What is this project?

When I set up The Shameless Lions Writing Circle, one of the things I had in mind was that we as a group could encourage and celebrate good, powerful writing on the Internet/blogosphere. This is why I've come up with a new project to try to do exactly that, while of course at the same time increase exposure for the 48 members and their individual blogs. A Roar For Powerful Words is the chance to scream from the mountains the good news about the powerful posts that are produced every day in the blogosphere, despite what some mainstream columnists and journalists claim. This is also a good chance to examine exactly what it is that makes writing good and powerful. I'm sure there will be different views on this.

How does it work?

Below are copies of the award that we can each distribute to those people who have blogs we love, can't live without, where we think the writing is good and powerful. I thought interested members could kick things off by publishing the award on their own blog, naming five people they would like to give it to (members or non-members), and accompany the image with three things they believe are necessary to make writing good and powerful. The recipients then do the same, passing it on to five other people, and so on. We can encourage people to collect their award from our blog, by copying and pasting, or we can give them the link to this post where the award is available in three different sizes, one being a perfect fit for sidebars.

I hope we can have some fun with this and it results in a massive roar for people's writing everywhere!

Take care,
Seamus (the tamer of the lions).

Copies of the award




Perfect for a blog post.




Perfect for someone with lots of space in their sidebar.




Perfect for someone with limited space in their sidebar.

Latest News From The Pride

 

Monday, May 26, 2008.

Sadly, I have decided to suspend my personal blog, Shameless Words, which you can read about here. Unfortunately, this also means that I will no longer be able to maintain this site. But there's no reason why this "circle" can't remain in place. The lions can be kept up on your individual blogs, and the list of all of your details can remain here as a kind of networking tool. The only thing different is that I will not be able to organise any activities here. I also really hope the end of the collective short story will be posted at some stage. If anyone is interested in having a go at writing the final instalment, then please get in touch. I will happily post that. Thanks for all your interest and I wish you all the best with your writing projects in the future.

Thursday, March 13, 2008.

Collective Story

Bonnie has done a wonderful job at preparing Grace's story for closure. See instalment 21, which has just been posted. I am currently lining up someone to do the final piece and wrap up the story. This has been a great project, with lots of good teamwork. We also need ideas for a title. Please feel free to email your ideas.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008.

Two New Members

It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to the writing circle's two new members!

Eric Valentine and Ms. Mephistopheles have adopted lions #2 and #12. Sadly, Lee and Gautami decided to bid us farewell, but their lions are going to great homes!

Lion #12 is going to a blog called Think Of The Devil And Her Horns Appear. Talk about a title that draws you in! Ms. Mephistopheles is the owner of the blog and she has decided to call her lion Leah. The beauty looks very much at home! You can visit Ms. M, and make her feel welcome, by clicking on the image taken from her blog below.
 
 


Lion #2 is also going to a wonderful blog, Scattered Chatter, which is produced by Eric Valentine in Canada. Eric has been a fan and regular reader of this circle for a while now and it's a real pleasure to bring him on board. He has written a great poem for his lion, named Sangilak. Do pay Eric a visit by clicking on the image of his blog's front page below.
 
 


Friends

We are always happy to welcome people to our friends list, which is in the sidebar of this blog. If you know of any of your regular bloggers who would like to be listed here, don't hesitate to send them an invitation to email me with their details. This list is used to help find future members if ever a lion becomes homeless.

Collective Story

The story will soon be coming to an end, and we need a couple of writers willing to help wrap it up. Do let me know by email if you have any visions for the end of Grace's story. This has been a great project, with lots of good teamwork. We also need ideas for a title.

Next project

I am currently working on the details for our next project, which will be something aimed at providing a useful writing resource for those wanting to improve their skills. Stay tuned!


That's all for now. Keep writing, stay strong and don't forget to let your lion roar for your writing!

The Members Of The Circle

 
There are 48 members in total. For complete details of individual members, and photos of their lions, keep scrolling down !

Lion 1 (Bucephalus): Canterbury Soul at Doors Left Open.
Lion 2 (not yet named) : Eric at Scattered Chatter.
Lion 3 (Tirso) : exskindiver at Skin Diving.
Lion 4 (Simha) : Deepthi at Locution.
Lion 5 (Kashgar) : Absolute Vanilla at Absolute Vanilla... (&Atyllah).
Lion 6 (Eugene) : Seamus at Shameless Words.
Lion 7 (Pareto) : KGT at When I Wax.
Lion 8 (Blue) : Roberta at Turn the Page.
Lion 9 (Zaccharias) : Remiman at Under The Microscope.
Lion 10 (Cheshire) : Neil at Neil Hester.
Lion 11 (Elliot) : Colleen at Loose Leaf Notes.
Lion 12 (Leah) : Ms.Mephistopheles at Think Of The Devil And Her Horns Appear.
Lion 13 (Vermillion) : Apprentice at My Gap Year.
Lion 14 (Leonardo) : Sognatrice at Bleeding Espresso.
Lion 15 (Endelyn) : Verilion at A Wanderer In Paris.
Lion 16 (Kaleidoscope) : Shelli at Shelli's Sentiments.
Lion 17 (Leon The Lion) : Pure Sunshine at Virtual Crossroads.
Lion 18 (Alexander) : Vesper at Chick With A Quill.
Lion 19 (Florian) : Catherine at Still Standing On Her Head.
Lion 20 (Barbarossa) : Frank at Books Inq.
Lion 21 (Lorenza) : LMN at Failed Painter.
Lion 22 (Caradoc) : Clare at Keeper Of The Snails.
Lion 23 (Baz Lyon) : Derek at TypingSpace.
Lion 24 (Johnny Cash) : Jessica at Jessica Schneider.
Lion 25 (Azubuike) : Jamaican Dawta at Life, Unscripted, On The Rock.
Lion 26 (Cardamom) : Jon at Writing In A Vacuum.
Lion 27 (Raga) : Cailleach at Barbara's Bleeuugh!
Lion 28 (Mr Mellow Yellow) : Susan at Writing Passions.
Lion 29 (Bragi) : Minx at The Inner Minx.
Lion 30 (Roary) : Bonnie at Words From A Wordsmith.
Lion 31 (Louis) : Dewey at The Hidden Side Of A Leaf.
Lion 32 (HM Arthur Winston) : WA at The Unending Journey of the Wandering Author.
Lion 33 (Zion) : Jill at Wordsmith Extraordinaire.
Lion 34 (Nin) : The Bluest Butterfly at A Virtual Hobby Store And Coffee Shop.
Lion 35 (Heart Of Oak) : Wilf at Wilf's World.
Lion 36 (Ari) : Lo at Terminal Chaosity.
Lion 37 (Alfie) : Sarah at Sarah's Writing Journal.
Lion 38 (Homer) : Meloney at Meloney Lemon.
Lion 39 (Lucidus Keen) : LJCohen at Once In A Blue Muse : A Poet's Journal.
Lion 40 (Durgapriya) : Durga at The Outsider.
Lion 41 (Aloysius the hidden) : Julie Carter at Carter's Little Pill.
Lion 42 (Viaggiatore) : Wanderlust Scarlett at from the shores of introspect and retrospect.
Lion 43 (Shimshon) : Debi at Debi Alper.
Lion 44 (Kauri) : Chief Biscuit at As It Happens.
Lion 45 (Ecanus) : Kat at Kat's Random Thoughts.
Lion 46 (Artheo) : Rob at Image & Verse Too.
Lion 47 (Odin) : Nothingman at A Story A Day.
Lion 48 (Ghufran) : Pearl at Humanyms.

Is there a mistake in your listing? Send an email to Seamus, the tamer of the lions at: seak@caramail.com

THE FULL LIST OF LIONS, THEIR OWNERS AND THEIR BLOGS ARE LISTED BELOW.

© Copyright, 2007. All members of the writing circle hold the copyright of their written material featured on this blog.

Lion 1 - Doors Left Open

 

Lion 1:

Bucephalus.

Artist behind the lion:

Nora Boudjemaï (French painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Canterbury Soul at Doors Left Open.

Blog Description:

This interesting blogger is based in Singapore and provides a "must visit" collection of poems and musings on life. Prolific is the word that comes to mind when you visit this blog on a regular basis and the words often leave you gasping. The subjects covered are wide and varied and there are also short stories to get our teeth into. CS also seems to be a music lover. The perspective of someone living in Singapore shines through.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Reborn

Heaven has stirred
The buried soul
Who had battled mighty foes of a sovereign Macedon
king

He resides in
The regal body
Living the same heroic attributes that command fear
and respect

Strength in unity
Power in authority
Imposed on the faces of all on earth -
he vows

Canterbury Soul also wrote this longer tribute:

Bucephalus

The greatest animal of antiquity
Could only serve and die for
The greatest ruler of mankind
Alexander the Great

Dead and buried
At Jalalpur Sharif
The gods of the heavens
Have eternal designs
No man would grasp
As they stirred
The soul and spirit
Who had battled, trampled, bitten
Foes of the sovereign Macedon
And has it resided
In the regal body
Of the bona fide king of animals

A lion
That reflects strength in unity
Power in community
Through the faces of all on earth

Fear no more of
Thy shadow and nemesis
For thou has yet
Another grand master
In the mould
Of a certain Canterbury Soul
Whose daily rewards for thee
Are immense and sure
Poetry in the morn
Caress beneath the mane
Fruits that gratifies
Protection guarded with honour

So, go forth and fight with the Soul
Serving faithfully
Preparing to die valiantly
Just as thou had done at Hydaspes

Lion 2 - Scattered Chatter

 

Lion 2:

Sangilak

Artist behind the lion:

Gérard Mathie (French author and visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Eric Valentine at Scattered Chatter

Blog Description:

(not yet produced)

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Sangilak

He burst forth from the past to now
Fiercely proud, strong, erect.
His torso adorned and glowing still,
Remnants of the days of battle royal,
The figures, depicting scars from days of old.

I first saw him standing there -
Covered it seemed in a hue of snow?

On his chest emblazoned in red,
“Is that a red maple leaf I see,
Or some such facsimile ?”
I said astounded! ~ hesitantly, ~
“You are Canadian ~ aren’t you”

About the lion's name:

The first time I met the #2 Lion I was struck by the White on his face and chest with the Red blaze, (Maple Leaf?) reminiscent of the Canadian flag.
In selecting a name for my Lion, I decided on Sangilak which means, ‘The strongest of all’ in Inuktitut. The Inuit are an indigenous people of Canada.
This seemed most apt, for the Lion has long been known as “The King of The Jungle’ down through the ages and pages of history.

Lion 3 - Skin Diving

 

Lion 3:

Tirso.

Artist behind the lion:

Jocelyne Beaugrand-Tual (French painter).

Adoptive Writer:

exskindiver at Skin Diving.

Blog Description:

This blogger - an ex-teacher, wife and mother - is based in the US. Her blog is full of interesting insights into her life and her Filipino roots. The subject matter ranges from humorous anecdotes to deep, moving issues. There are always interesting images and personal photographs to accompany the posts. Poetry is featured, as well as reviews. The writing is energetic and original and always straight to the point. There are often references to other family members who also blog.

Poem or prose inspired by the lion:

variegated mask easy
to succumb to joy and pain
stable
in a changing world charging
through time
misunderstood.

Lion 4 - Locution

 

Lion 4:

Simha (lion in Telugu)

Artist behind the lion:

Madhu Basu (Indian painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Deepthi at Locution.

Blog Description:

The owner of this blog lives in Andhra Pradesh state in India. The writing here works in stirring up images of this part of the world, but photos and images are also used to illustrate things. There is a focus on poems, which are also very evocative. The subjects covered include reflections on everyday life but some also delve into the spiritual and lyrical. This is the first blog from India in the writing circle and we hope there will be others.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Simha stood there staring at the future,

"What do you see I asked'?

"I see the world turning into a menace,he answered.I see the children of tomorrow crying for a better today.I see the nature asking for mercy or some kind of attention.I see nature crying to be protected,sheltered in the green pasture, under a gulmoher tree."

"See what I am today,just a mere animal standing under the scorching sun.I have no fear nor does anyone fear me.Infact I can see few who wear me.They say they killed the king of the jungle.When,to talk there is no jungle ,where would there be a king then.

Saying this he kept staring into nothing...now was it the future ????

He adorns the symbol of love,he respects all religions,his body is a graffiti of the pain he is going through.Let us make that pain disappear.Let us give him back the majestic look.the forest,the fur,the spirit,the shade the unity he asks...

Let us transport him to the future he dreams of.....

Lion 5 - Absolute Vanilla...(&Atyllah)

 

Lion 5:

Kashgar.

Artist behind the lion:

José Arcé (French visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Absolute Vanilla at Absolute Vanilla... (&Atyllah).

Blog Description:

This is a vibrant and thought-provoking blog from South Africa. Absolute Vanilla produces stunning photographs and words. The topics covered are varied and poignant. AV's writing is sharp and moving. It is no wonder that this blog has developed a large following. AV welcomes people to her site with these words: "Who am I? I am. And I happen to love vanilla. And so, this blog's about...? This and that. Witterings and warblings - from here and there - you'll find out soon enough."

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Stride, noble Kashgar through all the worlds

Worlds within worlds
one linked to another
paths connecting
holding together.

Never alone,
separate,
yet part
of a far greater
whole.

Colours that ripple
eyes that gleam
words draw us forward
and
interconnected
we follow the dream.


Atyllah also wrote this longer piece:

Interconnection & Impermanence

A hand rises...

Pebble plops
ripples shimmer
towards the shore.
A droplet splashes
the earth
moistens the seed
resting below.
Shoot rises up
to meet the sun.
Flower blooms
and is kissed
by the honeybee.
All is One
and
constantly changing.

A hand rises...

Words form on a page
the present
shifts
to the future...
The world alters
and
they're not just words
anymore.

Lion 6 - Shameless Words

 

Lion 6:

Eugene

Artist behind the lion:

Nicolas Fafiotte (French designer)

Adoptive Writer:

Seamus at Shameless Words. Keeper/Tamer of the shameless lions.

Blog Description:

This will have to be a neutral kind of description because I can hardly praise my own blog, can I? As well as having an obsession with these lions from Lyon, and organising this writing circle, I produce a writing blog. It is a collection of poems, short stories, fiction extracts, book reviews, snippets of life, photos, paintings - as well as musings on writing, fiction and publishing. I am an Irish/NZ journalist who's been based in France since 1997.

Poem inspired by my lion:

look at this lion of life/in need of constant feeding/strange desires to roar at the day/forlorn and endearing yet violent and pouncing/innocent heads beautifully hovered/between his trembling jaw/drips from savage teeth on the skin/panting breath, burning tongue/games of irresistible danger.

About the lion's name:

Eugene is named after Eugene Ionesco, the Romanian playwright who lived in France. I wanted my lion to have a literary identity with a French connection. The patches of colour, the mad ensemble, the bright colours, reminded me of the absurd, which Ionesco was so good at. The lion was designed by someone called Fafiotte, which also sounds quite fun, and the work of Ionesco, while sometimes tragic, has an element of farce about it.

Lion 7 : When I Wax

Lion 7:

Pareto.

Artist behind the lion:

Robert Stalport (French painter and illustrator).

Adoptive Writer:

KGT at When I Wax.

Blog Description:

This is KGT's poetry blog, which contains some real gems. This 36-year-old is from Upstate New York and he has a wide variety of interests, which is reflected in his writing - his other blogs are linked to animals, hunting and nature. The writing is crisp and assured and there is a real sense that this writer knows what the reader is after. On his blogs KGT has this message, which leaves us in no doubt about his originality: "Tentative philomath, aspiring polymath. Sometimes ribald, most times Renaissance, always looking in the rearview mirror."

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

This anti-Aslan
his eyes and heart of darkness
roaming the voodoo veldt
of global capital
and trade
will not
lie down
with lambs
yet he sees
with eyes
of angels
into the deepest
anarchic
abyss
tail stretching back to Africa
whiskers
sensing
the alchemy
of order
and myth.


Which comes from this longer piece:

He woke me last night
from outside the perimeter-
the repeated decrescendo
of roaring
of reifying
of his repeatedly realizing
the predator’s
Pareto principle.

He struck me
with his proclivity
for parsing Pangea,
and reinforcing
the sustained
survival
of his species
in the sum of his
slashing
severing
shameless
privation.

This anti-Aslan
his eyes and heart of darkness
roaming the voodoo veldt
of global capital
and trade
will not
lie down
with lambs
yet he sees
with eyes
of angels
into the deepest
anarchic
abyss
tail stretching back to Africa
whiskers
sensing
the alchemy
of order
and myth.

Lion 8 - Turn The Page

 


Lion 8:

Blue.

Artist behind the lion:

Mercedes Uribe (Colombian painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Roberta at Turn the Page.

Blog Description:

Roberta Nolte describes herself as someone who loves reading and writing; just one look at her blog and you are left with no doubt about her talent. Living in Ona, West Virginia (US), her blog is full of titbits about life. The subjects covered are varied and entertaining and there are often great pictures to go with the posts. Roberta has a knack of achieving a superb balance between quirkiness and serious contemplation on any given topic.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Blue

I named you Blue - My Blue
and you were sensitive and kind

You named me Yellow, Your Yellow
and we shared a sort of mind

We shared stories
..and a life

Until it had to end
..but you are my Blue

My soul mate
my confidant and friend



Roberta also wrote this longer piece:

Meeting Blue

She first saw him standing rigidly in the square. She had to remember to breathe. He was magnificent! Her feet took life of their own and moved the rest of her to the bench beside him where she sat, transfixed.

“You are absolutely gorgeous.” She said under her breath.

“Of course.” He whispered back.

“I’ve lost what little mind I had left!”

She put her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes tightly shut trying to regain her sanity.

“But you said I was gorgeous. I had to respond.”

She closed her eyes again and then put her thumbs in her ears.

“Are you ignoring me?”

“No.”

“Then why does your face look funny?”

She unplugged her ears, opened her eyes and forcibly pulled her hands from her face. There stood the Lion in all of his magnificence. His body was sky blue with all of the power and grace of a lion, yet blue was his most outstanding color. His face burnt orange, as if he had been facing the sun too long. It was his body’s markings that stood out so remarkably. The Northern Hemisphere covered part of his rump, South America covered his belly and his inner leg. The other geographical markings spotted his shoulders and mane.

“I thought I was losing it.”

“You’re not losing it. It’s just been so long since I’ve had someone to talk too…”

She stood from the bench and circled the lion, gazing at him from every angle. She wanted to reach out her hand to touch him, but stopped. She told him her name. “What do you call yourself?”

“My name is Blue.”

“Nice to meet you Blue.”

They talked the day away and as the sun set, she promised to return. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into years. Every day she came to visit. They talked about politics and religion. They talked about life and death. She read to him short stories. He recited poetry to her from memory. Nothing was ever dull when they were together.

As the years passed, her step became a little slower. She wasn’t as tall as she was when she was young and her hair turned silver. He continued to be radiant. One day she didn’t show up. Blue waited and watched as the sun moved across the sky. As it set, he felt an incredible sadness.

“Recite to me your favorite poem.”

The voice was all around him and he knew she no longer existed on this plane.

With a single tear forming in his stone eye he began.

(Roberta has been invited to submit a shorter piece - 48 word max - for the contest, but this stands as a wonderful tribute to her lion).

Lion 9 : Under The Microscope

 


Lion 9:

Zaccharias.

Artist behind the lion:

Sylvie Margot (French painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Remiman at Under The Microscope.

Blog Description:

This is the very interesting site of a 61-year-old who lives in Upstate New York. Remiman's blog is full of poetry and photos and he writes up wonderful anecdotes about his life. There is humour but also deep reflections on what makes his world go round. Remiman says he has lived in or visited seven countries (Canada, Vietnam, Japan, Korea, France, England and Costa Rica) and France is his favourite! The writing on this blog is of a high standard.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Zaccharias is a scholarly lion_____
Seeking, peeking behind
The scenes, through the lens
Curious like his namesake, and his
Father before him.
For Zaccharias, information
Is like meat
For other lions.
His mane reflects the
Microscopic images he
Finds and records.
You can not hide
Under the microscope.

Lion 10 : Neil Hester

 

Lion 10:

Cheshire.

Artist behind the lion:

Shih Chun Lee (Taiwanese painter)

Adoptive Writer:

Neil at Neil Hester.

Blog Description:
Neil is a 17-year-old from Texas in the US. He hits you between the eyes with his sharp words and superb perspective. He has a love of poetry and that shines through on this site ... when he is not busy studying. He welcomes people to his blog by saying: "I like poetry. I wear briefs, but not bios. Well, boxer briefs. Though I am "bio"logical. And "brief"logical, come to think of it. Anyhow... poetry is good for your health; poems make you well, very much like prunes. Poems, however, don't have that devilish tendency to shrivel up (or down) and whatnot.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Cheshire

I tried to photograph him yesterday;
He ran- well, looked- well, faded away,
Only part (about half) way there.
The rest of him was, oh, somewhere
(For nowhere is such a gloomy place).
Then grinned a face from about the trees;
I leveled, focused, and said, "Say cheese!"

Lion 11 - Loose Leaf Notes

 

Lion 11:

Elliot.

Artist behind the lion:

Paul Bosland (French sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Colleen at Loose Leaf Notes.

Blog Description:

Colleen is a fabulous poet and writer and her work stays with you long after you leave her site. She lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Floyd, Virginia, in the US. This website is full of great images and moving words. Colleen has this to say about herself: "I write to synthesize what I'm learning at the time, whether it be poetry, a political commentary, or a letter to my mother in Hull, Massachusetts, where I'm originally from. Whenever I don't know exactly what it is I'm doing and it borders on wasting my time, I call it research.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Pink-haired street poet
last lion on the block to be picked
to prove that his rhyme is as big as his roar
that his appetite for words is not to be feared
as he shouts from his corner, “People,
your war is more uncivilized than the jungle!”

About the lion's name:

Colleen says:

"I named the lion Elliot and dubbed him a poet, after my late poet friend, Elliot, who liked to wear a purple beret and a daisy behind his ear. “What would Elliot say if he had a street corner in Paris to shout poetry from,” I wondered as I wrote my forty-eight word writing circle entry fee."

Lion 12 - Think Of The Devil And Her Horns Appear

 

Lion 12:

Leah

Artist behind the lion:

Aaron Hinojoso (Mexican painter and sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Ms. Mephistopheles

Blog Description:

(not yet produced)

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Leah of Mine
Magnificent and Bold
Three Parts and yet Whole

Lion 13 - My Gap Year

 


Lion 13:

Vermillion.

Artist behind the lion:

Polly Law Yuk Kwan (Hong Kong designer, visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Apprentice at My Gap Year.

Blog Description:

Apprentice, who lives in Britain, produces warm and inspiring work on a regular basis. She writes her own poems and highlights the work of others. The site is also kept vibrant with stunning photographs. This 51-year-old also has another blog called Cancer Chronicles, which contains a series of haiku poems that tell the story of her experience of having breast cancer. The collection has now been published. The strong writing on this blog will ensure its popularity.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

a lacquered lion stalked
a ridged roof of terracotta tiles
till lightening struck and he leapt down
to pad past pagodas, tip-toe through the tea
house and out through the moongate - off to seek a soulmate
in far away lands still red in tooth and claw

Lion 14 - Bleeding Espresso

 


Lion 14:

Leonardo.

Artist behind the lion:

José de Léon (Spanish painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Sognatrice at Bleeding Espresso.

Blog Description:

This is the gorgeous blog of an American woman who's moved to Calabria, Italy. Sognatrice writes in a way that makes you feel and breathe what she describes. The blog is focused on her writing but also on her daily life as an expat. Our mouths are left watering with recipes and pictures of scrumptious food and our hearts pound as she describes the new life she has chosen. It's no wonder that Sognatrice's blog has such a strong following.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

You never believe me,
but fine.

He stopped,
squished his nose against the glass,
blinked,
pulled back,
shook his mane,
and strutted away,
leaving me to wonder how his heart
ended up on his sleeve.

Oh yeah?

Did to.

Then how do you explain that nose-shaped smear?

Lion 15 - A Wanderer In Paris

 

Lion 15:

Endelyn

Artist behind the lion:

Ahtzic Silis (sculptor, painter from El Salvador)

Adoptive Writer:

Verilion at A Wanderer In Paris.

Blog Description:

Verilion lives in Paris and maintains a regular blog that is full of great writing. She seems to be an avid traveller and often posts gripping tales from her adventures. We wonder why she is not a travel journalist. V works in education and often shares amusing anecdotes about her work and life in Paris. She writes the odd poem and also posts examples of creative writing. With a name like Verilion, we are sure she will be a perfect lion owner!

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

The fire within burns vibrant on her skin,
tattooing vague patterns of blazing dragons
across her flank.
Wild imaginings bursting forth,
swirling to indefinite
beginnings, middles and endings.
Prowling forth into uncertainty,
her radiance undiminished,
her force yet unrealised,
her soul a rich muse
of consciousness.

About the lion's name:

Verilion says:

"From the beginning I decided that some of Shameless’s lions were female. I knew that I wanted her name to mean fire, but according to my indepth research it actually means fire soul. The name is apparently Gaelic, but I could only find details of a Cornish saint who somehow became all embroiled with King Arthur and had the power to bring people and her cow back to life!

So the name began as Endellion, sometimes spelt Endillyon, the Saint is Endelienta, but I liked the Cornish variant. So please welcome to my blog Endelyn."

Lion 16 - Shelli's Sentiments

Lion 16:

Kaleidoscope.

Artist behind the lion:

Frédérique Poizat (French designer, visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Shelli at Shelli's Sentiments.

Blog Description:

This is a very professional looking site, with great graphics and words to match. There are striking images and a wide variety of subjects are covered. As well as being a mother and wife, Shelli says: "I am a nurse to all the kids I see when I work at the pediatric clinic near my home. I am a blogger. I am a writer when I am not blogging. I am a cross stitcher when I am not blogging or writing. I am a very amateur sculpter when I am not blogging, writing or cross stitching. If there is anytime left after all those pursuits, I use it to sleep, read or exercise.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

I roared, “I am Kaleidoscope!”
He said, “I am Joseph.”
Joseph was a thing of beauty, majesty and power. We talked about our responsibilities and we came to an understanding, man & beast. Before he left, he passed his beautiful coat over me and blessed me with its colors.


The original, longer version:

One day as I was walking over the land, surveying my kingdom, I encountered a man called Joseph. I introduced myself, “I, the king of this land, am Kaleidoscope!” He, too, was a thing of beauty and majesty, surely he must be as powerful as I. We talked about our responsibilities and duties, as regal creatures will do. We came to a great understanding between us, man and beast. As we prepared to go our separate ways, he passed his beautiful coat over me as if to bless me with it’s colors. The next time I looked in the reflective water, I realized he had done just that.

Lion 17 - Virtual Crossroads

 

Lion 17:

Leon.

Artist behind the lion:

Françoise Granger (French sculptor and painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Pure Sunshine at Virtual Crossroads.

Blog Description:

This is a delightful blog from India. The author is a 23-year-old journalist who always has a lot of variety and colour in her posts. There are wonderful anecdotes and photos alike. Pure Sunshine welcomes people to her blog by saying: "Love to debate, analyse get into the depth of things — be it literature, people or matters of "global concern". Love studying people, their body language, analysing personalities. Should have become a criminal psycologist! What the heck!"

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Shamelessly spirited

Leon! Leon! Shining bright!
Though not in forests, not at night,
The striped beast, in yellow and red
Speaks not of fear or of dread.
Shameless, he gives one hope to carry on,
To take nimble steps and look ahead,
For, what's gone is gone!

Poised to face battles glorious,
And to come on top always victorious.
Gives you strength and positive vibes
So your shameless spirit in you is energized.
And if you are a rebellion or a struggler
With Leon, just believe in you.
For, the magic lies inwards!


About the lion's name:

Pure Sunshine says: "It is simply the Irish/Gaelic and German translation of Lion. I like the name because it's short and sweet and sounds good."

Lion 18 - Chick With A Quill

 


Lion 18:

Alexander.

Artist behind the lion:

Katell Le Bourdonnec (French visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Vesper at Chick With A Quill.

Blog Description:

Vesper describes herself as "newborn to the blogosphere". Launched very recently, her blog has writing and literature as a main focus and it conjures up more than an air of mystery. We don't know what country Vesper lives in or what she does for a job. Little is revealed at the moment (that may change), but the first few blog posts are intriguing and include a great poem. Her bio reads: "I live for the written and the moving illusions. This is about me, about my tangle of thoughts, my obsession with writing and time, my infatuation with Daniel".

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Lost Babylon

He leaped at me
from the faded tiles of
Ishtar's procession.
His claws sank deep
into my flesh,
the dust of all illusions upon us.
"What seek you?" he rumbled. "The brilliance
is gone,
the gold is ashes."
"One named Alexander," I said.
"He was once a god."



Also, another poem, which is not for the contest.

My Heart Only

In the orchard of pink grapefruit, I walk.
What gleams, what sparkles, so lively, so slyly,
In the hot well of this darkness?
No stars in the high, no glow worms in my skirts.
Only your eyes, your glare of sapphire.
Your mighty roar echoes for me alone,
Sweet and bitter.
Do not devour me, lion of my heart.
Let us sacrifice this ripe grapefruit.

Lion 19 : Still Standing On Her Head

 

Lion 19:

Florian.

Artist behind the lion:

Farid Belkahia (Moroccan visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Catherine at Still Standing On Her Head.

Blog Description:

It seems this lion couldn't have gone to a more perfect home. Catherine is not only a fan of poetry - there is some superb work here - but she is also keen on quiltmaking! Catherine lives in Christchurch, in the South Island of New Zealand, and readers of her blog are treated to wonderful photos of her environs. The quality of the writing here is very high and the subjects and poetry make this site a real pleasure to stroll through.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Don't snigger. I am not what you think.
The women who made me had little,
but they chose only the best pieces
for me. They knew what it was
to fight. They sewed fierceness
and strength into every stitch.

Lion 20 - Books Inq

 

Lion 20:

Barbarossa.

Artist behind the lion:

Rachid Koraïchi (Algerian visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Frank at Books Inq.

Blog Description:

This is a "must read" for writers, readers or those working in the industry. Frank Wilson is the book review editor at the US newspaper The Philidelphia Inquirer and his blog is regularly updated with invaluable links to poetry, creative writing, articles, blogs and lots more. He also offers his assessment on the burning topics of the day. Frank's blog has become extrememly popular on many continents, admired for his sharp wits and generous spirit.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

The Red Lion

Crimson Barbarossa
Lion of Lyons, you bring
To aging mind
And weary heart
Red Lion Road
Where the Poquessing flowed
Dividing the city and its streets
From the country and its lanes
When the difference counted
A long time ago.

Lion 21 - Failed Painter

 


Lion 21:

Lorenza

Artist behind the lion:

Monika Drapalova (Czech designer).

Adoptive Writer:

LMN at Failed Painter.

Blog Description:

LMN produces a dazzling blog full of paintings, photos and wonderful writing. She is an artist and mother who lives in Queensland, Australia. She writes regular posts and is building up a strong following of writers and artists. The style of her site is rich and colourful, providing lots of entertainment and reflection for visitors. She is married to a wonderful sculptor and their house has an amazing view to die for.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Hirsuit.

Expecting the odd chin whisker,
Half-hoping for a beguiling Van Dyke.
But a mane?
The hackamore failed to curb this new grey restlessness,
yet another gift of menopause to the black and white of her Jesuit vista.
The saddle of domesticity chaffed.
Clearing her throat, she tentatively roared.

Lion 22 - Keeper Of The Snails

 



Lion 22:

Caradoc.

Artist behind the lion:

Frédérique Fleury (French painter and visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Clare at Keeper Of The Snails.

Blog Description:

This is the blog of the British writer Clare Dudman, who is best known for her books Wegener's Jigsaw and 98 Reasons For Being. Born in North Wales, Clare has a background in chemistry and teaching; this is what brings her writing and blog to life, with the assured hand of someone who knows how to get a reader interested in fascinating titbits. Her blog covers a diverse range of subjects, often accompanied by powerful images.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Caradoc

Oh look, I glitter. In a warm sun I glint
icicles and diamonds
my wealth dripping from me
then swept away in the wind.

Some say I am king.
But not yet.

One day...

One day I shall roar my words
and all the world will listen.

Lion 23 - TypingSpace

 

Lion 23:

Baz Lyon.

Artist behind the lion:

Vadim Kutsan (Ukrainian painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Derek at TypingSpace.

Blog Description:

This is one of those writing blogs that you really wish you had stumbled upon much earlier. Derek Motion is a 28-year-old who lives in Australia (Sydney I think) and is very clearly someone with great talent for the written word. He produces an eclectic mix of poems and musings on life. The poems are fresh and urgent and deserve a very wide audience. Derek became the proud father of a baby girl in May and he even posted her photo on his blog.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

i will not look askance at you

not even deep-stare honestly the

world or some of it trickles

down my pelt & i like it i like

the ideas bouncing out of all

moments they increase my

immanent gaze & size

Lion 24 - Jessica Schneider

 

Lion 24:

Johnny Cash.

Artist behind the lion:

Gilles Roussi (French sculptor).

Owner:

Jessica at Jessica Schneider.

Blog Description:

Jessica Schneider is an editor and writer of novels, short stories, poetry and plays. She welcomes people to her blog with these words: "Until recently, I was a virgin blogger, but now I am a blogging skank." Her blog is sharp and witty and is home to some fabulous, moving writing. Jessica and her husband are the books editors for the Monsters & Critics website and they're the names behind the excellent Cosmoetica site. Jessica also edited the literary magazine Images in the late 90s.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Johnny Cash Blues

No one loved Mr. Johnny Cash.
He wasn’t flashy as they might be.
Forty-eighth picked, he was the very last
Selected. O what sad a lion once was he!

He thinks: “Better not to dwell on such a thing.
Sure all can roar but only few can sing.”

About the lion's name:

Jessica says:

"I think the reason for Johnny's name is obvious. He's the only lion I know made of money. I wish I was made of money, too."

Lion 25 - Life, Unscripted, On The Rock

 

Lion 25:

Azubuike.

Artist behind the lion:

Frédéric Voisin (French visual artist and designer).

Adoptive Writer:

Jamaican Dawta at Life, Unscripted, On The Rock.

Blog description:

This is a wonderful blog produced from Jamaica. JD's site is stunning, with a large photo of her "Rock". The writing is intelligent and charming and there is always a giggle or some wise words. JD welcomes people to her blog with these words: "I’m a thirtysomething Jamaican dawta, who loves her country, and hopes one day soon to see it rise up to its full potential. Writing is one of my passions. Hopefully, by sharing some of my pieces, as well as my experiences and musings, persons will learn a little about what makes me tick. The simple things in life appeal the most to me. God, my family, and friends are top priority. When “in love”, I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve."

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Once shorn and shamed/by soft hands of deception/left to perish amidst the useless strands/that was your glory/Veiled in dark shadows, your roar slumbers/Now, your roar arises/waking the dead/Softness lies crushed beneath its weight/your glory, returned.

About the lion's name

Azubuike means: "Your past is your strength"

Lion 26 - Writing In A Vacuum

 

Lion 26:

Cardamom.

Artist behind the lion:

Jeanne Charignon (French sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Jon at Writing In A Vacuum.

Blog Description:

Jon, 43, describes himself as a teacher and "would-be writer". When you read his blog, however, you are left with no doubt that this man is a natural writer. The blog is funny and heart-warming and the writing is classy (excuse the pun). On his site Jon says: "I've heard that no one should write in a vacuum. I'm here to watch and learn." He has written a children's novel about "a boy called Alfie Mortlock, an undertaker's mute who seems to be able to raise the dead".

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Cardomum.

At first he looks flimsy
All peacock colours and no substance
Blank white and lines and curves
And letters that mean nothing
Look closer
The names of the world
Are writ large on his hide
And in some its fate
Perhaps
Or its fault.
Poor lion to carry such a burden.

Lion 27 - Barbara's Bleeuugh !

 

Lion 27:

Raga.

Artist behind the lion:

Paul Marandon (French sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Cailleach at Barbara's Bleeuugh!

Blog Description:

This blog is produced by Barbara Smith, an Irish writer and poet. This mother of six, who is about to complete a BA in literature, also writes criticism. On her blog, which is very witty and addictive, she also says: "I earn money conventionally doing admin for a Golf Club to help feed and clothe the six monsters that me and Fin keep under the stairs in a dark cupboard. Some day these monsters will unleashed - woe betide the world - you were warned here first!

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Raga's Song

Above me stands the driver,
heels on the curve
of my tawny rump.
I don’t mind – he’s blinded
with the weight on his mind.

He carries driftwood
connected finely to the reins.
My reign ends – his begins.

We see hear speak
the world’s weight
in pancakes and champagne.

Lion 28 - Writing Passions

 

Lion 28:

Mr Mellow Yellow.

Artist behind the lion:

Shih Chun Lee (Taiwanese painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Susan at Writing Passions.

Blog Description:

Susan Abraham, a writer and journalist, produces this blog in Malaysia, although she does seem to be contemplating moving somewhere else at the moment. This blog has a very strong following of loyal readers and it's no wonder; Susan is prolific and energetic and her words are full of originality and music. She writes directly from the heart and the way she captures sentiments and slices of life is often breathtaking. She works on poems and plays and is very generous in her support of other writers.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Mr. Mellow Yellow from Lyons, playacted he was in Pompei. He discussed intimate matters only in spa baths while eating grapes handed by his hmmm...chambermaid! This smooth talker has guest starred on the telly's Hustle as the classy con-lion. He steals Christmas wines.

Lion 29 - The Inner Minx

 

Lyon 29:

Bragi.

Artist behind the lion:

Jean-Claude Corbin (French visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Minx at The Inner Minx.

Blog Description:

Minx has one of the funniest and sharpest writing blogs in town. She describes slices of her life with genuine wit and charm and takes no prisoners in the process. She has developed a large following with a great mixture of photos, fiction, poems and real life stories. Minx has written a wonderful book about a witch called Dorcas and is in the process of writing a follow-up. She lives in Cornwall in England with the MD and the Feckers!

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Song of Bragi

The runes are cut, tis written plain
Graven on the tongue
Bragi, wordsmith, wisdom comes
From Valhalla's raven depths
.
Skaldic beauty, promised cup
Overflows in Edda song
Call to the wild, plead the wind
To bring the roar of Odin's son.


About the lion's name:

Minx says:

"In Scandinavian mythology he is the God of eloquence, poetry and song."

Lion 30 : Words From A Wordsmith

 

Lion 30:

Roary.

Artist behind the lion:

Alain Pouillet (French painter).

Adoptive Owner:

Bonnie at Words From A Wordsmith.

Blog Description:

Bonnie Jacobs is the woman behind this blog, which is run in conjunction with a sister site: Bonnie's Books. This 67-year-old lives in Tennessee in the US and is obviously someone passionate about books and writing. Her sites, which appear to have been launched only five or six months ago, are teeming with wonderful titbits on the craft. The writing is warm and elegant.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

I am lion, hear me roar
about things too big to ignore
'cause I'm tired of all the governmental lyin';
the whole world is going mad
and my writing's not too bad,
so I want to be a literary lion!

About the lion's name:

Bonnie says:

"I named him Roary because of his deep, magnificent roar. Hey, he's proud of that roar! The name seemed appropriate when I studied the 'screaming' faces below his feet and felt the power of his roar. Take a look at those faces around the lion's feet. They each resemble the person in the famous painting The Scream by Munch. What do you think? Does Roary need to roar for those 21 faces? Do they need his strength?

I looked up Roary's name online and now I'm wondering if I misspelled it. Under a different spelling (RUAIDHRÍ, pronounced ROR-ee), I found it means "red king" from Irish ruadh "red" combined with rí "king." This was the name of the last high king of Ireland, reigning in the 12th century. Roary is a king, so that fits, since lions are known to be kings. Red? Sometimes his fur looks slightly reddish, in the right light, but maybe there's another meaning. Red of tooth and nail, perhaps? Or tooth and claw, killing to survive on the African savannah."

Roary says:

"This is my version of the story: I let Bonnie think she named me, though I kept whispering "ROR-ee, ROR-ee" telepathically in her ear. I have adopted her version of the name because I don't care how she spells it. What I wanted was an opportunity to roar for justice.

Once upon a time in the land of Lyon, I was an unknown lion waiting for an artist. Taken in by Alain Pouillet, a French painter, I was transformed into the beautiful creature you see in the photo above. Inside my hide, I was still Roary the lion who wanted to roar about the injustice I see in the world. While protecting the people in agony below me, I felt helpless to do more, but I was nevertheless required to stand tall as people admired the artist's work on the canvas of my fur. It was months, nay years, before Bonnie stumbled upon my photo and felt we should become partners in a writing project. I would be able to ROAR like a lion!

When she discovered me, I was known simply as Lion #30. Now I am a literary lion, working with a published writer, ready to roar to protect people in need, like the persons represented by the faces on my pedestal. There are 21 of them, so I have convinced Bonnie to work with me to produce 21 roars: Roar #1 will appear soon on this blog, as soon as I decide where to start in the myriad problems confronting the world today. Wish me luck, fellow lions, and please feel free to suggest subjects for my roars."

Lion 31 - The Hidden Side Of A Leaf

Lion 31:

Louis.

Artist behind the lion:

Simon de Saint-Matin (French sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Dewey at The Hidden Side Of A Leaf.

Blog Description:

If anyone is looking for a good example of how a books blog should be produced, then this is the place to come. Dewey (a woman) dazzles us with comprehensive, thoughtful reviews of books. She spices everything up with posts on interesting anecdotes and flashes of interest. The passion about books shines through here and Dewey has certainly created a space that is very hard to leave!

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Louis: Three Haiku

He adores cooking;
he wears recipes on his
smooth and pale gold coat.

He travels often;
he has some small brown maps on
his beautiful fur.

He has two war wounds;
pretenders to the throne dare
the king to fight them.



Louis: Trois Haiku

Il aime cuisiner;
il porte des recettes sur son
pelage pâle et lisse.

Il voyage souvent;
il a des petites cartes brunes
sur sa belle fourrure.

Il a deux blessures
de guerre; le roi doit battre des
prétendants au trône.

Lion 32 - The Unending Journey of the Wandering Author

 

Lion 32:

His Majesty Arthur Winston.

Artist behind the lion:

Emanuelle Rey (French painter).

Adoptive Writer:

The Wandering Author at The Unending Journey of the Wandering Author.

Blog Description:

This is the blog of a prolific male writer based in New England. Short stories and prose seem to be the focus here and readers are often treated to dazzling writing that challenges and entertains. There is a great variety of material available and it's clear that this blog has built up a steady stream of loyal readers. This is someone who also gets in behind various writing projects for good causes. Part of the message on the main page reads: "every author illuminates their heart and soul on the pages they write upon."

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

The last lion,
Survivor of hunters
Lacking manhood,
Poachers, tourists, progress,
Stands proudly,
Unaware.

In his mind,
His coat glows
Smooth and tawny.
King of Beasts,
No matter
How many patches.
He fights on,
Magnificent, wondrous, doomed.

What have we done?
Woe, when such creatures
Live no more...

Lion 33 - Wordsmith Extraordinaire

 

Lion 33:

Zion.

Artist behind the lion:

Erutti (French sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Jill at Wordsmith Extraordinaire.

Blog Description:

This very attractive blog is the work of writer and poet Jill Terry. Having had eight books published (novels and poetry collections), Jill has a strong and appealing style of writing. As well as the blog, Jill maintains a personal website, where readers can browse through the details of her books and view extracts. Jill has three other books lined up for release this year. Her sites are wonderful, friendly places to spend some time in. They are also packed with divine images.

Poem or piece or prose inspired by the lion:

Zion is my reminder that regardless of how frustrated one becomes in this industry of literati, there is a place where harmony and solace abound and everything is just as it should be. This place is at my desk…fingertips resting gently on the keyboard with mind wide open.

Lion 34 - A Virtual Hobby Store And Coffee House

 


Lion 34:

Nin.

Artist behind the lion:

Jacques Thibaut (French sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

The Bluest Butterfly at A Virtual Hobby Store And Coffee Shop.

Blog Description:

There is plenty here for someone looking for inspiration and enjoyment. The person behind this blog is The Bluest Butterfly, who lives in the US. The blog was launched in July 2005 and has grown into something vibrant, full of humour and reflective. The writing is electric. The owner says: "I am interested in people....not just saying that either. Being uniquely you is one of the greatest joys in life....we should all strive for that (it's called self-actualization and few people reach it).

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

King?

I was here.
Did you love me?
Or bow to Fear?
My spirit roams past this stone.
Looks so like myself.
A monument.
They still stare.
Nails that kept others out.
Nails that trapped me in.
I ruled & roamed.
King of All Except Myself

About the lion's name:

The Bluest Butterfly says:

"With my lion what you see is not always what you get. The statue that you see is truly a monument. It is Nin's spirit that likes to stay near the statue. The water around the statue keeps many people from noticing the presence of Nin's spirit. My name for Nin was inspired by the band Nine-Inch Nails."

Lion 35 - Wilf's World

 

Lion 35:

Heart Of Oak.

Artist behind the lion:

Mireille Fulpius (Swiss sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Wilf at Wilf's World.

Blog Description:

If we were having a contest to find the most original, quirky blog, this would have to be way up there near the top. This is what we could call a "fictional blog", the story of a unique character, with the wonderful posts appearing like instalments of a book. Chapter One begins: "My name is Wilf and I am eight, very nearly nine years old. I would really like to be called 'Buzz' like, Buzz Aldrin but my parents wouldn't talk to me when I tried to change my name. I mean whoever heard of an astronaut called 'Wilfred'? I live with my parents who are extremely old and like to visit garden centres and stare at things". Wilf likes inventions!

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Beneath this ancient, petrified body still beats a young heart of oak

Lion 36 : Terminal Chaosity

 

Lion 36:

Ari.

Artist behind the lion:

Cristina Taveres (French painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Lo at Terminal Chaosity.

Blog Description:

This is another pearl of a poetry-focused blog. Lo lives in the US (Alexandria, Virginia) and has an attractive site full of excellent writing. Two of her poems were recently accepted for The Poetry Revolt. She agreed to small changes, saying: "It's really hard for me, as an author, to accept (much less acknowledge) requested changes but I did want to call attention to the fact that here's one editor who really knows her "stuff" and who knows how to approach even tempermental and opinionated old hags like myself".

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Ari

This is how you thought they'd learn -
by being drawn & quartered,
humiliated, abandoned, set-in-stone.
But before the lesson's end,
before you grinned & walked away,
you should have turned your head
& taken one long & lasting look
into the lion's eyes. You would have
seen how still they shone.

Lion 37 : Sarah's Writing Journal

 

Lion 37:

Alfie.

Artist behind the lion:

André Michel (Canadian sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Sarah at Sarah's Writing Journal.

Blog Description:

This is the website of poet, short story writer and creative writing tutor Sarah Salway. Sarah is the author of the novels Something Beginning With (ABCs of Love in the US), Tell Me Everything (both published by Bloomsbury in the UK), Messages, and a collection of short stories, Leading the Dance (both from Bluechrome). Sarah's blog is a great place to hang out, with lots of posts on the writing business and anecdotes from a writer's daily life.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

You don’t notice my eyes at first. Not many look further than my white face mask. But when I shake out my coat, and one hundred eyes quiver on the edge, then you know nothing gets past me. When you realise I see everything, I’m ready to pounce.

Lion 38 - Meloney Lemon

 


Lion 38:

Homer.

Artist behind the lion:

François Burland (Swiss visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Meloney at Meloney Lemon.

Blog Description:

This is a blog by a writer who lives in South London in the UK. Little is revealed on this site about Meloney Lemon herself, but what is revealed is the fact that this is a woman who knows how to punch out a gripping yarn, poem or piece of prose. The posts are very well written and seem to come from someone who has done/does do this for a living. Meloney Lemon is a mother and there are often references to her children on this delightful blog.


Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

"Joe the Lion - made of iron"
said David Bowie

influenced by
Dylan Thomas

Walt Whitman

William Shakespeare

Ovid

Virgil

Lucretius

Epicurus

Democritus

Pythagoras

his wife Theano
- who discovered
The Golden Mean
magic number in
architecture
shells
sunflowers



The longer version:

'Joe The Lion - made of iron.....'

Said David Bowie.

Who was influenced by
Bob Dylan

Who was influenced by
Dylan Thomas

Who was influenced by
Walt Whitman

Who was influenced by
William Shakespeare

who was influenced by
Ovid

Who was influenced by
Virgil

Who was influenced by
Lucretius

Who was influenced by
Epicurus

who was influenced by
Democritus

Who was influenced by
Pythagoras

Who was influenced by
his wife, Theano who
discovered The Golden
Mean. The principal on
whch the ancient Egyptians
and Greeks based their
architecture. A number
found in the spiral of a
Nautilus shell and in the pattern
of a sunflower.


About the lion's name:

Meloney Lemon says:

"This Lion is Homer. His decorations remind me of a Greek urn, though on closer inspection they look Aboriginal. Still cool. (Very relevant as I was nearly an archaeologist.) A roar of antiquity. This lion is Homer. Both Greek and Simpson."

Lion 39 - Once In A Blue Muse

 


Lion 39:

Lucidus Keen.

Artist behind the lion:

Hervé di Rosa (American visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

LJCohen at Once In A Blue Muse : A Poet's Journal.

Blog Description:

This blog is a poet's heaven. LJ Cohen produces an amazing amount of poetry and is a regular participant in the "Poetry Thursday" project. LJC lives in Massachusetts in the US and refers to her home as the Blue Muse Ranch. The site is beautiful, with professional-looking graphics, and the sidebar links are invaluable. LJC's latest project was a poetry workshop for some 5th graders at her son's school. Intelligent, luscious phrases have turned this site into gold.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

You stride with lethal grace,/ face the future with unflinching/ eyes. If I tangle blind fingers/ in your mane, will confidence/ crackle along this unlikely circuit/ of poet and muse or will you swing/ your massive head, panting/ mouth a mocking smile, devour/ tender flesh, these newborn words.

About the lion's name:

LJCohen says:

"When I found my way to the Shameless Lions project, I spent a long time trying to decide which lion to 'adopt.' There were other lions whose look appealed to me--one stark black and white one who I really loved. But I kept coming back to this lion. The one with all the open eyes.

He followed me around, intruded into odd and random thoughts, even into my dreams. It was not always comfortable--being stared at by this beast.

He misses nothing. Even when he sleeps, the eyes are watching. They see into the heart of all possible stories, the past, the present, the future. Truth to tell, he makes me nervous.

So I asked to adopt him, though I think it fair to say he adopted me. I think he will keep me honest, force me to look clearly at my writing, to dig deeper and always find the truth. He won't let me take the easy path.

It took a few days, but he finally revealed his name to me. Lucidus Keen. Named for the clarity of his vision and the sharpness of his claws. He is no cuddly pet or comforting talisman, but a force of nature, unpredictable as the weather and as changeable.

I hope I am worthy of him."

Lion 40 - The Outsider

 

Lion 40:

Durgapriya.

Artist behind the lion:

Anne Guerrant (French visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Durga at The Outsider.

Blog Description:

Durga is another of our members living in India. The blog is quite new, but already there have been interesting, thought-provoking posts. Visitors to the blog are given this information: "Love books and films and butterflies and the night sky. Work best on the terrace under the stars. Too harsh sunlight puts me off. Love going for long walks, especially when it rains. Dozing off on my swing on the terrace is my idea of bliss. Passionate about chocolates, in spite of what they do to one's teeth. Some day hope to live far away from the city, in a cosy cottage with a lawn, reading and writing and hearing the laughter of the five children I intend to adopt."

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

The mirror showed me a thousand cracks,
I thought I would just let them fall apart,
I would just let them fall,
And I would stand and watch,
Pieces of me crumble away,
Merge into the nothingness around,
Till this Lion came my way,
And I saw a thousand ways,
Of patching the pieces back again…

About the lion's name

Durga says: "Durgapriya is the name of one of the strongest Indian Goddesses. She fought against evil and came out victorious. She is always shown mounted on a lion."

Lion 41 - Carter's Little Pill

 

Lion 41:

Aloysius The Hidden.

Artist behind the lion:

Clarence Stiernet (Belgian painter and sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Julie at Carter's Little Pill.

Blog Description:

This is the blog of Julie Carter, who lives in Ohio in the US. There is a focus here on poems and prose, as well as super short posts that get straight to the point. Julie has published a poetry collection called pseudophakia, a copy of which can be bought on her blog. There is a buzz about this site, with good, witty writing, and the posts cover a wide variety of subjects. There is also a great deal of humour, adding to the light and shade.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Mediocrity is never hidden, but the best things,
the worst, might lurk on the edges and wait.

About the lion's name:

Julie says:

"I don't have a grand story. I just looked at him, and he might have been looking at me or might have been looking at anything, really, behind that mask. 'Aloysius' means "famous warrior." I think that's fitting. He's lucky I didn't name him Zorro."

Lion 42 - from the shores of introspect and retrospect

 

Lion 42:

Viaggiatore.

Artist behind the lion:

Colette Sonzogni (French painter and sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Wanderlust Scarlett at from the shores of introspect and retrospect.

Blog Description:

The author of this vibrant, gripping blog lives in Denver in the US. The writing is first-class and witty, and you'll be back for more once you start reading. The Wanderlust Scarlett has this to say on her site: "I am mostly good with just a bit of bad. I am snowflakes, rain, sunshine, mountains, sand and sea. I am coffee, tea, pasta, ice-cream and chocolate. I am a striver, driver, teacher, pilot, student, confidante, artist, writer, the laughing redeemed, a hand holder, a traveler, thinker, actress, singer, a dancer, a kisser and hugger." There are lots of good images as well on the blog.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

A traveler of earth, without & within
A trace of each place adorns your skin
'Cross mountain & valley, desert & shore
Eternal will echo your thunderous roar
Far deep & mighty though you may be
Beauty of this world in unity
Mightier still will be my quill
When pages & years together we fill

Lion 43 - Debi Alper

 

Lion 43:

Shimshon.

Artist behind the lion:

Hamid Tibouchi (Algerian painter and poet).

Adoptive Writer:

Debi at Debi Alper.

Blog Description:

This is the excellent blog of the UK author Debi Alper. It is full of great material on the craft of writing and books, but also contains lots of anecdotes and humour relating to the author's daily life. Debi has published two books - Nirvana Bites and Trading Tatiana - and two others are being prepared for publication. Debi's blog, run in conjunction with her main website, has developed a strong following. The subject matter is varied and relevant and it's clear that this author cares an awful lot about many important aspects of life.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

A LION CALLED SHIMSHON

- A lion? You've adopted a lion?
- Well, you always said you wanted a pet ...
- Yes, but I was thinking of goldfish ... maybe a hamster ...
- B-o-o-o-ring ...
- You said you'd never even have a dog!
- Too true, squire. They hump table legs and stick their noses in pooh.
Whereas lions ...

About the lion's name:

Debi says:

"His name is the Hebrew version of Samson ... strong, with rippling muscles and a tumbling mane of hair. First Born, having just turned 12, will be celebrating his barmitzvah next year. He will read the portion in the synagogue that corresponds with his Hebrew birthday (according to the lunar calendar). His portion is ... Shimshon! FB is half an inch shorter than me, weighs a stone more and has a shoe size 3 times larger. He also has a tumbling mane of hair that cascades down his back. So when we came to name our lion, there was only one real possibility ... We don't believe in coincidence."

Lion 44 - As It Happens

Lion 44:

Kauri.

Artist behind the lion:

Sun-Ran Kwon (Korean painter).

Adoptive Writer:

Chief Biscuit at As it Happens.

Blog Description:

This site has become compulsory reading for many bloggers, with a strong focus on poetry, nature and life in New Zealand. Chief Biscuit, based in Otago, is a published poet who has recently added stunning photography to her site. The poetry is of the kind that leaves you speechless and the big takes on small things are addictive. There are regular posts and CB's wit and humour make this site a nice place to hang around.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

kauri

From darkened depths
you lift your heavy head to gather
what grassland-sun can be found
where trees lift branches
to granite mountains.
Silver water crashes.
You merge into the land
as if you never were.
Listen to the wind.
Hear the kauri roar.


* kauri - native tree of New Zealand

And a longer version :


Traces of pounamu* green
stain your legs. Lion, you are here
among the rimu and totara.**
Greedy for the insects your paws disturb,
piwakawaka*** flit and cheep
above your burnished back
as long as a valley.

From the darkened depths
of forest fern and moss,
you lift your heavy head to gather
what grassland-sun can be found
up where trees lift branches
to granite mountains
and sapphire sky.

A silver waterfall crashes,
a river growls. You shake
your mane, the colour of polished wood.
As you merge into the land
it is as if you never were.
In the wind
we hear the kauri roar.


(* A green river stone (known in English as Greenstone) which is sacred to the Maori and used in their jewellery and for tools such as adzes. It is regarded as a protected national treasure and is not permitted to be taken without permission from Kai Tahu - the South Island Maori tribe.
** rimu and kahikatea are native New Zealand trees
** piwakawaka is the Maori name for the small bird known in English as 'fantail'.)

About the lion's name:

Chief Biscuit says:

"I named my lion Kauri (pronounced 'cowree'... with the 'r' almost making an 'l' sound.) Kauri's colour and burnish reminds me very much of the polished wood of the native kauri tree of New Zealand."

Lion 45 : Kat's Random Thoughts

 

Lion 45

Ecanus.

Artist behind the lion:

Rolf Walter (German painter and engraver).

Adoptive Writer:

Kat at Kat's Random Thoughts.

Blog Description:

This is the blog of Kat Campbell who lives in Ohio in the US. This mother of five is a keen writer and reader who regularly updates her blog with crisp, funny anecdotes of her day to day life. You only have to read a couple of posts and you find yourself hooked, like litte chapters of a novel are being laid out before you. Kat often talks about her children and a friend named Pap, with suspense and intrigue added in to keep us wanting updates.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

A lone writer cried to the heavens: “Who will help the storytellers as the world moves on and people forget the magic that comes in books?”

“I will.” Answered Ecanus, the guardian angel of writers, as he stepped from the sky and took up his post.

Lion 46 - Image & Verse

Lion 46:

Artheo.

Artist behind the lion:

Yann (French visual artist).

Adoptive Writer:

Rob at Image & Verse Too.

Blog Description:

Rob Kistner is the man behind this exquisite looking site. This 60-year-old is a writer, poet, artist, singer, song lyricist, and contemporary furniture designer. Check out his website to see some great examples of all of these. Rob says he's "lucky to live an adventurous life". He says he went to three different colleges in the 1960s, furthering his education at the “university of the road” — cross country on motorcycles, then in traveling R&B and Rock ‘n Roll bands.

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

lion of myth and legend
dream bringer
cloud rider
traveler in time
protector of visions
muse to the uninspired

known as Artheo
to those you’ve touched
nameless to the rest

come now
restore the world’s wonder

open minds
unlock hearts
so all will know you
and be enlightened

Lion 47 : A Story A Day

 

Lion 47:

Odin.

Artist behind the lion:

Georges Faure (French sculptor and designer).

Adoptive Writer:

Nothingman at A Story A Day.

Blog Description:

Nothingman begins his blog with these words: "Hanging on to life by the thin threads of madness. With every story slipping closer to the end." Now that is what I call a hook! This is a vibrant, varied blog written by a 23-year-old living in India. There is a mountain of great material available to avid readers, with short stories and prose produced on a regular basis. The author says he aims to write a story a day, and welcomes feedback to improve his craft.

Poem or prose inspired by the lion:

A God
A hunter
A stalker
With power, wisdom and lust for war
A liar
A storyteller
With word-webs spun from Hell to Heaven
A beast
A machine
Ruthless, relentless and forever learning

A poet lost in a battlefield

One eyed, drunk on mead

I give you

Odin

Lion 48 - Humanyms

 

Lion 48:

Ghufran.

Artist behind the lion:

Renato Montanero (French painter and sculptor).

Adoptive Writer:

Pearl at Humanyms.

Blog Description:

Stunning is one of the words that crossed my mind when I first read this site. Pearl Pirie is a Canadian poet, writer and editor and is obviously someone entirely committed to getting people enthusiastic about words. Humanyms is just one of several sites that Pearl produces. The material here is indepth and thoughtful and very well written. Pearl welcomes people to her blog with these words: "Welcome. You share, I share. We both learn. It's all good."

Poem or piece of prose inspired by the lion:

Ghufran

feathers floss canines
prejudgement’s sound — brassy
“can tell you’re lion” rankles,
presumed by type to
kill,
compete

watch the steps, claws delicate,
violets and violent power

sidestepped

defines

inevitable glide

eagle eggs for mammal bones
a unity, pheasant is kin,
compassionate is king –

bring the wounded to heal.

And The Winners Are ...

 

After much deliberation and number crunching, the jury members have reached their verdicts. The Members' Choice votes have also proved interesting. It has to be said that the votes were close and many found it difficult to reach a decision. Every single person in the contest got votes in the members' choice categories and 32 out of 48 members of the circle cast a ballot. As always, someone has to win! So, without further ado, here are the results. Congratulations to the winners! Details about who was on the jury are published below the results.



THE RESULTS



* * * * * Jury Prizes * * * * *


Best Poems/Prose Pieces:


Jury Prize 1st Place (€20 Book voucher): Roberta, at TURN THE PAGE.

Blue

I named you Blue - My Blue
and you were sensitive and kind

You named me Yellow, Your Yellow
and we shared a sort of mind

We shared stories
..and a life

Until it had to end
..but you are my Blue

My soul mate
my confidant and friend

Jury Prize 2nd Place (€15 Book voucher): Kay, at AS IT HAPPENS.

kauri

From darkened depths
you lift your heavy head to gather
what grassland-sun can be found
where trees lift branches
to granite mountains.
Silver water crashes.
You merge into the land
as if you never were.
Listen to the wind.
Hear the kauri roar.

Jury prize 3rd Place (€10 Book voucher): Apprentice, at MY GAP YEAR.

a lacquered lion stalked
a ridged roof of terracotta tiles
till lightening struck and he leapt down
to pad past pagodas, tip-toe through the tea
house and out through the moongate - off to seek a soulmate
in far away lands still red in tooth and claw

Jury Prize 4th Place (€5 Book voucher): Sognatrice, at BLEEDING ESPRESSO.

You never believe me,
but fine.

He stopped,
squished his nose against the glass,
blinked,
pulled back,
shook his mane,
and strutted away,
leaving me to wonder how his heart
ended up on his sleeve.

Oh yeah?

Did to.

Then how do you explain that nose-shaped smear?


Jury Prize 5th Place (€5 Book voucher): KGT, at WHEN I WAX.

This anti-Aslan
his eyes and heart of darkness
roaming the voodoo veldt
of global capital
and trade
will not
lie down
with lambs
yet he sees
with eyes
of angels
into the deepest
anarchic
abyss
tail stretching back to Africa
whiskers
sensing
the alchemy
of order
and myth.


Best Looking Lions:


Jury Prize 1st Place (Badge for blog): Nin, at A VIRTUAL HOBBY STORE & COFFEE SHOP .


Jury Prize 2nd Place (Badge for blog): Caradoc, at KEEPER OF THE SNAILS.


Jury Prize 3rd Place (Badge for blog): Odin, at A STORY A DAY.


Jury Prize 4th Place (Badge for blog): Bucephalus, at DOORS LEFT OPEN.


Jury Prize 5th Place (Badge for blog): Lucidus Keen, at ONCE IN A BLUE MUSE.





* * * * *Members' Choice Awards* * * * *


Poems/Prose Pieces:


Members' Choice 1st Place (€10 Book voucher): Kay, at AS IT HAPPENS.

kauri

From darkened depths
you lift your heavy head to gather
what grassland-sun can be found
where trees lift branches
to granite mountains.
Silver water crashes.
You merge into the land
as if you never were.
Listen to the wind.
Hear the kauri roar.


Members' Choice 2nd Place (€5 Book voucher): Apprentice, at MY GAP YEAR.

a lacquered lion stalked
a ridged roof of terracotta tiles
till lightening struck and he leapt down
to pad past pagodas, tip-toe through the tea
house and out through the moongate - off to seek a soulmate
in far away lands still red in tooth and claw


Members' Choice 3rd Place (€5 Book voucher): Vesper, at CHICK WITH A QUILL.


Lost Babylon

He leaped at me
from the faded tiles of
Ishtar's procession.
His claws sank deep
into my flesh,
the dust of all illusions upon us.
"What seek you?" he rumbled. "The brilliance
is gone,
the gold is ashes."
"One named Alexander," I said.
"He was once a god."

Members' Choice 4th Place (Badge for blog ): Sognatrice, at BLEEDING ESPRESSO.

You never believe me,
but fine.

He stopped,
squished his nose against the glass,
blinked,
pulled back,
shook his mane,
and strutted away,
leaving me to wonder how his heart
ended up on his sleeve.

Oh yeah?

Did to.

Then how do you explain that nose-shaped smear?

Members' Choice 5th Place (Badge for blog): LMN, at FAILED PAINTER.

Hirsuit.

Expecting the odd chin whisker,
Half-hoping for a beguiling Van Dyke.
But a mane?
The hackamore failed to curb this new grey restlessness,
yet another gift of menopause to the black and white of her Jesuit vista.
The saddle of domesticity chaffed.
Clearing her throat, she tentatively roared.


Best Looking Lions:


Members' Choice 1st Place (Badge for blog): Viaggiatore, at FROM THE SHORES OF INTROSPECT&RETROSPECT.


Members' Choice 2nd Place (Badge for blog): Caradoc, at KEEPER OF THE SNAILS


Members' Choice 3rd Place (Badge for blog): Vermillion, at MY GAP YEAR.


Members' Choice 4th Place (Badge for blog): Homer, at MELONEY LEMON.


Members' Choice 5th Place (Badge for blog): Zaccharias, at UNDER THE MICROSCOPE.




Congratulations to all the winners! ... and to those who won in more than one category, double congratulations!!

If you're visiting this site, and want to read more poems and lions, keep scrolling down to see the individual listings for each of the 48 members of the writing circle.

The book vouchers will be distributed in the week starting July 23. Could winners receiving vouchers please send their email addresses to: seak@caramail.com and tell me which Amazon site you would like to use.

The badges for the winners' blogs are published below - the image can be copied and pasted to the sidebars of members' own blogs. (Keep scrolling down).

Please note that I am away in Italy for a week from this Saturday (July 14), so I won't be able to respond to any questions until I get back.


THE MEMBERS OF THE JURY


IAN AYRES
Ian is an American poet, writer and filmmaker originally from California. He is also the founder and editor of the international anthology series Van Gogh's Ear: Best World Poetry & Prose. (Click HERE to see website). The international anthology series is based in Paris and published in conjunction with Allen Ginsberg's Committee on Poetry in New York City. Ian says: "Since its début in 2002, Van Gogh's Ear has gained considerable acclaim for its eclecticism and for publishing such legends as Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Yoko Ono, Tony Curtis, Xaviera Hollander, Charles Manson, and a great many more renowned poets, novelists, political activists and never-before-heard voices from every walk of life in all parts of the world. Van Gogh's Ear is a respected anthology distributed by major distributors in the US, Canada, Europe, South Africa and Australia." Ian's latest film is a documentary titled A Glimpse Of Heaven (French Connection Films), about the American Church in Paris. His latest book, Private Parts (French Connection Press), is available through Baker & Taylor, Small Press Distribution, and Amazon.com. Ian is currently editing his documentary film, Explorers Of The Mind, about the creative process in poets and writers.

RORY MULHOLLAND
Rory is a Paris-based literary translator and a journalist with the French news agency AFP (Agence France Presse). He has translated several novels into English from French and German, including the titles Strange Ways and Breathe. He has also written a book on his experience as a reporter in Iraq: Camp Britney, Tikrit: The Genteel Art of War Reporting. The blurb for this book reads: "December 13, 2003 - American soldiers pull Saddam Hussein out of a hole in the ground near his hometown of Tikrit. The next day the world's media fly in to inspect the orifice and hear how the Ace of Spades was captured. Then they fly out again. But a handful of reporters get left behind in the dictator's palace. Camp Britney, Tikrit, is a record of their struggle to pluck stories from a post-Saddam, post-news limbo. Rory Mulholland's journal depicts the parallel universe of under-employed journalists 'embedded' with the US Army's Fourth Infantry Division, and lifts the lid (a bit) on the workings of the international news media." Rory has also worked as a radio journalist and his feature articles have been published in some of the world's leading newspapers. He studied German and French literature at University College, Dublin.

RICHARD ELLIOTT
Richard is a writer and journalist who works in Switzerland for an international organisation. He used to live and work in Lyon, France, the city where "The Lions of Lyon" were born. For seven years he wrote and presented stories on the cultural and arts magazine Le Mag on the pan-European television station EuroNews. This job gave him the chance to report on many mainstream and "substream" art and literary events. Richard is also keen on creative writing and has produced various pieces of work, including three radio plays and a theatre play. He says: "Despite the name and the flags, the lion has been overlooked for far too long as the emblem of France’s second city. Thank you for setting the record straight in word and deed."


(Please note that attempts were made to have a gender balance when it came to the judging, but for various reasons the women lined up for the jury ended up not being able to meet the commitments).


BADGES FOR THE WINNERS' BLOGS.

These are the badges that winners can place on their blogs, in a post or in their sidebars. Scroll down to find yours! Click on the photo to see an optimised version of the image and then save it to your computer. (You can use the right click on the mouse to save images).
If anyone prefers to have the HTML code, I can send that by email. In new blogger, for example, images are automatically reduced to the right size when you add pictures to your sidebars. If your blog doesn't have this function, you may need to reduce the size of the badge. If you don't know how to do this, ask someone who does ... or I can send you a reduced version of your badge. Congratulations again!






















It's been great hosting this contest and I hope the rest of you had some fun as well. After the holidays (July and August for me) I would like to nut out another writing project for the circle. A few people have suggested a joint short story, with each paragraph being written by a different member. Does that grab you? Let me know. If anyone else has a brilliant idea, let me know either in the comments section or by email: seak@caramail.com

Don't forget: let your lion roar for your writing! Let his power and prestige shine over you. A roar a day also keeps the writer's block at bay!