Friday, April 17, 2015

Friday FreeBits--"Angel's Flight," a Revolutionary War Adventure

 In Which Angelica Refuses the Villain:
“Give me back my locket, you monster!” The skin of her throat burned as if she’d been garroted. His first act, after dragging her up the stairs, had been to tear away the locket she always wore—the one with that last precious lock of ‘Bram’s fair hair.
“How foolish to carry a dead man over your heart!”

“Who dared to tell you that?”

“Money buys everything, my dear, don’t you know? But it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll not need this anymore. I’m the man in your future.”

Jamming the necklace into his pocket, Armistead came at her like a whirlwind. Angelica seized a chair and held it in front of herself, attempting to ward him off. He pinned her and the chair together against the wall. She was not certain how long they’d been trapped together in this mean little room.

“My descent,” she raged, gripping the ladder back for dear life, “is from the first Patroon. The insult you offer me will bring the wrath of every gentleman in this state—Tory or Rebel—down upon you.”

“Marriage with a gentleman of my stature is hardly an insult, miss. Wouldn’t you like to be presented at court? Think of that! I have a charming little house in London. You can go there as soon as our solemnities have been adequately...celebrated.” ...

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Confessions of a Weather Show Fan

I’m used to be a TV weather show fan. (I was going to say I am a weather buff, but on that side of things I’m a rank amateur, even after years of Meteorological TV.)  My knowledge of climate science remains based on The Little Golden Book of Weather that my Dad gave me when I was studying for a Girl Scouts’ badge.

While I remain devoted to PA Cable Network's Weather World Show, presented by dedicated Penn State Meteorology professors and grad students and showcased here:
I've also become fond of The Weather Channel.

I used to truly love The Weather Channel, but lately they are more The Disaster Channel. At first it was fun to see weathermen standing in their sturdy L.L. Bean gear facing down blizzards, floods and hurricanes, but, somehow, now, Bad Weather gets more than it's share of coverage. I suppose, I shouldn't crab. It's a simple fact that a hurricane or blizzard draws a  bigger viewing audience than a sunny day. Advertising, enticingly set before millions of eyes, (here in the wonderful world of capitalism) pays the bills. 

Sometimes--and this is--worse, weather reporting disappears and in its place we are offered "on topic" "Reality” shows. These so-called "Reality" (who are they kidding?) shows are way too like a Philip K. Dick story for me. I suffer, whenever I happen to catch a few minutes of such a show on TV, from a horrible prickle of oh, bloody hell--dystopia's actually happening!

At least Weather Scan still exists among my cable channels, with the original, wooden, low-Def Weather Channel format. Nothing is more perfectly meditative than ten solid minutes of staring at the ever-repeating local temperatures crawling endlessly below those lava-lamp blobs of green and pink that describe a bad day.  Rain showers crossing (and re-crossing) my local area are perfect. Without Weather Scan, I'd be forced to succumb to the beautiful but pointless Ambient channel offerings with their sadly unitary, boring soundtrack. 

And, besides, heck, I can't see the weather there...


~~Juliet Waldron

Friday, August 15, 2014

~~MY MOZART ~~ An Excerpt for Friday Freebits!

    ~~Nanina Gottlieb tells us about her very first introduction to the man she will love forever.~


             What had my fond Papa been saying about me? Wanting to sink through the floor, I shot a look in his direction, but Papa, blind with parental pride, could not see my discomfort. I could feel a wretched blush, that bane of my life, throbbing into my cheeks.

"Your Papa says that you appreciate good music and that you sing."

These were his first words to me. There wasn't a hint of condescension or mockery in his voice. Shy and proud as a cat, I had braced for it.

"I hear all of your music that I can, Kapellmeister Mozart."

I remember rocking up on my toes. I absolutely couldn't stop myself.

Here I was, talking to this magician!

"She clearly has excellent taste! Come here, Princess Gottlieb. Sit beside me."

~~Read More of MY MOZART at Amazon~~
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Wednesday, July 16, 2014


A lesson and a present from Auntie T
   "This is a sort of late name day present for you.  Now," she went on, taking the locket in hand.  "I'm going to show you a secret.  Pay close attention, Caterina Maria Brigitte!"
     Those old, rough fingers pressed one of the wooden rosettes that ornamented the case.  Cat was surprised when the locket popped open again, this time in the back.

     "See how it opens?  See?"

     Cat examined the newly revealed second compartment.  Inside was a gleam.

     "It's a Protector for you now that you are growing to be a woman.  Take it out, but be very careful."

     It took Cat a moment to extract the object.  It turned out to be an extremely thin blade, almost a needle, set on a small section of horn.

     "If anyone ever tries to harm you, just fetch it out.  Keep it in your hand like this," Auntie T demonstrated, palming the blade so that it disappeared.  "Then take it like so," she said, her fingers moving deftly, "and do this!"

     In a flash the gleaming point was against Cat's neck.  She sat still, hoping that Auntie T would be very, very careful.

     "There, where the big vein swells!  Don't hesitate, just jab it in.  If you cut that vein, they won't trouble you for much longer."

~~ Juliet Waldron
check out the first few pages, here:
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Thursday, July 3, 2014

~~~A summer time piece from my post-Civil War romance, Hand-me-Down Bride

~~On the way to the hayfields, Karl and Sophie marvel at the beauty of a blooming field of Buckwheat.

Karl watched her.  She had walked into the field, delighting in the moment, in the sun, in the sea-froth-over-sage color of the buckwheat.  He'd caught a flash of her joy; joy in the splendor of this land!

After the long and terrible war, after his illness, it had been hard to find joy in his heart at anything.   Today, Karl felt free as a swallow, flashing over the rising corn.

Sophie was framed against the light, her plain apron lifted by a firm young bosom, her dark hair wound beneath the bonnet.  Above, great clouds sailed in shattering blue, and the buzz of those thousands of bees echoed some dream space he'd been to before, the white hum of eternity.

He tied the reins to a sapling and got down. He had wanted to put his arms around her, to mold her breasts against his chest, to catch the scent of her, to drink from those rosy, undoubtedly sweet lips.  Now, he waded into the field after her, wanting even more to share her moment of happiness. 

A simple gift. . .

"Das ist schon!" Face radiant, she turned.  "It is beautiful!”

~~Juliet Waldron
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Thursday, June 26, 2014

ROAN ROSE ~~ An excerpt

Rosalba's Tale begins:


"Little Witch!" A slap always followed the malediction.  "Dost thou stare?"

            This was my father. He did not like children whose opinions showed in their eyes. Large dark eyes I had—my mother's eyes—and when I displeased him, he was not slow to punish the unbroken will he saw.

            I was born at the village of Aysgarth in the house of a stark yeoman farmer, Master Whitby. He was not pleased when my mother gave him a daughter, and then another and another, as if by the force of her own contrary will.

            Master Whitby acknowledged me, however, as he acknowledged my sisters. I was written down in the book at the Church of Our Lady as "Rosalba Whitby, legitimate, born to Master Raymond Whitby and his espoused wife, Roseanne."

            When I was old enough to hear the tale, my mother very kindly let me know matters stood otherwise. To learn I had been conceived in liberty and was not the get of that humorless, ham-fisted tyrant fills me, to this day, with satisfaction.
 Aysgarth lies on Wenslydale, north and west of the great Keep of Middleham. Here our peasant houses grew from the ground like mushrooms. The poorest were of turf, but the best homes, like the one in which I was born, rose upon a costly timber frame.
            Those hard packed earthen floors! In the East Wind time, rain slanted through the central smoke hole and pelted the fire of our hearth. I remember huddling close, thinking how the flames were like serpents, lowering their fiery heads and hissing whenever the drops landed. During the worst weather, the entire family, including Master Whitby's curly-pelted white cattle, sheltered with us...

ROAN ROSE may be purchased at:
Juliet Waldron

Thursday, June 19, 2014

ANGEL'S FLIGHT/the quilt


Quilting had always given Angelica a feeling of strength and purpose. It was as if in the process of using scraps to create a whole cloth she was reborn, renewed. In the midst of this village of the damned, the familiar, beloved activity was like an anchor of purpose, of meaning.

It was all such a muddle. Beyond the immediate danger, there was Jack, his kisses and his passionate, insistent courting. No matter how she examined this development, and from whatever angle, there seemed to be no resolution. He was a Tory; she was a Patriot. To do this, to do that--or, more pointedly--not to do this or not to do that, seemed beyond her ability to reason.

"How is it, she muttered to herself, "that I could get into this mess, but not out?"

Her fingers, with minds of their own restlessly sorted through the heap of scraps and patches. What to do?

As she picked and sorted the pieces a vague shape began to form. A star! Rough, to be sure, but a star nonetheless. Here, a point in velvet, there, a center in the wool of an old cloak.

Ah! There was enough of the velvet to make the other points. Her fingers moved faster, coaxing out stray bits of burgundy velvet, arranging them around the small bottle green wool square.

Yes, she thought. It comes together, a piece at a time...

~~Juliet Waldron
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