HALLOWEEN POST for #WEPFF - Edgar Allan Poe - Annabel Lee and my fan fiction, Beauty and the Beast

Incredibly, two months have passed and it's time for the WEP October Halloween challenge!  

Part A:

          share a favorite frightening tale, movie, novel, photograph or painting that will leave us quaking in our boots, then  in a short paragraph describe how it scared you, and why it did and or still does today

Well, I like my creepiness subtle, so Edgar Allan Poe's poem (to his dead young bride), always creeps me out as the image of the broken-heated lover laying with her in her tomb by the sea is so strong. The atmospherics are to me, completely awesome. And if you read it aloud, the rhythm sounds like those 'highborn kinsman' galloping by. Not to mention the beautiful language and the fairy tale feel created by the first line...

Annabel Lee

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Now Part B is my own creepy tale...not exactly subtle. You'll see it's full of questions as promised in a previous post, How to Boost our Creativity by Asking Questions.

Beauty and the Beast

Once upon a time there lived a man with a beauty fetish. 

Each day he asked God why some people were born so blessed physically, while others had faces that looked as if they had been savaged by a beast.  He oft-times pondered the expression: ‘kissed by an angel.’  He’d been kissed by the Devil when he tore, kicking and screaming, from his mother’s womb.

His life lacked beauty from that moment. Many years later he learned the truth from the birthing attendant, Marjorie. “Take this Devil’s spawn from me!” his mother had screamed. “Leave him on an anthill far inside the forest. I hereby name him ‘Beast’. Let him be ravaged by his fellows.”

Marjorie saved his life, but his mother’s rejection turned him into a beast. Every time he saw his monster face--eyes black as the pitch he collected from the bog lands, his hands grossly stained with inky sludge--he hated.

As Beast clumped along the muddy laneways delivering his pitch to the rich men’s fires, he studied his features in the smudgy glass shop windows. He was thankful that his hair had been overlooked by the same Devil who had seared his face with a pitchfork. His hair was long, curled and glossy, washed by the rain and snow which fell upon him as he huddled by night in the abandoned garden near Grimwade Bridge.

***

Beast wakes to another day. Without rising from his damp bed, he knows the state of the weather. Real books are denied him, but these are his books, free for the taking--the colour of the sky as day dawns, the cries of seabirds as they call each other over the icy river, the noisy crackle of waves in the tide’s ebb and flow.

He runs his work-wrecked fingers through his hair and leaves his bed. He shrugs into his black leather greatcoat, stolen from some toff who lurched in a drunken dance beside the river before plunging into its icy depths. It protects him against the night freeze, but does nothing to warm his soul. 

Will he ever know warmth? 

Will he ever know the sweetness of a pure woman? 

The whores of Grimwade aside, what woman would ever welcome his cracked hands on her soft body? He needs a sweet woman to release him from the prison to which his witch of a mother sentenced him thirty years hence. 

Beast shakes snowflakes from his hair and shoulders, kicks a dead rose, then walks the icy path to the door. He salivates at the vision of hot gruel and bread from the kind mistress's hand.

He lifts gnarled fingers to the gold lion’s head and raps the bright yellow door. Clump, clump, clump. 

The vapour from the warm kitchen embraces him. However, the kind mistress is not standing at the doorway.  Instead…a vision…Beauty…stands before him, dressed from head to toe in silk spun from sunshine.  He beholds a wondrous face wreathed in smiles, laughing eyes and perfect white teeth. But he asks himself what lies beyond that perfect face. Sweetness? Cruelty?

He steps closer, all the better to inhale her feminine sweetness--a memory of summer strawberries in an abandoned garden.

“Good morning, kind sir.” She addresses him in a voice that transports him to the Opera House where he eavesdrops on the melodies, well hidden in the cobwebbed rafters. “My mother did speak of you, but is currently abed. I greet you in her stead.” She takes his hand and hers is soft within his rough stiff claw. Beauty blesses him with a sweet smile, one dimple dancing in her cheek as if her face itself winks at him.

Perchance she is confusing him with another. He looks behind, but sees nothing but the violent wind-tossed leaves rustling along the path, slapping around his legs. He speaks in a voice raspy with longing. “I have but pitch for sale, Mistress.”

“Yes, indeed. Our supply is low, but my mother has waited on you. She said you would return and that you never steal from us.”

She misinterprets his extended silence as he imagines by what trickery he will steal Beauty from her mother.  

“Oh dear sir, do come in. Shelter inside awhile. You must be chilled to the bone in this snowstorm, while our furnace rages day and night. When I lie in my warm bed it is like I have died and gone to heaven; I’m in a fairytale world. I never want to wake up.” She looks upon his hair. “I am too enraptured by my dreams.”

He watches as thoughts dance beneath the surface of her skin, wondering at her dreams of fashionable gentlemen astride black stallions. He flicks his long tresses so they cover the lower half of his face, hoping she will be enraptured by his glossy mane.

He follows her into the grand foyer, his hungry eyes ravished by alluring sights--tall ceilings trimmed in gold leaf; walls of green silk, the hue of the forest; furniture of the deepest mahogany, like tree branches. He wonders at the single yellow rose in a crystal vase on the windowsill. Fury rises within him at the thought of a suitor.

He drops his load beside the crackling fire while thinking--how can people live like this while I, the Devil’s spawn, live with no walls to enclose me?  His ceilings are the underbelly of Grimwade Bridge, his furniture crafted from scraps of timber he rescues from the river. Why does God choose to give all to some and nothing to others?

“Please, kind sir, stand against the fire. Warm yourself. I will bring coffee and food.” She holds out an apple. He snatches it from her and crunches it with his sharp teeth.

Soon Beast feels uncomfortably hot. He is not accustomed to a roaring fire, within or without.  It becomes just another ordeal he must suffer. But, be damned, he is done with suffering. He deserves to live. He deserves to wear splendid clothes. To sleep with a full belly each night. To bed this sweet woman.

He strokes his hair, capturing a curl with a thick finger and tugging it in anticipation. Beauty will know the Beast.

He will teach her.

Life is no fairy tale.

©DeniseCCovey2015

FULL CRITIQUE WELCOME

WORD COUNT: 1,000

This story was written for the WEP Halloween challenge. You are welcome to post something creepy and link up in my sidebar or go to the WEP site. Click on the link on my sidebar or the WEP site to see other entries...

And on Sunday night, I became a self-published author when my 15,000 word novella, a paranormal romance, hit the Amazon shelves worldwide. If you like Dracula-ish stories with a soft touch, you may well enjoy it. To bring this book together I had a lot of blogger-love help. More on that later. So, if you're in the market for a Halloween tale, here are some links:

Amazon.com

Amazon.uk

Amazon.au

Insecure Writers Support Group - #IWSG post -- Insecure about critiques

Hello Insecure/Secure Writers

Thanks to Alex J Cavanaugh and his team for the month of October -- awesome co-hosts -- TB Markinson,Tamara Narayan, Shannon Lawrence, Stephanie Faris, and Eva E. Solar! who are hosting this group think tank/whinehouse,motivational writing group.

Today at my place it's a whinehouse.


I want to say how insecure I am at the moment due to some confusing beta reads on one of my novels. Somehow I feel I've lost the plot, so to speak, by getting too many pairs of eyes over it. Now I've reached the stage I've just metaphorically dropped it in the bottom drawer and may not pick it up again, which sucks, considering I've spent so much time on it.

It would be different if all my betas/critiquers found the same lumps and bumps in my story, but no, the crits are very different and confusing. But I've learned one thing, and tell me if you disagree--you shouldn't ask people who don't write in your genre, or a genre close to yours, to run their eyes over your work.

• What do you think? How have betas/critique partners worked for you?
• How's things at your place this month?

Click here to go to more IWSG posts. And be sure to visit the    

Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!

And don't forget to find something creepy to post for WEP's October Halloween challenge! Love to have you! Sign up in my sidebar!

The Cephalopod Coffeehouse #bookreview -- The Quality of Silence by @Rosamundlupton.

Hello book lovers!

Time for Armchair Squid'sThe Cephalopod Coffeehouse again! I've read so many books this month but Lupton's is my favourite, no question. It's the third book of hers I've read and loved. First was Sister, then Afterwards, then this thrilling and chilling story of a mother and her daughter who can only communicate through sign language, yet take off on a crazy trip across the very north of Alaska to the Arctic Circle.

Click here to read more book reviews

On 24th November Yasmin and her deaf daughter Ruby arrive in Alaska. Through the madness of circumstances, within hours they are driving...alone... across a frozen wilderness. Here, nothing grows, no one lives and even the tears on your face freeze.

The reader is taken along on a wild ride in the cab of a huge truck with Yasmin at the wheel. Luckily, her talent in physics helps her work out the science of keeping this monster truck on track in the impossible conditions. But the extreme conditions, especially the perpetual darkness, add to the tension and terror as they go in pursuit of Ruby's father and Yasmin's husband who police believe has been burned to death along with the whole population of an Iniut village near the Arctic Circle. But there are other mysterious forces at work, related to the fracking that has been taking place in this previously pristine landscape. Could this disaster be related to the greed of big business? So, Yasmin and Ruby embark on a surreal adventure to find Yasmin's husband and Ruby's father. Against every well-meaning (and often threatening) word of caution, they steal a truck and drive north into a hideous,yet inspiring adventure in search of answers.

The book gets its title from Ruby's disability along with the deep silence of the frozen north.

Night will last for another 54 days.

They are looking for Ruby's father.

Travelling deeper into a silent land.

They still cannot find him.

And someone is watching them in the dark.

Thanks for visiting/reading.

• Have your read any of Rosamund Lupton's thrilling books?

I was going to post for Mesothelioma Awareness Day on September 24th but missed it. If you haven't already, check out Hilary Melton-Butcher's excellent post on this dreadful asbestos-related disease.

If you want to continue the thrills, sign up for WEP's Halloween challenge. Linky open in 2 days!

 

How to boost our creativity by asking questions.

Hello there!

Just came across an article in Writers Digest by Tom Sturges where he tells how asking questions to which we don't know the answers is a great creativity boost. He calls them Excellent Questions--questions you have no idea about. The opposite of Trivial Pursuit. 

Excellent Questions are a way to pursue new knowledge in an interesting way. It can be played in groups or individually. I couldn't help relating it to the questions we as writers ask ourselves...sort of like the 'what if?' questions that can get a story idea humming along. 

Questions are a vital element of creativity. Instead of being annoyed at the child who keeps asking questions, we need to applaud this child's creativity. It's the way to develop this crucial area. 

Where would writers be without creativity? 

So, what Excellent Questions can you come up with? What would you like to know?

Hmm. I'm a dunce when it comes to most things scientific. I could ponder questions about the planets...which is the biggest? How do they differ? Which is closest to the sun? To earth? 

Now people. Much more difficult. Hmm. How many different ways are there to be unique? Why do we like certain foods and hate others? Why do some people want to live alone, shun society, while others live for a sense of community? Why do some of us like to travel and others feel satisfied travelling through their television set? Why are some people born beautiful and others consider themselves as drawing the short straw in the looks department.

Aha. Now I've reached my point. I've been pondering some questions about people as I've been brainstorming ideas for a creepy story for the WEP Halloween Challenge. Which brought me to thoughts of Beauty and the Beast. And the rest, as they say, is history. All will be revealed when I post on October 21. Nice and creepy. I posed the odd Excellent Question. But I won't be giving any answers!

So if the idea of Excellent Questions appeals to you, let's get that creativity happening. If it leads to Halloween-inspired creepiness, feel assured you are welcome to share it on WEP next month!


Hmm. Why are some kids afraid of the dark and others are not? Why do some kids see monsters under the bed while others see cuddly toys? Why aren't we all afraid of the same things? 

All Excellent Questions.

Thanks for reading. 

• Do you have some Excellent Questions? 
• Would you think about posting something creepy for WEP's October challenge--flash fiction, poetry, non fiction, photograph/s, artwork? Love it if you would...
• Sign up on October 1st so we can have a gigantic creep-fest. You might even win a prize!

JESSICA BELL'S 'WHITE LADY' BLOG TOUR. WEP'S GHOST STORY HALLOWEEN PROMPT.

Hi my friends!

You've probably come across Jessica Bell's blog tour promoting her new novel, White Lady. Here are a couple of teasers from her excellent psychological thriller.

GUESS THE TRUE STATEMENT; WIN JESSICA BELL'S THRILLER, WHITE LADY! (Statement #63)

To celebrate the release of Jessica Bell's latest novel, WHITE LADY, she is giving away an e-copy (mobi, ePub, or PDF) to the first person to correctly guess the one true statement in the three statements below. To clarify, two statements are lies, and one is true:

Jessica Bell has a dog. It is a ...
a. Pointer
b. Black Labrador
c. Dalmatian

What do you think? Which one is true? Write your guess in the comments, along with your email address. Comments will close in 48 hours. If no-one guesses correctly within in 48 hours, comments will stay open until someone does.

Want more chances to win? You have until October 31 to visit all the blogs where Jessica will share a different set of true and false statements on each one. Remember, each blog is open to comments for 48 hours only from the time of posting.

If you win, you will be notified by email with instructions on how to download the book.

Click HERE to see the list of blogs.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

*This novel contains coarse language, violence, and sexual themes.

Sonia yearns for sharp objects and blood. But now that she's rehabilitating herself as a "normal" mother and mathematics teacher, it's time to stop dreaming about slicing people's throats.

While being the wife of Melbourne's leading drug lord and simultaneously dating his best mate is not ideal, she's determined to make it work.

It does work. Until Mia, her lover's daughter, starts exchanging saliva with her son, Mick. They plan to commit a crime behind Sonia's back. It isn't long before she finds out and gets involved to protect them.

But is protecting the kids really Sonia's motive?

Click HERE to view the book trailer.
Click HERE for purchase links.

Jessica Bell, a thirty-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, is the Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and the director of the Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca. She makes a living as a writer/editor for English Language Teaching Publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, MacMillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning.

Connect with Jessica online:

Website | Retreat & workshop | Blog | Vine Leaves Literary Journal | Facebook | Twitter

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Check out Write...Edit...Publish for October. The challenge is Ghost Story - flash fiction, non-fiction, poetry, artwork, photo essay...your choice. You can sign up now in my sidebar! Thank you.

Thank you for visiting today. 

Thank you for supporting fellow blogger, Jessica Bell. 

Thank you for supporting me by participating in the WEP October blogfest.

Write...Edit...Publish Halloweeen Blogfest - my entry HAUNTING, combined with Francine Howarth's Halloween Blogfest.

Welcome to creepy Halloween! There are many blogfests vying for attention. I am combining the Write...Edit...Publish blogfest with Francine Howarth's Trick or Treat Blogfest where you either give or receive free books. (In comments, say if you want your name to go into a hat to win a free book - say TREAT!)

Those who participate in the WEP blogfest will be competing for a $10 Amazon Gift card from yours truly (for the entry that catches my , and Francine is donating a free e-book to a participant.

Here is my creepy story...(sorry, I've been re-reading The Book Thief for the umpteenth time with my students, so I'm a little influenced by Death as narrator.) I'm sorry it's not exactly a fun entry, but there are some of them around...

Death has come to town. He arrives on runway 13A at midnight, thirteen minutes behind schedule. Despite the ferocious Twitter campaign demanding a new runway to deal with the increased traffic, the flight was late as usual. He couldn’t resist tweeting: #JFK #FLT307 #lateagain just for the pure heck of it.

He blends in with the weary commuters—squalling infants protesting painful ears and broken sleep, briefcases no doubt stuffed with duty free goods and hotel mini bar spirits, and myriad rackety suitcases squalling about just one trip too many. No one takes any notice of Death, no one senses his menace even though he mischievously brushes against as many unfortunate travellers as he can. What fun. Back in the swing of it again after the hiccup last time. He rubs his artificial leg. That will haunt him for the rest of his days, may they be long and eventful.

Death walks, lurching a little, protecting himself from the unseemly haste of humans desperate for their comfy bed, whether hotel or home. He has no baggage to collect; it would slow him down, but this night he can’t resist a little people watching as the weary souls await luggage collection at No 7 carousel. He stands in the vast, clattery room, surrounded by chattering children and the peculiar odour of those cooped together too closely on a thirteen-hour flight, watches them fighting over their luggage like chickens in the hen house pecking for grain. 

He could have done the deed earlier, on the plane, but that would have been too easy. And not according to plan. And, heck, he would have bit the dust too, or the ocean. Not ready for that sacrifice, but the time was coming. 

Gotta always stick to the plan. He studies the bed-ready faces, wishes he could tell them how lucky they are to be alive. How capricious is Death.

He follows the crowd to customs. A blind man could find his way simply by the noise and crush of humanity not at its best. The aromas from the coffee shop tantalize his olfactory glands, but he has no desire to indulge himself. He hardly recognises the place; it’s been so long since he visited, but this is just a quick in and quick out so it doesn’t bother him. No place is home any longer. The world is his stage. And he’s such an evil player. How delicious!

No one takes any notice as he passes by. Midnight eyes are blind, even those of the custom’s man, badged MARVIN. There are things that a sleep-deprived MARVIN, probably pulling a double shift, should have noticed. Just what was hidden beneath his long black coat? They do wonderful things with plastic these days. A body search would be in order, but he’s home free. Marvin missed an opportunity to be a hero, dead or alive.

Death shrugs and heads away from the passport-stamp-thumping desks, the babel of foreign languages, the wail of exhausted children. As he exits, he deliberately brushes a young lover caught in the act of whispering sweet nothings to whoever is on the receiving end of the phone. The young lover turns his shoulder towards Death, and continues his midnight electronic tryst. Oh, young man, I could finish you in a moment!

Now Death is out of doors. Humidity clutches his throat, the acrid smell of exhaust fumes threaten to overwhelm him. Then it begins to rain before his lungs are poisoned; it washes away the grime, turning the pavement into a slippery, oozy slush.

Death squints through the tumbling rain. A shaft of moonlight shimmers on the taxi roof, turned red by the neon sign poking its broken nose from the opposite side of the barrier. How strange. But it is a strange night. He checks over his shoulder, both directions. then wrenches open the nearest taxi door. The artificial smell of air freshener offends his sensibilities. The seat sags and he lurches into the middle. He smirks, imagining the lurching that people will be doing tomorrow…er, today.

“The Plaza Hotel,” he growls to the driver. The driver gives him the finger with his eyes, then pulls out into the stream of traffic. Death doesn’t glance behind. He feels hidden in the interior with its misty windows. He has more important things to think about. The plan must be perfectly executed. Ha, ha. Perfect choice of words.

Room 13  on (well, it should be 13!) the thirteenth floor is the perfect place to visit for his thirteenth act of terror.

Death has come to town.

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WORD COUNT: 758
General feedback please as this story is for this blogfest only.

Click on the WEP HAUNTED blogfest list in my right-hand sidebar to read other entries. Click on the TRICK OR TREAT badge to visit participants and to snaffle a book! 

Here are Francine's rules for both AUTHORS and VISITORS:

Authors: 

1) pop all the names of people who ask for a "TREAT" into a hat and choose a winner!

2)  Award a Kindle copy of the book/s featured to the winner

Visitors:



1) State in your comment whether you want your name popped into the author's hat.

2) Use your imagination for demanding your Treat! 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Book review - The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. Roland Yeoman's first blogfest - scary reads.

My review for The Armchair Squid's Cephalopod Coffeehouse Club.

The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

From Goodreads:

Every few decades a book is published that changes the lives of its readers forever. Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist is such a book With over a million and a half copies sold in Latin America and Europe, The Alchemist has already achieved the status of a modern classic.

The American publisher Harper Collins said: "…reading the alchemist was like getting up at dawn and seeing the sun rise while the rest of the world still slept.”

FOLLOWING THE LEGEND

This is a book read by American presidents. When I started reading it, I knew why these powerful men had read it. It’s a deceptively simple tale with a compelling message of the most magical of all journeys: the quest to fulfil one’s destiny. It’s full of psychological intensity and spirituality, couched in fairy tale language.

The story is of an Andalusian shepherd boy named Santiago who travels from his homeland in Spain to the Egyptian desert. He is on a quest--in search of a treasure buried in the Pyramids. His journey is fraught with obstacles and peppered with intriguing characters.

Along the way he meets a Gypsy woman, a man who calls himself king, and an alchemist, all of whom point Santiago in the direction of his quest. No one knows what the treasure is, or if Santiago will be able to surmount the obstacles along the way to reach his goal. The intriguing aspect of this novel is that what starts out as a journey to find worldly goods turns into a discovery of the treasure found within. The message is that the magic, dreams and treasures we all seek elsewhere are found at our doorstep.

There is a shimmering elegance in its telling. The language is lush, evocative, and the story deeply humane. The story of Santiago is an eternal testament to the transforming power of our dreams and the importance of listening to our hearts. There is comic charm and dramatic tension aplenty. Overall it is a sweetly exotic tale that young and old alike can immerse themselves in. After all, it’s an adventure story full of magic and wisdom. What's not to love about that?

Why was The Alchemist such a success? Probably because we all need to be aware of our personal calling. Whenever we do something that fills us with enthusiasm we are following the legend. But we don’t all have the courage to confront our dream. Coelho relates the journey as best he can. He deals with each of the four obstacles he claims stand in the way of us realizing our dream. In his words:

1.       We are told from childhood that everything we want to do is impossible. We get to the stage when our personal calling is so deeply buried in our souls that it is invisible. But it is still there.

2.       Love. We know what we want to do but we’re afraid of hurting those around us by abandoning everything to pursue our dream. Those who genuinely wish us well want us to be happy and are prepared to accompany us on our journey.

3.       Fear of defeat. We fight for our dream but it doesn't work out. We cannot go back. We do want it and have staked everything on it. The path of personal calling is no easier than any other path except our whole heart is in this journey. Have patience. The Universe is conspiring in your favour even though you don’t understand how. Why is defeat necessary? Who knows? But they happen. Maybe when we first start fighting for our dream we make mistakes. The secret of life – fall seven times, get up eight times. The defeats may go on for years, eating away at our soul, until one day we are no longer able to free ourselves from bitterness and it stays with us for the rest of our lives. Then one day we notice that what we always wanted is there, waiting for us.

4.       The most dangerous of obstacles--the fear of realizing the dream we’ve fought for all our lives. Oscar Wilde claims that each man kills the thing he loves. The mere possibility of getting what we want fills the soul of an ordinary man with guilt. We check out those who’ve failed and feel we don’t deserve to get what we want either. We forget about all the obstacles we’ve overcome, all the suffering, all the things we had to give up. Many people when their personal calling was within their grasp, commit a series of stupid mistakes and never reach their goal. They self destruct when their goal was only  a step away. The most dangerous obstacle as has a saintly aura about it. Renounce the joy and conquest. However, if you believe yourself worthy of the thing you fought so hard to get, you become an instrument of God, you understand why you are here.

Click HERE for more book reviews.

The little shepherd boy Santiago’s purpose in life was to travel, so travel he did. He was looking for treasure. His journeys were full of excitement and danger, but did he reach his goal? How did his journey end? You'll have to read it to find out.

Claim the life of your dreams.

Have you read The Alchemist? What did you think of it?

The only way I can hope to get all my blog posts done is to double up. Here is my entry for Roland's first ever blogfest.

His instructions:

You have from October 1st to Halloween to post about the book which scared you the most as a young reader and the book which scared you the most as an adult.

Okay, I've never been a fan of horror, so I avoid scary books and movies, but I've managed to read/see a few in my time. 

BOOK THAT SCARED ME AS A CHILD:

Where the Wild Things Are is a 1963 children's picture book by American writer and illustrator Maurice Sendak. It has been reprinted, animated, filmed ever since. The story, which comprises just 338 words, focuses on a young boy named Max, who, after dressing in his wolf costume, wreaks havoc through his household and is disciplined by being sent to his bedroom. As he feels agitation with his mother, Max's bedroom undergoes a mysterious transformation into a jungle environment, and he winds up sailing to an island inhabited by malicious beasts known as the "Wild Things." After successfully intimidating the creatures, Max is hailed as the king of the Wild Things and enjoys a playful romp with his subjects; however, he decides to return home, to the Wild Things' dismay. After arriving in his bedroom, Max discovers a hot supper waiting for him. Doesn't sound that scary, but I thought it was when I was little. 

BOOK THAT SCARED ME AS AN ADULT:

Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley

As an adult, I still find this book disturbing. The idea of creating a monster, then rejecting it, is a sad scenario, but it did open up new lines of thought about science. Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus is a novel written by Mary Shelley about eccentric scientist Victor Frankenstein, who creates a grotesque creature in an unorthodox scientific experiment. 

Shelley had travelled in the region of Geneva, where much of the story takes place, and the topics of galvanism and other similar occult ideas were themes of conversation among her companions, particularly her future husband, Percy Shelley. The storyline emerged from a dream. Mary, Percy, Lord Byron, and John Polidori decided to have a competition to see who could write the best horror story. After thinking for weeks about what her possible storyline could be, Shelley dreamt about a scientist who created life and was horrified by what he had made. She then wrote Frankenstein.

Thanks to Wikipedia for most of the information contained herein.

• Want to share some scary, creepy books with us? Join Roland's blogfest.

Prepare to be HAUNTED. A real-life haunting in Beijing. Three Halloween blogfests.

Hello everyone!

Well, it's October which means all kinds of awesomeness. It's the month where writing prompts abound with the theme of haunting. Halloween or All Hallows Eve, isn't much of a deal in Australia, but it is gathering momentum. What better way to celebrate than to write ghostly stories, or to post stories about ghostly happenings?

I was intrigued by a story I read in a newspaper today and I'll share it with you. For those who have entered a haunting blogfest, it may give you an idea...

Chaonel No 81

It happened in 1949. The Communists had just defeated the Nationalists in the Civil War in China. Legend has it that in the rush for the losing army to evacuate to Taiwan, a high-ranking Nationalist official based in Beijing abandoned his wife, leaving her to fend for herself as the Communists marched on the city. This was a bloody time in China, perilous if you did not belong to the Communist Party. 

Understandably, the wife was terrified--it is rumoured she was a Concubine--she chose suicide over her well-founded fear of being slaughtered by the communists. She hung herself from the rafters of the three-story French-Baroque style home. 

Locals say the spirit of the spurned woman haunts the mansion to this day. With its floor-to-ceiling cobwebs and crumbling floorboards, Chaonel No 81 certainly seems like the perfect breeding ground for paranormal activity. 

"Always, people thought the house was haunted," claims Li Yonjie, who grew up in an alleyway behind Chaonel No 81. "As children we would play hide and seek in the house, but we didn't dare go inside by ourselves." Li claims the Red Guards who used the house during the Cultural Revolution got scared and left. I wonder what scared them?

Despite the building's location in the centre of Beijing where a small courtyard home sells for several millions of dollars, there are apparently no official plans to do anything with this abandoned building. The building is on the historic list, so cannot be torn down, but can be renovated. There are no prospective buyers rushing to buy the home, which may be due to the Chinese tendency to avoid all things related to death. Who wants to live in a haunted house? Not too many of us.

The local police and the Catholic diocese (the owners of the building) reject the ghost tale, claiming there is no Kuomintang official living there.

There are conflicting histories regarding the building's provenance, but the most popular is that it was built in 1910 for a French manager of the company that built the railway between Beijing and Hankou. Whatever the history, locals are convinced it is haunted, so it sits there, crumbling, unloved and abandoned, much like the Concubine who hung herself in 1949.

You know what they say...truth is stranger than fiction...

Here are three Halloween bloghops I know of. Perhaps one entry could suit all three.

First, if you would like to post something just before Halloween (October 30) you are welcome to join my Write...Edit...Publish blogfest---theme--HAUNTING. Francine Howarth is donating a Kindle book to a random WEP entry and I am donating a $10 Amazon Gift Card to the most captivating entry.

Francine Howarth is running her own Halloween blogfest, where authors, writers and readers will be TRICK or TREATING. 

Devin Berglund has her own Haunting October Blogfest. Each day she posts an image to stimulate your writing juices. Go to Devin's blog to learn more. 

You can sign up here for the WEP blogfest in my right-hand sidebar and visit the other ladies to check theirs out.

I'd like to recommend an excellent book I bought on writing ghost stories--Ghost Stories and How to Write Them by Kathleen McCurl.