Malala Yousafzai, Pakistani schoolgirl is my current hero. WHO'S YOUR HERO? blogfest to announce J L Campbell's novel, Saving Sam.

Congratulations Joy!

The release of the novel Saving Sam by J.L. Campbell has been timed to coincide with National Heroes’ Day celebrations in Jamaica. Sam, the protagonist finds a hero—or heroine if you like—in his aunt and the mission of this blogfest is to write a maximum of 300 words about someone who has been a source of inspiration. So, Who’s Your Hero?

WHO'S MY HERO?

Malala Yousafzai

Malala, the sixteen-year old Pakistani girl shot by the Taliban for insisting on the right for girls to attend school, is my current hero. I've been transfixed by her story. Imagine setting in motion such a sequence of events, accepting what has happened to her at the hands of the Taliban: "I was just one target for their violence", and continuing the fight for girls and education globally once she'd undergone medical treatment in Britain. 

Education is something most of us take for granted, but literacy rates for girls (and boys, too) in countries such as Pakistan and Afghanistan are woeful, and who better to begin a campaign for "a world where everyone can go to school", than a young girl directly affected by the recently negative ruling which banned girls from attending school in Pakistan. (When the Taliban controlled Afghanistan, girls were forbidden to attend school, and teachers were executed for clandestine teaching activities.)

Malala has already been awarded the 2013 International Children's Peace Prize and some expected her to win this year's Nobel Peace Prize. She didn't, but I predict in the future she will if the Taliban don't make good their threats to kill her next time. 

She has met President Obama and the Queen of England, but not eveyone thinks Malala is a hero -- In Pakistan reaction has been mixed, with many hailing her as a national heroine while others have criticised her for promoting a "Western" agenda. Hmm. Go Malala! I'm with you all the way!

read more...

Now to the blurb from Joy's latest:

J.L. Campbell is a proud Jamaican and an award-winning writer, who is always on the lookout for story-making material.
She writes romantic suspense, women's fiction and young adult novels. She is the author of Contraband, Christine's Odyssey, Dissolution, Distraction, Don't Get Mad...Get Even, Giving up the Dream, Kicked to the Kerb, Retribution and Hardware (written under the pen name Jayda McTyson).

She blogs at http://www.joylcampbell.com Feel free to connect with her on Facebook or Twitter or visit her Amazon author page.

Now visit some more posts heralding Joy's new book.
There's still some time to sign up if you want to tell us about your hero.

Halloween House of Horrors - Is there love beyond the grave?

My entry for the RomanticFridayWriters Halloween House of Horrors is taken from Chapter Three of my WIP, a 16,000 word ghost story novella, Paradise Can Wait, set in Afghanistan and the US in 2009. The protagonist, Delbar, has lost her husband Alam in the ongoing war against the Taliban. She has escaped her country, but can she escape the dead? 

As I am seeking publication for this story, I would appreciate all feedback.

***

Trick or Treat?

The flames of the fire flickered and died. The room plunged into darkness. The chandelier's crystal droplets clinked against the draft that crept into the room like a stealthy ghost. Trees moaned against the walls, a lament of damned souls.

A white flare fizzed through the room.

Delbar leaped from her chair in front of the fire. Rough hands clamped her mouth. Her arms wrenched behind her. She was thrown onto the couch where she lay on her back, juddering with terror.

Damp enveloped her in a watery cloak. What is this? Water boarding?  My hiding place discovered so soon? 

She struggled to see her assailant through the dark shadows…she saw no one…then…a kaleidoscope of color swirled at the top of the staircase. It spilled onto the stairs like molten metal tipped from a cauldron. Colored shadows glinted as the liquid dripped downwards, then puddled at the bottom of the stairs.

“Mmmh...mmmh…ughh...” Delbar fought against the invisible hand that pressed her lips together. Water continued to drip. Blinking through the damp, she stared at the man who arose fully formed from the puddle–face…limbs…body…hair…clothes. The garments were bright white as if lit from within–baggy trousers, tunic, turban.

“Yaa Ilaahee!”*

Delbar struggled against the invisible ropes. She jerked from side to side, moaning. Abruptly the binds loosed, the dripping stopped and she could speak.

“Al…am? Is…you..?” Water dribbled from her mouth. She brushed her hand across her face. “No. You are dead! You died in the mountains! The Taliban killed you… I’m dreaming…why was my mouth stopped and my arms tied…why did water nearly drown me? Why..? Why..?”

He stepped forwards, knees high, like he waded to shore from a turbulent ocean. He stopped a few meters from her. Delbar smelt rosewater and spices, the strong scents of her homeland. Hair escaped from under his turban, long and lustrous. The gray streaks in his beard had gone as had the scars on his hands from that hideous time when he’d been imprisoned and tortured during the Mujahedeen wars.

“So you could feel me die.”

‘That was cruel…I feared…for my life.” She reached for the rug that had fallen from her shoulders, dabbed her mouth then hugged the soft wool to her chest and sobbed.

 “But you live. I’ve been waiting. So long. You’re here. I need you to trust this.” He pointed to his body. “See me. Your Alam?”

She turned away.

“Delbar...Delbar…Delbar…”

She spoke to the room. “I’m dreaming, I know. What I see isn’t real. My husband is dead. He’s in Paradise. A demon uses a husband’s body to trick a wife.”

“Delbar. It is me. Look. This is no dream. I drowned. The portal opened, the angels came. I turned back. I was to enter the Door, but I answered, no, I’m not ready for Paradise.”

“Daabí Ashkun!”**  She clamped her hands over her ears.

“My Paradise is being with you.”

“No. Jannah awaits you. If it is indeed you? My Alam would obey the angels. Go to your reward.” She pointed to the door.

“My reward is to be with you.”

“No. Jannah awaits the righteous.”

“The things I’ve done were not righteous. I’ve no business in Paradise with killers of women and children. Scoundrels like me deserve to wander the earth, hungry, never satisfied.”

“A soldier under orders obeys orders. You tried to ease the suffering of the Afghani people. Go to your blissful, happy life.”

“My blissful, happy life is here. In my new body. You need me…”

“I need Alam, but not this way. Continue your journey.”

“My journey ends here.”

“No. Leave. This is a trick. Go back to the portal if you are man, not demon.”

He dropped to his knees as if shot. “Let me stay. One night?”

Dreamy sensations flowed through her as she floated into a fantastical world. He has cast some spell over me. A spell that holds me entranced. Her heart cried out for Alam. A tidal wave of power suffused her–where before she was weak, now she was strong–where before she had mourned, now her heart danced.

Alam is here!

He saw her thoughts.

He reached down, tore the rug from her hands. He stroked her shoulder, testing her–chilly hands, icy fingers. He sat on the edge of the couch. Embraced her.  Pressed her warm flesh against his coldness. Oh, the chill! Icy lips found hers. 

Water rushed down her throat–spurted out her nose–her eyes filled–overflowed. She panicked. Pulled away.

“Stop!”

She cried. Scrubbed her face with the rug.

“Relax,” he said, “Control your fear. The drowning sensation will vanish. I promise.”

“Who are you? Which demon has stolen Alam’s body?”

“I am your Alam.” He kissed her again. “My precious wife.” His garments disappeared as if by magic. Naked, he covered the length of her warm human flesh with his otherworldly coldness.

 “I am so cold. The fire...” she said.

“This new body has an enemy–fire.” He turned and blew into the fireplace. Flames lit up the space. “But I can try to bear it…for you, my love.”

Her heart leaped into the flood of pleasure offered by his arms. Do I care whether he is dead or undead, cold or warm, ghost or demon?

They lay side by side. Stroke for stroke they sought remembrance of times past…but...something jarred...

Delbar felt it creep along her nape. Something frightening, more frightening than what she’d already experienced. She sensed absolute evil.

Too late she saw the malevolent glint in eyes turned red. The beautiful face melted into a hideous mask. The body bunched, the back humped, hands curled into claws that raked her face. Pain stole her breath. The mass twisted into a formless black that blasted putrid air over her like a toxic cloud. Hands forced her arms behind her back. Filthy water poured down her throat. Life squeezed from her.

The flames flickered…and died.

GLOSSARY OF TERMS:

* Yaa Ilaahee! (Oh my God!)

** Daabí Ashkun!”* (No!)

©DeniseCovey2012

***L'Aussie Image edited in PicMonkey.com

WORDS: 986

FULL CRITIQUE ACCEPTABLE 

If you'd like to add your Halloween story/poem to the list, submit in the right top sidebar or wherever you find the linky list...open until October 21 AEST.

This challenge is being judged by venerable bloggers, Ann Best and Nas Dean, who are on a quest to find the Featured Writer.

Denise