Circle of Fire review

   Recently, I tweeted about a wonderful YA author by the name of Michelle Zink and her books. First book, The Prophecy of the Sisters. Second book, Guardian of the Gate. And the third and final book Circle of Fire.
  Now, to begin with, I must say that the first two books caught my attention. Yes, they may be a tad bit wordy, but from the get go, I was drawn in like a mouse to cheese. There is such an allure of the fantastic to these books and honestly...they scared me a bit. As I have asked so politely before...don't judge me.
   There are many books about "The End Times" but Zink has these characters down pact. She utilized some of the stories passed down from biblical times unto our generation to make a hell of a great trilogy. (Pun intended : ) )
   The Prophecy of the Sisters is the story of set of twins that come from a long line of doubles decedents. One is the guardian and one the gate. In other words, one is evil and one is good. It goes as it has for years, until there these two twins, Lia and Alice, are born by cesarean and the good one comes out in the bad one's place. So the purposed guardian--who is good--is actually the gate. And the evil one is the guardian.
   With magic, death and the Victorian Era, this is a trilogy spun in pure gold.

   The Circle of Fire was entirely difficult to put down. Don't you just love those books that take you to that place in your head, where you might never have thought to go before? That is what happened with this last installment. With the sisters at odds and Lia--the burdened Gate--already losing the battle to stay on the right path, they are pitted against each other; good vs. evil.
   Although you root for Lia to follow her true calling and close the gate for good, you also sympathize with her struggle to just chuck it all and let evil win.
   But that isn't the worst of her problems...in order to close the gate, she must have the help of her twin sister, Alice, who is betting high on Samael and the souls and is out for blood.
   If you haven't read the story, then I suggest you do. And if you haven't read ANY of them, go, run to your bookstore and buy a copy.

   Happy writing everyone and be sure to check these books out as soon as possible.

-C.

New Book Entry--Judas

   I wanted to post another entry of my book. I was wrong to label the first portion as a book chapter. Truth is that I haven't decided where to break them for chapters yet. I'm just rolling along, trying to tell Sally's story and get to know her myself. In the meantime, here is another glimpse of Willow Tree, North Carolina...and Shanda's disappearance. (If you haven't read the first portion, please look under book chapter or Judas. You'll find it there and will be able to understand where I have left off.)  Enjoy!

Today starts like this:

   This morning I woke up to rain. It pounded the tin of the roof and beat against the glass of the windows. When the wind blows, it shakes the house down to its core. It’s Saturday and I know it will be like no other Saturday I’ve ever passed before.

   I feed the pigs, the chickens and check in on the horses. Daddy is passed out on the couch again—another late night out with Felix. Since Momma died, he has taken a shine to whiskey. When he falls asleep, it is always with her picture in his hand.

   I don’t bother him, instead I finish up my chores and dress in my warmest clothes, taking one of his lumberjack shirts from his closet and pull my grey wool hat over my ears.

   Today they are searching the woods for my friend. A team out of Charlotte comes with blood hounds and horses. The animals breathe in the air and it comes out of their noses in pants of billowy clouds. The horses neigh when their owners pull at the reins. The men are dressed in thick jackets, ones I wish I could afford to buy Daddy.

   Cars line the sides of the highway about a mile from my home. I stand among the crowd, my hands stuffed in old work gloves to fight the cold.

   “We’ll take the northern perimeter,” I hear one say, using a map spread on the hood of his truck.   

   Next to him, sitting haphazardly on the hood, is a cup with steam escaping through a small hole on the lid. It makes my mouth water and makes the air feel colder somehow.

   “Your team can take the west. Use your radios if you find anything.”

   The man looks different from the rest of us. He is older, with gray hair along his temples which is nothing new. But the look of him—as if he had his whole life handed to him without asking—is different from the others who stand huddled together to beat the cold.

   When I turn around, Ben Theodore—Shanda’s boyfriend—is standing against one of the hardwoods with his eyes to the sky. Even if he doesn’t speak it, I know he’s praying. They all are. I can see their lips moving with no sound coming from them.

   Shanda’s father is sitting on the bumper of his Ford. His eyes are tired and rimmed red. He’s been crying and I wonder to myself why he bothers to pray at all. No god would take his daughter…not her.

   I think about life and what this will mean for me now. In the end, I can see a white casket and thousands of baby pink roses and white carnations surrounding a mound of turned earth. I close my eyes and shake my head to erase the picture.

   There are so many voices jumbled together here and all I can think of is her…the girl with the golden hair…my friend.

   “Do you wanna come over today?” she asked me and I missed my footing, tripping on the lip of the doorjamb of our English class.

   “What?”

   “Wanna come over to my house today?” I studied her face, the way her skin glowed; her eyes sparkled with sincerity and her pink lips pulled apart—her teeth straight and white. She had a shower of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

   The song comes into my head again. Sally Sue Judas prances around town…

   Had she ever sang it with the others when we were children? Was she asking me to her house because they planned on making a fool of me? Nowhere in her face could I see those signs of cruelty. Those innocent freckles dictated my answer.

   No one with sweet freckles like hers would lie.

   “Alright,” I said.

   That afternoon I skipped the country bus and headed for the parking lot. On our way to her car, I heard the monsters talking. Shanda has a new charity case. I wouldn’t be her friend if you paid me. They said things, but never really looked at us.

   When I looked at my friend, she smiled over the top of her car and nodded so that I would get in. It felt unreal. I gripped the door handle and it didn’t make one sound when I opened it. Not like Daddy’s truck whose seats moved when you didn’t want them to and doors squeaked loudly in protest when you opened them.

    Her car smelled of flowers whereas my father’s reeked of pipe tobacco and week old whiskey.

   We drove through town and onto Brewster Street where her house perched on top of a small hill. The outside was soft white with light blue shutters. The porch wrapped around and a set of six steps that led to the light blue front door. On the three front windows were flower boxes with white peonies.

   The inside smelled like a mother lived there—fresh baked cookies and cinnamon. The walls were the color of wheat and I wondered if they chose the color to match Shanda’s hair. In the kitchen was a small round table with a window that let the sunlight stream inside. It was warm and cozy, just like a home should be.

   “Let’s go up to my room,” she said and we climbed the stairs up to a hallway with four doors, two on the right and two on the left.

   She chose the first door on the left. Her room was light, airy with clean lines and mature taste. There were some pictures on her built-in shelves and I smiled when I saw that she had one of the two of us in a frame.

   “When did you take that picture?” I asked because I couldn’t remember.

   “A couple of months ago,” she said as she hung her purse off the chair at her desk.

   I gazed at all the pretty little things she had on her shelves. Tiny wooden horses and miniature glass blown ballerinas in soft pink tutus. On her walls were pictures of horses and on her desk was a picture of a strong looking steed with chocolate and vanilla spots.

   “Is that your horse?”

   “Yup. That’s Daisy,” she said and I heard the pride in her voice.

   In that moment, I wished I had a horse I felt that way about. I wished I had anything to take pride in so I would sound that way.

   “She’s beautiful,” I said.

   “Thanks. She’s real gentle. You should go riding with me sometime. You gotta horse?”

   “Yeah, I do. But he ain’t this pretty,” I chuckled.

   “Oh, any horse is pretty. If you give ‘em enough love and show them kindness, they’ll be as beautiful as a thoroughbred.”

   How I wanted to see things just the way she saw them. How I wanted to dip my hands in the well of wishful thinking and positivity that she did every day of her life. But I live in the real world. In the real world, things are just that black and white.

   “Have a seat,” she said and patted the empty space on her bed.

   I accepted her offer with a weak smile because I still had no idea why she asked me here.

   “Sally, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

   I liked the way she left out my middle name. It made me feel all grownup.

   “What did you want to talk to me about?”

   She sat cross legged on her bed and picked at a loose thread on her blanket with her eyes down.

   “I suppose you heard what those girls said on the way out of school.”

   It was my turn to look away.

   “Yeah, I heard.”

   “Does it bother you much?”

   It was an innocent question; one that deserved an honest answer. But I just couldn’t give it to her. How could I admit how weak I really am to the one person who made me feel a little stronger?

   “Not really,” I said and prayed a hole would open in the floor and swallow me up. My voice betrayed me. She read through the cracks.

   “I would venture to guess it does,” she said with a sad smile. “It has to because it bothers me a lot.” She frowned then and looked out her window. “The thing is, Sally, they just don’t see you the way I do.”

   “And how’s that?” It was out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop and count the costs. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know how she saw me.

   “You are like a drop of sunshine,” she said in her sweet voice. “People don’t see how wonderful and smart you really are.” Shanda looked down again. “I know they only see what’s on the outside because it’s easier.”

   I turned my eyes away from her again, my cheeks flaming red from embarrassment. That—at least—she agreed with them on.

   “Not that what’s on the outside is bad,” she said with a firm tone. But that didn’t help. “What they judge you on is not only how you look, but how you carry yourself.”

   She used her finger to lift my chin until I was looking into those startling blue eyes.

   “Sally, you walk around the school with your shoulders hunched and your eyes down. You literally hide behind your hair!” she said, as she playfully mussed my knotted mane. “Don’t you realize how beautiful you are?”

   I stared at her in disbelief and shook my head uncertainly.

   “How do you expect those people to see it, if you can’t see it for yourself?”

   Then, Shanda took me by the hand and led me through the door to the left of her closet. Her bathroom was covered in products I had never seen. Different kinds of make-up and brushes and bows and rubber bands all neatly stacked in clear plastic boxes atop of a granite vanity.

   “Sit down,” she said and I took a seat on a chair fit for a princess.

   The large space was done up in pale lavender colors. The tub was claw footed and bright white.

   Quietly she took a bottle that was scented with something like honeydew melons. I realized it was how her hair always smelled and I was excited that she was using it on me.

   After twenty solid minutes, she brushed away every tangle that I had. The pain was minimal and I would take it any day.

   “Can I see now?”

   “Not yet,” she said with a determined voice. “Let me finish it up and then you can see.”

   I don’t know how long I was in that chair but I would’ve stayed forever if she’d asked me to. When I turned to look in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me. Her hair, the color of chestnuts, shined under the muted light of her bathroom. And her skin was ivory and her cheeks were rosy with blush; her lips as pink as Shanda’s.

   It couldn’t be me…but it was.

   “Whatta ya think?” she asked and looked nervous.

   “Shanda, I…” There were no words.

   “Do ya like it?” I nodded and tried hard not to cry.

   Sally Sue Judas prances around town/up the street and down the street in her ugly nightgown.

   No one could say that about me anymore. No one could ever make me feel ugly again when I know what is underneath it all. My friend showed me exactly what happens when you find a wildflower in a patch of weeds. And I was grateful to her for finding Sally.

   Daddy wasn’t home when I got back that night and I was glad. I didn’t want him to see me this way. I didn’t want him to see the woman I was when Shanda was through with me. I knew this would only happen once. But once was enough to last me a lifetime.

   Once was enough to show me that deep inside I was just as beautiful if not more than those monsters that lurked about our school. And if I wanted to fool them, all I had to do was comb my hair and dab on some cosmetics.

   It was enough to know I had that option.

   “Alright,” the stranger says to the rest of us. “You all got your maps and areas. Now go and use your radios if you find anything. Please be on the lookout for animals and watch your step. Don’t want anyone stepping on bear traps.”

   We all take a position and when he heads forward, we do to.

   My head is so full of thoughts right now I can’t tell which way is up or down. On my right are men with hounds that sniffed some of Shanda’s clothing before heading forward. On my left are another pack of strangers except for Ben whose eyes are down and hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. For a moment, they drift towards me and I look down quickly when he meets my gaze.

   My thoughts are on his heart and how it must be aching worse than mine.

   We walk along the perimeter set for us and search for clues. We are one line of people with no one exactly ahead or behind. We are like one giant comb with corneas and pupils that search the bracken and dead leaves and branches.

   We search the area for hours, all the while I am hoping we find some clue, some ray of hope that my friend is alive and well. That she maybe got lost in the woods on a hike or fell off her horse while riding, even though I know her horse is at the stable where it belongs.

   Hope is heartless. It encourages you to believe in things that cannot exist in the rational world. My whole life I’ve lived with rationality. Now, I am in danger of hoping that she isn’t how my subconscious has already drawn her picture for me.

   A corpse, her body gray with decomposition and hair no longer the color of sunshine.

   “No,” I whisper to myself. No because she can’t be gone. Not if I can still feel her around me.

   When she befriended me, I never noticed the connection. I never felt it because she was always right there next to me. If I’d been paying attention, I would have realized it the moment the black crow sang his warning to me. It was our connection that ached in my bones. It was because of it he came to me in the first place—my warning that soon this connection would be tested and maybe push my sanity as far as it could stretch.

   With a deep breath I trudge forward, looking beyond that picture my head drew of her and listen to the quiet pining voice of hope that nestles into my ears like a whispered lullaby.

   “Shanda, where are you?” my heart calls out silently to hers.

   Maybe she’ll hear me and call back. I vow to keep my spirit open for the sound of it.

   The day ends on a somber note. Not one clue, not one ray of hope so far. But tomorrow is another day and we’ll be out there again, searching the woods to the east.

   I climb into the bathtub full of hot water. My toes are still numb from the cold but I’ll do it all over again...and again. It’s the least I can do—the only thing I can do to keep from going insane with worry. How I wish Nana were here to guide me. She’d know what to do; point me in the right direction.

   My bedspread is scratchy on the underside. I pull it up over my head, as if it would help to keep those images out. Images I fight to keep from resurfacing. A light mist showers the window and I watch it gather until it forms droplets that run down the glass, making clear wavy paths all the way to the bottom.

   Frustrated, I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling then close my eyes and open my spirit up the way Nana taught me. I relax my legs and arms, fingers and toes and work my way up until my mind is clear of everything except what I want.

   Silently, I call out to her again and wait.

   Where are you my friend? Where are you?

   In the middle of the void, in between the sounds of my thoughts and my labored breaths I hear a small whimper of recognition. My heart thumps wildly in my chest and my eyes stay closed until I can make out a whisper.

   Sally…help me. I need you…

   I gasp—suck in a large gulp of air—and sit up quickly, trying to listen as hard as I can.

   Just as quickly as it began, the connection is broken. When I open my eyes, tears blur my vision and my heart begins to ache uncontrollably when I catch the distinct smell of her perfume in the air.

STUPID PEOPLE

   So, I think that I've had enough of--for lack of a better word--bullshit. I find it hard to believe that so many people have neither the courtesy or decency to treat other people like human beings.
   There are just sometimes when it feels like I'm carrying a million pound globe on my shoulders and my mind is tired and distraught. It never ceases to amaze me that there are just some people who see this, use it and push my buttons so hard I'm ready to punch them in the face!
   I am normally a nonviolent person and you would be hard pressed to catch me in a fight--they are beneath me--but sometimes, don't ya just feel like laying it on someone who possesses the exact traits you despise? Like people who grab your basket--the last basket--at the supermarket when you turned around to lift your child to put her into the little seat. Then you stupidly tell them that it is your basket and what do they say? "Does it have your name written on it?" REALLY?!?! THAT'S  the extent of your reasoning? You see me struggling to lift a 35 pound child into a basket and you have the guts to steal it?
   Or, take a parking space...We've all had this happen.
   You waited 10 minutes for the douche bag in the space to finally drag their lazy butt out of the way and what happens? Some OTHER douche bag comes along and cuts in front of you, thus stealing the parking space you waited 10 minutes for while dealing with screaming children complaining that it's taking too long!
   Okay, so maybe I'm oversensitive. But how hard is it to remember that we are all on this earth together...one unit? And why do so many feel the need to make you look stupid?
   Not so long ago, I walked into a convenience store with a winning $5 lottery ticket and a 5 dollar bill to buy a pack of smokes. I lay the five dollars on the counter along with the ticket and tell the clerk what kind of cigarettes I want and that I want another ticket to replace the old one. That's when my cell rings. I answer it, and then tell the person I'm speaking with that I'll call back later all the while watching the clerk and what she's doing. Meanwhile, she takes the five dollar bill to pay for the cigarettes thinking that it is the same five dollars she was supposed to pay me for the ticket but didn't. I tell her that I wanted another ticket with the winnings and that I wanted to pay the cigarettes with the cash, she hands me back the five she took from the counter and tells me that it is the winning  five, and that I owe her five bucks.
   This is where it gets...tricky.
   I calmly explain that she had used MY five to pay for the cigarettes and that she never gave me the cash for the winning ticket. The line behind me is getting longer as I try to rationalize that I did indeed have a five with me that she took to pay the damn smokes and she refused to believe it. HELLO!!! Then some idiot who wasn't there when I arrived at the store starts to say that he saw her lay the bill down and I turn to him and say "Yes...MY bill!"
   Then she proceeds to say that her manager can look at the video footage to prove it and I say okay. This is when she realized that she screwed up. Why would I wait until the line had shortened to prove that she was wrong unless she was? Oh and then she does the greatest thing in the world! "Just take it. I'll get the money out of my purse."
   B.R.I.L.L.I.A.N.T.
   So not only did she call me a liar, she embarrasses me by acting like the victim and says she'd pull her OWN money out to let me go with what I went into the store to purchase.
   Here is where I start to really lose it. I tell her "No, I don't want you to do that. Just go ahead and let these people pay, and I'll wait right over there so that your manager can look at the video footage."
   She just refuses, trying to look all innocent and make me look like a giant ass in front of a group of complete strangers...just to save face.
   I left for two reasons. One, my husband and kids were in the truck. Two, I knew she was wrong and had the mind to go back into the store to prove it. (My husband talked me out of it). I came back to the truck with no money and a ticket and pack of cigarettes. That's what makes sense. That's what was supposed to happen.
   I have and will not go into that store again. But I use this long, drawn out story to prove my point. People can be mean spirited for no reason at all and instead of saying, "okay, I'll be done in a moment and we'll sort this out," she instead chooses to embarrass me so that I am red-faced and fuming.
   Will people ever change? No, probably not. But I'd like to think that one day, we'll understand that we are in this together and that in order to make the world a better place, we just have to respect one another and not cigarette bash each other.
   My rant here is done.

John Hughes

   Gone are the days of geeky guys with jock straps on their heads and borrowing a pair of girls underpants for 10 minutes.
   I was born in 1978, so I remember the eighties: E.T., Jaws III, Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club...
   These movies always put a smile on my face, but none other than John Hughes films.
   Pretty in Pink is my all time favorite movie. I love how he was able to show the differences in social classes and the epic struggles between the rich and poor and how love conquers all.
   Most romances today consist of cheesy lines and totally absurd situations that don't flavor my movie pallet. In the time of Pretty in Pink I was a child and grew up watching that movie so often I memorized the lines. I know many of you did the same thing...don't judge me. : )
   But come on!!! Didn't you ever dream of a guy like Jake Ryan waiting for you across the street and kissing you over sixteen burning candles? Or the feeling justice seeing Stef (James Spader-Pretty in Pink) finally get his?
   What happened to these characters?
   I think I know...
   John Hughes is no longer here to right wrongs, expose social issues.
   Some Kind of Wonderful is one that's on the top of my list of faves. The Breakfast Club? Who can forget Judd Nelson holding onto that diamond earring and shoving his fist in the air?
   John Hughes took with him a legacy of memorable movies and an ache in our hearts for the days of the eighties.
   So rest in peace Mr. Hughes...Hope you're writing us more stories for the hereafter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8wSwdv-S2k