A.M. Manay's Blog

It is my pleasure today to welcome a fellow member of Rave Reviews Book Club, Balroop Singh. Keep reading to learn about her poetry. Take it away, Balroop!

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Moments of fragrant love that stand frozen in time, of dreams that dare not unfold, of passion that  leets by, of erratic joy that we meet at the crossroads of life, butterflies of time that add color to our dark moments to scare the demons away – I have gathered all of them in this book. Some of them whisper softly to create a magical aura while spring of life sings with them, trying to wipe silent tears. Mother Nature steps in with all her grandeur to breath quiet messages of tranquility.

Each poem would soothe your emotions with élan and add a dash of color to your life. Life – that doesn’t halt for your sad moments; that just floats by. You just need to dive in to soak in myriads of moments to discover how it could ignite positive tones. All the poems in this collection are imaginary but inspired from people around me, some of whom chose to share their frustrations and tremors with me. Sometimes I could read between the lines to pen my thoughts down.


Memories and moments merge here

Today when I return to share

The glow of rainbows

Embers of emotional entreaties

And smoldering debris.

Buying links:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07W57M462


US UK DE FR ES IT NL JP BR CA MX AU IN


Many of my poems are inspired by nature:


This Fall

The fall adds wings to my words

The soft swish of breeze carries them away

Floating down merrily, they smile at me

And dance around with glee.


The ‘J’ of joy, the ‘M’ of melancholy

The ‘S’ of solitude, the ‘T’ of twilight

The ‘H’ of hope, the ‘C’ of calmness

All merge into each other


Enhancing the beauty of brilliant decay

Colors of fall highlight each ray

Of sun to inspire thoughts of twilight

Of forbearance, of change, of new days


At night the frightening wind

Brings sweeping somber thoughts

Of chilly gusts, of lonely nights

A yearning yells at those sights…


To get away, to stay adrift, to disengage

All those memories glide softly back

Into those enclosed caskets

Never shall I excavate.


This fall I am burying them deeper

This fall is more buoyant, more blissful

The resilience rests on my brow

The happiness lives with me now


In my thoughts, in my loving home

In all seasons, even in this fall

It brings sweet memories of moments dear

My words fly now with the same cheer.

© Balroop Singh

About the Author
Balroop Singh, a former teacher and an educationalist always had a passion for writing. She is a poet, a creative non-fiction writer, a relaxed blogger and a doting grandma. She writes about people, emotions and relationships. Her poetry highlights the fact that happiness is not a destination but a chasm to bury agony, anguish, grief, distress and move on! No sea of solitude is so deep that it can drown us. Sometimes aspirations are trampled upon, the boulders of exploitation and discrimination may block your path but those who tread on undeterred are always successful.

When turbulences hit, when shadows of life darken, when they come like unseen robbers, with muffled exterior, when they threaten to shatter your dreams, it is better to break free rather than get sucked by the vortex of emotions.

A self-published author, she is the poet of Sublime Shadows of Life, Emerging From Shadows and Timeless Echoes – her widely acclaimed poetry books. She has also written When Success Eludes, Emotional Truths Of Relationships, Allow Yourself to be a Better Person, her latest poetry book Moments We Love has just been released.

Balroop Singh has always lived through her heart. She is a great nature lover; she loves to watch birds flying home. The sunsets allure her with their varied hues that they lend to the sky. She can spend endless hours listening to the rustling leaves and the sound of waterfalls. The moonlight streaming through her garden, the flowers, the meadows, the butterflies cast a spell on her. She lives in San Ramon, California.

You can visit her blog at: https://balroop2013.wordpress.com

Connecting links: https://twitter.com/BalroopShado

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Emotional-Shadows/151387075057971

https://www.pinterest.com/balroops/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7340810.Balroop_Singh

https://www.amazon.com/Balroop-Singh/e/B00N5QLW8U/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author's tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site. If you'd like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.

Thanks for supporting this author and her work!

Welcome to the Rave Reviews Book Club Book, Blog, and Trailer Block Party here at Better Living Through Fantasy! Please read and comment for a chance to win one of my door prizes.

Today I'll be giving away 

A $10 Amazon gift card plus bookmark

and

Two handmade Hexborn-themed book marks

Number of winners for this stop: 3

I'm thrilled to be sharing with you both of my fantasy series, The November Snow Series and The Hexborn Chronicles. Both of them feature strong heroines with world-changing magical power, complex characters, and villains both dangerous and fascinating. There, however, the similarities end.
Do you like vampires, werewolves, and fairies, with some adult language and the occasional sexual escapade? Then November Snow is your girl. 
Do you prefer a "clean" fantasy featuring kings, wizards, adventure, and a touch of romance? Then the Hexborn series has you covered. 
Are your interests flexible but your demand for quality writing unyielding? Then I invite you to check out both of my magical worlds.

This time of year always feels especially fantastical to me. We have Halloween at the end of the month, plus Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. On Halloween, we put on costumes to assume a new identity, to live in a fantasy for a short while. Reading is another way we inter into a fantasy, inhabiting a world of the author's creation. Within the story, the characters often also assume a new role or identity over the course of the book, transforming into something new. 
In She Dies at the End, my main character November goes from being a carnival fortune teller to a major player in a supernatural civil war. In Hexborn, my protagonist Shiloh goes from being an outcast mountain orphan to a powerful knight and courtier.
Learn more about my characters and their journeys below, and share some of your favorite character transformations in the comments.
Book 1 of The November Snow Series: She Dies at the End


She’s watched her own burial a thousand times. November knows she is doomed, yet when a vampire and fairy from her vision finally appear at her door, it’s almost a relief. Drawn into a supernatural civil war, the psychic teenager fights to protect the innocent from cruel vampire lord Luka, who seeks to steal his father Ilyn’s throne. As betrayals pile up around her, November can’t help forming an unbreakable bond with the grieving Ilyn, who cares for her in her hour of greatest need. When Luka succeeds in getting his hands on the young soothsayer, can November stay alive long enough to foil his plans and escape his clutches? All she knows for sure is . . . she dies at the end.


Mini-excerpt
Perhaps it would be better to lose all hope. It would be easier to just snuff it out, she told herself.

And yet, she was sure that she would have felt Ilyn’s death, even at this distance. She knew that her vision of her own burial was a true seeing. Thousands of times it had come to her, unchanging.

Whatever Luka intended, whatever he might do to her, however broken she might become, she knew that it would be Ilyn who brought her to her next incarnation. This was her fate. She had always known it.

So, rather than snuffing it out, she blew on that ember of her hope until it was a little flame, and then she hid it away where no one could see, where it could keep her warm in the dark. And she prepared herself for battle.

Book 1 of The Hexborn Chronicles: Hexborn


Hexborn. Abomination. Unclean. Young Shiloh knows exactly what she is. Her missing hand and the world at large are ever ready to remind her. Outcast she may be, but her broken body hides great magical power. The king’s servant Silas seeks to use that power to preserve the uneasy peace the kingdom has enjoyed since the end of the Siblings’ War. He'll slit her throat if she threatens it instead. Will Shiloh prove her worth? Or will past sins rise to destroy Shiloh, Silas, and the kingdom of Bryn?


Mini-Excerpt
Shiloh broke off an icicle from the tree behind which she’d taken shelter and yanked off her glove with her teeth, then grabbed the ice in her bare hand. With this makeshift wand, she harnessed the power of water to cast a shield of protection around them, one which allowed the curses from Hatch and Perce to pass through unimpeded. The arrows of the Feralfolk, meanwhile, didn’t simply stop dead upon hitting the ward; they turned and sped back toward their points of origin, betraying those who’d loosed them.

Silas threw his head back and fairly cackled in delight when he realized what she’d done, then continued to cast his curses. The rest of the men stood up now that they had no further need to fear incoming projectiles, save Gil who lay bleeding in the road.

Intrigued? To learn more, check out my website or Amazon author page.

Please also take a look at the rest of the tour, which you can find here. Don't forget to leave a comment below. And happy reading!

Shiloh was, naturally, the first to arrive for Master Jonn’s tutorial. Tentatively, she pushed open the door to find a shabbily cozy office. A fireplace surrounded by a handful of upholstered chairs dominated the room; a desk piled high with books and papers stood opposite the hearth.

A set of open double doors separated the office from a large laboratory. The sight of it stole Shiloh’s breath. Six rows of work benches filled the well-lit space. Potions in progress dominated one bench, bubbling in elaborate contraptions of glass, while other tables bowed beneath the weight of various plants and captive creatures. Some of the plants Shiloh recognized as medicinal. Others appeared to be crop samples afflicted with various blights. A young man—Shiloh assumed him to be Master Jonn—peered down at a cage full of rodents, a water wand in his hand and a magnifying glass held to his eye. She fairly itched to examine it all.

The door behind her creaked, and Shiloh turned to see two other girls enter. One had kind eyes and gave her a hesitant half-smile, but the other kept her nose firmly in the air. They both took chairs near the fire. Shiloh followed their example but kept her distance, choosing a seat across from the pair.

“Ah, we’re all here,” Master Jonn declared, stepping in from the laboratory and closing the doors behind him. “Let’s get started. We have a new student joining us.” He looked down at one of the papers on his desk. “I’m Jonn Gateborn. Shiloh Teethborn, is it?” he asked, his smile warm and welcoming. “Silas mentioned you to me.”

“Yes, Master,” she replied, nodding her head in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ladies?” Master Jonn prompted. “Shall we introduce ourselves?”

“I’m Penn Warwick,” the kind one offered. The other girl said nothing, and a long-suffering expression came over Jonn’s face. Penn broke the awkward silence by adding, “And this is Lady Hana Kramer, Lord Penfield’s eldest daughter.”

Jonn took the seat between Shiloh and Penn. “Now, Shiloh won’t have done the reading for today, but how did the two of you find the new article on Kirshan’s Hex?”

“Is it the one by Fergoss, from the university in Vreeland?” Shiloh asked, eyes brightening.

Jonn smiled. “Why, yes, it is. Have you read it?”

“Yes, Master,” she replied. “My teacher subscribed to their journal. I found it fascinating.” She was overcome with self-consciousness when Penn shot her an impressed look and Hana rolled her eyes.

“I found it dull as dishwater,” Hana declared.

“Of course you did,” Jonn sighed.

“Well, I’m not likely ever to be on a battlefield, am I?” Hana shot back.

“No, not likely, my lady,” Jonn allowed with a shake of his head. “Penn, why don’t you share your thoughts? How did you find his argument on the alternative use of Comfort Potion in a topical formulation?”

Shiloh felt her anxiety dissipate as Penn began to speak in a soft, shy voice, and as Jonn patiently encouraged her to elaborate.

I can do this, Shiloh told herself.

I can do this.

***

Intrigued? Download your copy of Hexborn here.

Shiloh forced herself not to look away when they rode by what was left of the Feralfolk who’d attacked the previous winter. Edmun would have wanted her to face the truth. Their bodies had been mostly consumed by the fireball, but the scorched bones had been left behind. The elders had insisted on mounting the skulls for a warning, and Edmun had gone along with them.
So far, it had been effective. There hadn’t been a raid in eight months. Not so much as a single goat had gone missing. Shiloh wondered if the warning would continue to work once word got around that the pink-haired monster had left town.

“You have to accept what happened,” Edmun had insisted. She’d spent days after her father’s death sitting in the dark, neither eating nor sleeping, neither weeping nor raging. She’d just sat, like a stone. He had insisted on dragging her out into the light. “I know it is terribly painful, my dear poppet, but you simply must.”

It had been so strange, to watch her teacher puttering around her father’s house, doing her chores, fixing her meals, taking care of her as she had him for the previous decade. Watching the frail old man trying his damnedest to prepare her a bath had finally broken through her ice and allowed her to cry.

And she had faced it all, in the end. She had buried her father properly, with all the rites. She had faced the pile of smoldering corpses she’d produced in her paroxysm of grief. She had faced her terrified neighbors at Temple and at market. She had faced Edmun every morning, faced his sad eyes and his declining health. At least Edmun hadn’t been afraid of her, even after the Feralfolk.

She wondered how the people at court would see her. Would she just be a country mouse, poor and ignored by her betters? Would she be taunted for her condition, as she had been in her village? Would they learn to both fear her and need her, as her neighbors had? Would they know what she had done?

Will the king decide he doesn’t want me alive after all?

***

Intrigued? Download your copy of Hexborn here.

Shiloh again stayed behind at the end of tutorial. Master Jonn had been kind enough to set a workbench aside for her in his laboratory. A dozen tiny ceramic pots sat in a neat row, ready to be labeled with the date of treatment and the method to be used.

“I only brought one jar of dead earth with me,” she told the healing master.

“Not to worry. I’ve got barrels,” Jonn assured her. “I make the stewards haul some back from the Vine and the Wood when the summer progress heads that way. They think I’m mad.”

“They’ll eat their words if you ever figure it out,” Shiloh replied. “Edmun told me the Deadlands cover thousands of square miles. If they can be reclaimed . . .”

Jonn winked at her. “If they can be reclaimed, we’ll be heroes. But that is a mighty large ‘if.’”

“Your notes say you’ve already tried Jalar’s Poison Remedy?” she asked.

“Aye, both formulations. And I added fertilizer from the gardeners for good measure. I was able to get sprouts, but they would die within hours. They’d turn crimson and shrivel up black as pitch,” Jonn confirmed. “Now, last month I read that a man named Hadrian, who teaches at the University of Vert in Estany, claims to have invented an all-purpose countercurse. It’s well-described in the literature, but I haven’t been able to get it to work on so much as a child’s hex. Of course, I’m a much stronger potioner than I am a spell caster. Such is the mixed blessing of wielding a water wand.” Jonn eyed her appraisingly. “You, on the other hand, little miss steel wand . . . you should give it a go.”

“Do you have the paper?” she asked eagerly. An all-purpose countercurse could come in quite handy the next time she became ill. And if it really did work on people, who’s to say it might not work on soil, with a few adjustments?

“Sure,” he replied, looking over his messy desk with a touch of despair. “Somewhere. I’ll dig up the translation for you.”

“The original is in Estan?” she asked. Master Jonn nodded. “You can give me original,” she told him.

“You speak Estan?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Brother Edmun taught me. Gernish, too. He insisted it would come in handy. My accent is probably atrocious, but I can read it well enough,” she assured him.

“My, my. Remind me never to underestimate you. Old Edmun gave you the education of a princess,” Jonn replied.

He said it with a smile, but something in his eyes made Shiloh uneasy. It wasn’t until she’d left him, research paper clutched in her hot little hand, that she identified the healer’s look.

Fear. It was fear.

***

Intrigued? Download your copy of Hexborn here.

November slept fitfully, waking up again and again, tangled in her sheets, chased by bad dreams and visions all in a jumble. She felt trapped: trapped in the house whose grounds she hadn’t left once in nearly a month, trapped in her apparent future as a vampire, trapped in this spider web of centuries-old plots spun by cruel strangers. For a few weeks, her infatuation with William had provided enough distraction for her to put out of her mind the fact that someone in this house was working for the enemy and intended her harm.

No longer possessing that luxury, she found that she was afraid. She feared being taken, hurt, forced to help Luka do bad things. She feared failing in the use of her gift to help win this fight. She feared that when death changed her into a new creature, she would become a monster. She feared finding out the identity of the mole and the pain that discovery might cause, but she feared even more continuing to live with the viper in her nest.

It was afternoon before she finally fell asleep, so she was still dozing when dusk came. She was finally up and brushing her teeth, still in her nightgown, when Pine and Greg fairly flew into her room without so much as a knock on the door. That was the first indication that something was seriously wrong. The second sign came when Pine threw her over his shoulder as Greg moved faster than she could see, clearing her room in a whirl and hiding all obvious evidence of her existence. Previously unknown to her was a false wall in the back of her closet. It concealed a cubby into which Greg tossed all her personal belongings.

Pine rushed her out the door with Greg hot on his heels, moving so quickly that November closed her eyes tight with instinctive fear, her breath frozen in her throat. Her fairy bodyguard threw open the door to the linen closet down the hall and revealed a hidden trapdoor in the floor. He then murmured, “We’re going through the chase. Don’t scream,” and dropped dozens of feet straight down, landing lightly on his toes.

***
Intrigued? Download your copy of She Dies at the End here.

“We must exchange blood.”

“I beg your pardon?” she blurted, sliding away from him. “Why would we need to do that?” she asked with alarm, turning to Savita to look for aid.

“So that other vampires and fairies know that he has a claim on you, that you are not prey available to them,” Savita explained gently. “You only need to swallow a drop of his blood, and he will need a sip or two of yours. It will not harm you. Then our people will be able to tell when they meet you that you are bound to William. He is Lord of California, so none of his vassals would dare molest you.”

“They’ll think I’m his pet human?” she asked with some distaste, wrinkling her nose.

“Essentially,” William admitted. “That will make them curious about you, as I have not had a favorite human in many years. They will be even more curious if they find out that you’re living in my home. That simply isn’t done unless a vampire plans to turn his human in short order, and you are too young yet to turn legally. You will be meeting dangerous people who will want your blood and your body and, once they find out about it, your gift. This blood bond will make them at least think twice about trying to take you, as it would be an act of aggression against me. It is well known that I am not a good man to have for an enemy, and I have a powerful family. The blood will also help us to find you if you are ever stolen.”

William leaned in to look into her alarm-widened eyes. “I know it must be horrifying, the thought that people will think of you as property. But it will help protect you. It must be done.”

November nodded. The idea of being seen as someone’s pet was horrifying; the idea of being seen as “free prey” was rather more horrifying. “Will it hurt?”

“A little, as the fangs pierce the skin. Like a needle. After that, no,” Savita assured her.

“Okay,” November said softly after a brief pause. She swallowed. “I’m ready.”

“You really are a brave girl,” William said with a touch of regret. Fangs appeared in his mouth, transforming his features in a rather terrifying fashion and quickening November’s heartbeat. He pricked his finger with one fang and held out his hand. November took a drop of blood on the tip of her finger, braced herself, and licked the crimson liquid from her hand, grimacing with anticipatory disgust.

Her mind was filled to bursting with image upon image, too fast to process or appreciate, one bitten victim after another, a millennium's worth of hunting and feeding and fighting and sex compressed into thirty seconds of whirlwind. She heard someone cry out in pain or pleasure; she couldn’t tell which. It took her a moment to realize the voice was hers. When she opened her eyes, she was on the floor, William, Zinnia, and Savita hovering over her with worried faces.

“That was rather intense,” she said, placing her hand upon her forehead as the struggled to sit up.

“You looked like you were having a seizure of some sort,” Savita said, helping her back onto the couch. “That is not the typical reaction to consuming our blood. What did you see?”

November hesitated. “A lot of feeding. A lot.” She colored again as she remembered what else she'd seen. “I’m alright. It wasn’t painful, just really, ah, vivid.”

William looked like he would blush if he could.

***
Intrigued? Download your copy of She Dies at the End here.

“Were there other marks?” Silas demanded of his sister. The hour was late. Lill already wore her nightcap, but Silas was still hard at work, candles ablaze.

“Aye, poor child,” Lill confirmed. “All over, poor child. Old ones, newer ones that were still red and purple. Bruises, pretty fresh.”

“Could you draw them for me?” he asked, eyes greedy. “The scars, not the bruises.”

“Heavens, no! I wasn’t making a study of them, for the Gods’ sakes! It was all I could do not to burst into tears!”

“Never mind,” he replied, waving a hand. “I can get her maid to do it for me in a few days.”

“Already picked a girl out to spy on her, have you?” Lill asked, arms crossed.

“Of course, I have,” Silas confirmed, as though it were self-evident.

“I know it’s your job, brother, to do such things to protect the king. But that is a good girl. I can tell,” Lill clucked. “You had best be kind to her.”

“I don’t tell you how to do your job, Lill. Pray do not tell me how to do mine,” came his stern reply.

***

Intrigued? Download your copy of Hexborn here.

I'm so happy to welcome to my blog today RRBC and RWISA author Bernard Foong!
Vignettes Parisianby Bernard Foong, AKA Young
Vignettes Parisian is a collection of four short stories about the Author’s past and present experiences in the French City of Love and Romance, commonly known as Paris.

Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve
It is impossible not to have a close encounter with fashion when I am in Paris. Even if I had to wait in the freezing cold for an hour and a half to enter the Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve (Christian Dior Couturier of Dreams)exhibition at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs (Museum of Decorative Arts). My husband, Walter, and I were the lucky few who arrived early before the museum opened its doors. The late arrivals were banished to the back of the queue for a five hours wait before admission was granted.

This spectacular exhibition was worth the wait. Not only were the lives, times, and accomplishments of Christian Dior, one of the great French couturier and his successors well documented,the exquisite fashions and well-thought-out displays were equally impressive.

Since my first visit in 1966 to the French capital of romance, luxury, and fashion, my love for Paris hasnever waned. Before I left sunny Maui, I had designed and made a haute couture gold, silver, and black embossed velvet fleur-de-lis patterned coat to wear during my recent holiday in France. It was at this exhibition that I received compliments for my one-of-a-kind creation.

A stranger approached me at the exhibition to buy the coat off my back because he loved what I wore. Perhaps I should be the next designer to take over the reins for this resplendent Maison – The House of Dior. After all, I am a knowledgeable and seasoned fashion designer who knows every aspect of the international fashion industry.

Shopping In Paris (Then & Now)

I am one of those blessed individuals with a pair of discerning eyes and can detect items I wish to purchase in cramped spaces on my crazy shopping sprees. It was in such a circumstance that Walter and I found ourselves in the middle of the crowded shopping Avenue,des Champs Elysées.

A sole of my shoe had divorced itself from the body of my long-lasting suedes and left me to hobble around Paris like a circus clown with flapping feet. I had to take immediate action to remedy this unanticipated situation before the remainder of my footwear disintegrated onto the wet and soggy ground, while my beloved, sniggered at my fashion malfunction.

I remembered an amusing incident that happened in 1969 at this boulevard. Back then, I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fashion student. Accompanying Moiwas Count Mario, an accomplished Vogue fashion photographer, Andy, my model-looking lover and Valet, and Sammy, a flamboyant young fashionista. The four of us were shopping at the avenue, that drizzly day.

To elongate his petite stature beneath his wide bell-bottom jeans, Sammy wore a pair of eight inches high platform shoes. He also donned a fitted denim jacket over a sassy body-hugging bodysuit. To complete his eccentric ensemble, his dyed cornflower yellow, emerald, and turquoise hair flowed behind him like an exotic mane as our quartet floated down the street.

Eyes turned in our direction as we trotted around Paris in style. Before I realized what had transpired, Sammy was flat on the pavement. Colorful socks bounced around him like raptured pom-poms. The lad had stuffed pairs of rolled-up socks inside his footwear so he could fit his tiny feet into the platforms. He had stumbled on the wet and slippery sidewalk.

Mario, wasted no time whipping out his camera to capture this unanticipated fashion faux pas, while Andy and I looked on in shock.

As if modeling for a Vogue fashion shoot, the quick-witted Sam posed this way and that on the wet thoroughfare while the photographer clicked away at the gaffe. A pedestrian circle had formed in the middle of Avenue des Champs Elysées to witness this “fashion happening.” Advertently, our friend had transformed an embarrassing situation into a photo-opt as the applauding crowd showered the boy with accolades. By the time Sammy got on his feet, he had saved his face with poise and grace.

The Magical Power of The Written Word

“Why are there beds located at different corners of the bookstore?”I asked Monsieur Mercier, an assistant at the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.

“The beds are available for writers to stay a night in Paris for free,” the man responded before he resumed,“ Are you a writer? Do you intend to stay the night?”

Surprised by the man’s inquiries, I evinced, “I am a writer. But no thank you to the lodging offer.”

“What genre of books do you write, Monsieur?” Mercier queried.

“I’m an autobiographer,”I replied.“Because of its controversial and provocative contents, my books are often classified under the Erotica genre.”

The bookseller questioned, “What are the titles of your books, and what is the author’s name?”

“A HAREM BOY’S SAGA; A MEMOIR BY YOUNG. It’s a five-book series,”I declared.

“I believe we have your books in the store. Are the titles: INITIATION, UNBRIDLED, DEBAUCHERY, TURPITUDE, and METANOIA?”he promulgated.

I nodded, delighted by his information.

The Frenchman led me through a series of narrow pathways covered with volumes and pamphlets of the written word. When he finally extracted five volumes of my autobiography from a shelf,my heart nearly leaped out of my chest.

“I read the series. What a compelling teenage life you’ve led. I wish my school had a secret fraternity program like yours,”the teller quipped smilingly.

He recommenced,“Our store is a focal point of English literature in Paris. Anais Nin, Henry Miller, and Richard Wright are frequent visitors. We also host literary activities, like poetry readings, writers’ meetings, book readings, writing festivals, literature festivals, photography workshops, writing groups, and Sunday tea.

“Ms. Sylvia Whitman, the owner, might invite you for a book reading at our store.”

“That will be splendid. Unfortunately, my husband and I are in Paris for a short period. Maybe we can arrange a book reading and signing session when we are in Paris again,”I proposed.

Monsieur Mercier and I had exchanged contact information before I left the Shakespeare & Company bookshop. Hopefully, during my next visit to Paree, I will get to meet Madam Sylvia Whitman with a book reading and signing gig in place.

S.O.W. and R.E.A.P.

Over the years, I have been asked by many, “Why do you love Paris so much?” My reply is always the same – S.O.W.

Although the Parisian cityscape has changed over the years, these three alphabets continue to shadow my existence whenever I am in or out of Paris. S.O.W.is also a reason Walter and I chose France as our home away from home.

In the autumn of 1966, when the Simorgh(one of my Arab patriarch’s private jet) touched down in Charles de Gaulle airport, I had contracted the romance bug. Back then, the ebullient Moi, an inquisitive teenager with a quest for adventure, was whisked to the Paris Ritz Carlton in a luxurious Bentley by my host, Prince P. I had fallen head-over-heels in love and in awe with both the prince, Andy, my then chaperone and Valet, and Paris, the city of romance. That was before our entourage visited the haute couture fashion Houses of Chanel, Dior, Ungaro, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Patou, and the fancy eateries, such as Café de Flore, La Belle Époque, Maxim’s, and last but by no means least, Le Folies Bergers. Back then, these infamous Parisian establishments were places to go, to see and be seen. Nowadays, they are tourist attractions.

Through the subsequent years, I had accompanied many princes, princesses, sheiks, sheikas, and their aristocratic Arabian entourages to the French capital. Most significantly, this city of love and romance had taught me the art of Seduction(S), Originality (O), and Wit (W).Some may say that wittiness is a congenital trait, but I purport it as a learned art of human relationships. Whatever definition one chooses to use, I had returned to this electrifying metropolis of S.O.W.; where I had sown many a wild oat. Now, with my beloved husband in tow, I’m here to R.E.A.P.its rewards.

“What the hell is R.E.A.P.?” you ask.

I will explain:

R– Romancecontinues to exist in this alluring Capital of Love; even amid an influx of foreign refugees and political upheavals. Another series of stories, I will narrate another time.

E– Elegancein this sordid city of high culture is a trait Walter and I find irresistibly seductive.

A– Authenticityis historicity in this Center of Romance. And I am not referring to the faux reproduction of the Las Vegas ‘Paris’ in Nevada, United States of America.

P– Parisequals Sophistication, Originality, Wit, Romance, Elegance, and Authenticity.But last and by no means least, this French capital is where Perfectionreigns supreme.

PARIS – Mon Paree!

***

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It is my great pleasure today to welcome to my blog Ron Yates as part of the Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour. He will really draw you in. Enjoy!

Burning Out in Tokyo 
By Ronald E. Yates

Clayton Brandt stood just behind the glass doors of the Ministry of International Trade and Industry
building waiting for a let-up in the storm that pummeled the hot Tokyo pavement. Wisps of vapor rose into the air as the rain hit the warm ground.

He searched the eight-lane boulevard in front of the MITI building for an empty taxi. He knew it could be a long wait before an empty cab came down Sakurada-Dori. Thousands of bureaucrats glutted Tokyo's Kasumigaseki district, and whenever it rained, it seemed like all of them wanted a taxi.

"Son of a bitch!" he said, his words echoing through the lobby. Two middle-aged Japanese bureaucrats standing nearby looked over at the tall foreigner. They understoodthat English phrase.

Clayton grinned. "Ame-ga futte imasu," he said.

The two men looked at one another and then back at Clayton as if to say: "Yes, we can see it is raining. But is that any excuse for such a rude public outburst?"

Clayton sighed, opened his umbrella, and stepped out into the downpour. He turned right and hurried through the governmental heartland of Japan, maneuvering his 6-foot, 3-inch frame through the crowded sidewalk glutted with black and gray umbrellas. Sometimes the edge of an umbrella held by a much shorter Japanese man or woman slashed at his throat or slapped against his face. Whenever it rained, and the umbrellas came out, Clayton always felt Gulliveresque—like a giant trapped in a forest of undulating toadstools.

He looked up at the leaden April sky. The rain had drenched Tokyo for the past four days, covering the ground with a pink and white patina of delicate sakura blossoms. A slow rumble of thunder curled between the squat granite structures of Kasumigaseki. Clayton looked at his watch. It was four-thirty and the evening traffic was already crawling. He had hoped to get his story written and filed by six o'clock, but the briefing about Japan’s angry reaction to Washington’s decision to bar the U.S. government’s purchase of Japanese supercomputers had taken longer than usual.

The sky rumbled again, and bolts of lightning streaked overhead. A taxi pulled up outside the Ministry of Health and Welfare and was disgorging three Japanese bureaucrats in dark blue suits. Clayton closed his umbrella and dashed for the cab splashing through rivulets of water as he ran. The three men had barely climbed out before Clayton bolted past them and into the rear seat. He gave the driver his destination, closed his eyes, and rested his head on the seat back as the taxi inched its way back into the gridlock.

Every so often, his eyes opened just long enough to take in the somber Tokyo landscape. The perpetually gray skies of Tokyo didn’t do his already sepulchral spirit any good. In fact, very little seemed to buoy his disposition these days. He couldn't help it. He felt depressed and probably a bit too sorry for himself. A few hours before the MITI briefing, he had suffered through another of those telephone "chats" with Max, the foreign editor of Global News Service in London about expenses and the need to cut back on costs.

"O.K., O.K. Max," Clayton had sighed bleakly into the phone. "I get the picture."

The exchange ended with Max suggesting that Clayton not be such a "cowboy." A "cowboy?" Why? Just because he was from Oxford, Kansas and not Oxford, England? It wasn't easy working for a bunch of Brits when you sounded more like Garth Brooks than Sir Laurence Olivier. But he knew what Max meant.

Clayton was an iconoclast in a profession that increasingly rewarded conformity rather than individualism. Newspapers today all looked alike, loaded with the same predictable stories about the same predictable events. It was rubber-stamp journalism practiced by rubber-stamp editors who worked for rubber-stamp publishers who worked for boards of directors who wanted twenty percent operating profit margins above all else—quality journalism be damned.

He went over the notes he had hurriedly scribbled during the MITI briefing, searching for the lead of his story. His pen scratched heavy lines under the words "ill-conceived" and "studying our response." Then he stuffed the notebook back into his bag.

“It's over,” Clayton thought to himself as he watched the snarl of cars and trucks crawl along Uchibori-Dori through Kokyo-Gaien, the large plaza that fronted the walled Imperial Palace. It was as if today he had been forced finally to confront the inevitable mortality of his professional career; or at least of his particular brand of journalism. He was writing the same boring stories over and over again. Where was the challenge? The sense of accomplishment?

Clayton exhaled and gazed out the taxi window at the striated, ashen facades of drenched buildings. They reminded him of the mascara-smudged faces of women weeping at a rainy graveside.

He closed his eyes and nudged his mind away from the depressing Tokyo landscape. Soon it was obediently shuffling through old images of another, more beguiling Asia. It was an Asia of genial evenings spent beneath traveler palms; of graceful, colonial-era hotels in Singapore and Malaysia with their chalky plaster facades and their broad verandahs peppered with rattan settees and peacock chairs; of slowly turning teakwood paddle fans that moved the heavy night air with just enough authority to create a light breeze, but not enough to obliterate the sweet scent of evening jasmine. THAT was the Asia he missed; the Orient of the past.

Yes, it was ending. Clayton could feel it. It had been a good run . . . A good career. But now the journey was ending, like a train that had roared through the night and was now pulling into its last station. How many times had he almost gotten off only to be lured back on by the promise of what lay ahead at the next stop? How many times had he been disappointed by that decision? How many times had he been rewarded? At first, the rewards outweighed the disappointments, but in recent years, as he had grown older, the regrets seemed to have gained a definite edge.

For one thing, the passengers kept changing. And the conductors. And the engineers. But what did he expect? Wasn't that the way the world worked? What was it that Tennyson had written: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new?"

Clayton shuddered. Was he the old order? Should he be yielding? Was he burned out?

Maybe he was becoming the old order, Clayton thought. But he wasn't burned out just yet. And if there was any yielding to do, he wanted it on his own terms. The trouble was, the gulf of time between his past glories and the imminence of the callow, computer savvy handlers in the home office who controlled his destiny was becoming almost unbridgeable.



Most of his career predated cell phones and computers. For the computer literates at Global, his life's work might as well be stored on some remote database. As it was, he existed only in yellowing newspaper clips, aging telexes, and letters of commendation that were kept in his personal file back in London. And nobody bothered to look at that stuff anymore.

It made no difference, Clayton thought. In the mutable, evanescent province that modern journalism had become, it was ancient history. Hell, HE was ancient history. He was like a piece of old journalistic parchment—readable, but, unlike a computer, much less utilitarian.

What Clayton needed was another journalistic rush . . . A story he could get hold of and play like a newly discovered Mozart piano concerto. He needed something . . . Not to satisfy the yuppies back at Global, but to give him a reason to get back on the train and to leave the station again.

The taxi slewed to a stoplike a wooden bathhouse sandal skidding along a wet tile floor. Clayton looked up. They were in front of the Kawabata Building.

"Kawabata Biru, desu," the driver announced.

Clayton fumbled in his pocket, handed the driver a one thousand yen note, and waited for his change. Then he bolted through the swirling Tokyo rain and put his shoulder against the massive glass and steel doors of the Kawabata Building. Unlike most of Tokyo's modern structures, the Kawabata Building didn't have sleek automatic glass doors that hissed serpent-like and opened automatically at the approach of a human being. It was a pre-war relic—an architectural throw-back with cracked marble floors and a fading art deco interior that had somehow survived the allied bombings.

The building's deteriorating facade, which was the color of dead autumn leaves, seemed to glower at the world—like the rumpled brow of an angry old man. But the tumble-down building had an undeniable individuality in a country that too often prized sameness, and that was the reason Clayton liked it and had refused an offer to move into one of the new glass and steel "smart buildings" that soared over Tokyo's Otemachi district.

He paused to talk for a moment with the old woman who operated the small grocery and newsstand tucked away in the corner of the lobby. From his many conversations with her, Clayton had learned that the old woman had operated her little concession since 1938 and knew the building's history better than anybody.

She smiled as Clayton's towering frame bent toward her in one of those peculiar half bows that Japanese make when they are in a hurry. Japanese could do it with a certain grace; but not Clayton. When this big foreigner bowed, he always looked like he was on the verge of crashing to the ground like a gingko tree struck by lightning. Nevertheless, she liked this gaijin. Ordinarily, she merely tolerated foreigners, but this one had a solitary charm. He was big, but not threatening; assertive, but not arrogant.

"So, Oba-san, Genki datta?" Clayton asked, combining the Japanese honorific for “grandmother” with the less formal interrogative for "how are you?"

"Genki-yo," the old woman replied. Clayton picked up a package of Pocky chocolates and placed a one hundred yen coin in the old woman's hand.

"Sayonara,” Clayton said as he turned and scuttled toward the bank of elevators.

"Sonna ni hatarakanai ho ga ii desu!" the old woman called after him.

Clayton smiled and nodded over his shoulder. The old woman was right. He was working too hard, and where was it getting him? Back on a train to oblivion?

“Oh, get over it,”Clayton thought as the elevator door closed. “You’ve got a story to write. Feel sorry for yourself AFTER you make your friggin’ deadline! Besides, what else do you know how to do, you old hack! Burning out is not an option.”

The End

***

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Ron Yates's RWISA Author Page