Nicky Webber's Blog

I'm still working on this using a series of pallet knives and lashings of rich oil paint. Brushes too for foreground details. It's taken time and patience and it will be over two months work when finally completed,

The interesting symbolism in my new oil painting is the pale grey trees at the water's edge. They represent the Roman numerals IX and V which translate into 9 + 5 (oddly relating to the average working day!!) which makes the total 14. I'm not into numbers that much and failed maths at 15 years old and dumped the subject. But numbers have always offered symbolic meaning in history - especially ancient civilisations - another passion of mine. When you add the One and Four in 14 you get the answer 5. Can you guess what the number 5 means?

Transformation is the title of this painting of a local forest - the quiet transition from Summer to Autumn

It was only after four weeks of painting that I stepped back and could see the Roman numerals I had inadvertently painted in the foreground. The symbolic meaning of the number 5 is exactly that "Transformation"

I've taken a series of photos which I'll turn into a reel from day one of painting this piece until it's complete which is likely another week or two away. I want to finish the foreground water with another layer of blue and also deepen the reflection of my roman numeral trees. And a touch or two of final highlights.

I am already distracted wanting to grab my pallet knives again and create another piece but first complete this and show you the final oil painting! Self-discipline is one of many weaknesses!!

If you want to read more about my Author - Artist creative endeavours - read my Blog and Art For Humans tabs.

Enjoy a good weekend!

Nature's Gift balances Abstract with Realism in colour and form

The Concept:

These colourful flowers portray nature’s energy by marrying abstraction and realism in a single artwork. 'Nature's Gift' balances abstract with realism in this surreal bunch of bright flowers seem to climb out of the vase. I wanted to exaggerate nature’s power. So I used exaggerated brushwork for stems and roots bursting from the base. They appear to burst with, life leaping up above the colourful flower heads.

This creates an other-worldly feeling and a reminder that nature ultimately calls the shots. We might fill the planet with madness and mayhem, but in the end nature has its way.

Motivation for this Piece:

Lately I’ve been thinking about how small we are in the timeline of the Earth. Archaeology keeps refining what we know about early humans, and how civilisations rise, change, and disappear. Places like the pyramids of Giza, Stonehenge, Turkey’s Göbekli Tepe and the ancient temples and cities of Angkor Wat in Cambodia are reminders that people have been building, believing, and creating for a very long time while nature keeps weathering, burying, and revealing what it chooses, on its own schedule.

And when nature does reset the landscape through floods, eruptions, droughts, or time itself so much is lost. Language, skills, art, science, technology and the everyday knowledge that makes a culture feel permanent. We rebuild and tell ourselves we’re the first humans, more intelligent and sophisticated than those in the past. But maybe the real lesson is simpler: we’re part of the cycle, not the exception, and nature has the last laugh.

Learn More About my Creative Journey

Find out more about my artwork inside my website as I pursue my other creative forces.

I'll be at the Claudlands Event Centre attending the annual Ages of Pages Book Fair in Hamilton, New Zealand with over 140 other authors and publishers. The event opens this weekend live at 9.30am on Saturday the 2nd and finishes at 4pm on Sunday 3rd of May.

Here's my latest newsletter update for you to find out more about this excellent event for readers and writers and also give you free links to ebooks from other authors and my own book Whisper Island. The FREE Promo of my psychological suspense book lasts until 4th April.

Come along this weekend live and meet the authors. I will also be giving away sample oil paintings to buyers of my books.

This Weekend Live!

I'm a multi-genre writer and will have all my books with me, contemporary, historical, romance, suspense and much more. If you want to check out my paperbacks - come along for a chat. All my books will be on Sale for $20 each - that's NZD so half the price compared to USA! But it's a very expensive trip to fly here for the weekend to collect a paperback!

Come along and enjoy the fun!

Enjoy the weekend with a tribe of avid writers!.

I find myself now wearing two creative hats by writing and painting. My creative inspiration is fired up by both pursuits. Between writing, making art, wrangling social media, celebrating another birthday (yes, another), and managing a small household of dependents who apparently believe dinner is a nightly entitlement!!!

Birthday vibes first.
Mine was celebrated in excellent company at the Tieke Golf Club café on a rainy afternoon last week. Think good friends, excellent service, genuinely tasty food, and an easy, relaxed atmosphere that encouraged plenty of laughter.

Best way to enjoy a birthday at Tieke Golf Club I'm the only one in blue with botanical images and grey hair a dead give away!

Art-world adventures.
At the end of last year, I joined the Cambridge Art Society and April promptly threw me into the deep end in the best possible way. I helped with the Autumn Festival Art Exhibition at the town hall, followed closely by the Passion for Art Trail, where ten artists’ studios and two galleries flung open their doors to welcome art lovers and collectors.

It was a visual feast of paintings, ceramics, sculpture, and all manner of wonderful, soul-stirring things. I found myself churning out social media for the art society at a rate of knots—shining a spotlight on our members as well as talented local and international artists. 

Ages of Pages Book Fair is around the corner at Claudelands Events Centre in Hamilton. Entry is FREE on Saturday 2nd and Sunday 3rd of May from 9.30am to 4pm both days.

There are over 140 authors across a wide range of genre so there’s something to read for everyone. I’ll be there with my books all priced at only $20 (NZD), and will bring along some of my smaller sample paintings to give away FREE to buyers of my books!  In this way I hope to merge my two creative hats into one event!

The home front.
Add to this mix a sick brother, two demanding cats, and a husband who wants dinner every night of the week! What’s that about? Honestly, you’d think between the three of them someone could catch a mouse or two and share.

So yes, it’s been frenetic, creative, and deeply satisfying. If you’re following along as a reader of my books, a lover of art, or both, thank you for being part of this creative ecosystem. Your support genuinely matters.

All the very best until my next time.
Nicky

Inspired by a moment that linked science with the unseen, this painting explores the idea of a greater energy shaping our world.

After listening to a Noble Prize winning Physicist who said the unexplained energy found inside every atom throughout the world “must come from God.” I like to think it is universal energy that guides Nature and life itself.

Golden light forms a divine hand reaching from the sky, while a butterfly carries themes of freedom, hope and uplifted spirit. A blooming tulip tree symbolizes fresh beginnings, the full moon reveals hidden truths, and calm water anchors everything in new life and quiet possibility.

Rich colours and gold accents capture the feeling of a peaceful, enlightened future emerging.

After listening to a Noble Prize winning Physicist who said the unexplained energy found inside every atom “must come from God.”

In the Hands of God

Oil on linen canvas
See more details here.

I've taken up the brushes again after a 15-year break. Back then I worked in acrylics but now it's oils challenging my creative spirit. There's a new Tab Page in the header of this website called "Art For Humans" and I promise there is NO AI or photoshop input at any point in my creative endeavours. What you see is the real me - dabbling, as always, in my next adventure to capture Nature's Creative Energy.

I'm focusing on my first love, no not historical, thriller, or romance fiction! Instead Mother Nature! I love trees. I was born in Tokoroa, New Zealand, surrounded by massive forest. Timberland - even the local pub back then had that same name.

Anyway - Nature, forests and flowers, birdlife and sunshine sustain my flagging spirit so I take every opportunity to walk in native forests. Within a heartbeat the power of being connected to my surroundings soaks into my mind and body, positive energy uplifts my very being and I return home, Smiling on the Inside.

I want my paintings to convey a similar sense of contentment, beautiful light filled forests, dappled grasslands with vibrant sunshine and flowers of bold vivid colours and atmosphere.

The image below is titled, Smiling on the Inside, and is an oil painting I created with an old kitchen spatula. I hardly ever do any baking so decided to put the bendy, rubber head to good use! It has over four layers of paint which took a lot of waiting around for each layer to dry. If you zoom in you can see the vibrant shadow forms of the petals and leaves in the background. I used this imagery to create a sense of positive energy that almost vibrates from the beauty of these flowers and plants.

Nature restores me. It steadies my spirit. It reminds me who I am. My paintings are an attempt to share that feeling— the quiet uplift of a forest path, the shimmer of light across grasslands, the bold, joyful colours of flowers reaching for the sun.

I want each piece to carry a sense of contentment and vitality, a moment of connection to the natural world that stays with you long after you’ve looked away.

Layers of oil paint give the flowers a vibrating quality

Title: Smiling on the Inside by Nicky Webber Writer and Artist

Materials: Oil on NZ sustainable timber board, Framed in Italian designed metallic finish

Size: 600mm X 400mm USA - 23.6" x 15.7" (Framed - Italian designed)

Learn more here.

When writing, I want my characters to be realistic, I'm no fantasist, and need my characters to be as realistic as possible. Recently, over lunch, we chatted about character building and delved into what it takes to create authentic, compelling characters.

1. Introduction:

Thursday's Virgin is a contemporary suspense short story - and here's the first half. If you want to read the whole story check out my content on The Webber Chronicles on Substack. More short stories and most of the chapters of my audio book, The Foster Mother are available there - to read for FREE.

Thursday's Virgin, below, is half of the full story but will give the idea and the suspense theme I weave into most of my work. Hope you enjoy it.

2. Thursday's Virgin - the short contemporary suspense story

Something happened to me last week. I want you to understand. I’ve come into a bit of a windfall, in the hard cash sense. Before you ask, I’m not to telling my husband. NO. I’m keeping this win to myself. I know you’ll argue he has the legal right to his half-share, but he doesn’t deserve a cent.

I’m not Ms Perfect either, but I’ve never really done anything wrong, apart from marrying him. I know what’s right, but I’m not allowing my religious upbringing or misplaced morality to colour my judgement. You’ll see once you’ve read my story. He’s made his bed… and he can die in it. 

It all started about five months ago. I was at work, wasting my life. 

Back then, I glanced across the cramped aisles of our local supermarket, where endless rows of colourful tin cans and soda bottles crowd the shelves to the roof. The flickering strip lights barely cling to the stained ceiling, casting an eerie glow over the cluttered store. I’ve endured the drudgery, working here, for the past four years and every day is the same relentless routine.  

My only indulgence is on Thursday nights. They hold a special significance for me. In this small rural backwater, I’m the star of the night, a magical blend of Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. Memories of my mother’s sweet voice reading those fairy tales are a respite from the usual books she read to us, biblical stories of hellfire and damnation. Now Thursday nights are my secret escape.

My balding boss, Ross, interrupts my reverie as he stands behind the cash register in the empty mini-mart. ‘What's so amusing?’ He tilts his chin and eyes me suspiciously.

‘Nothing,’ I give a nonchalant shrug, fingering the silver crucifix dangling from my neck.

‘Get up to any mischief last night?’ he grins. 

‘Nah. The usual rubbish on television,’ I lie, startled by his question. I briefly dismiss fears he’s aware of my secret double life. No way. No one knows, not Ross or, God forbid, my husband, Frank Marsden.

The two men have been best friends since primary school in Decatur County, Iowa, and that’s how Frank got me the job working for Ross. A shiver, like someone tapping on a keyboard, runs down my spine. Is it possible that I’m close to getting caught out? I draw in a deep breath to calm my anxiety. Neither man is bright, which makes it easier for me to hoodwink them both.

Growing up in a conservative Christian cult constantly reminds me of the consequences of disobedience. My DNA is engrained with anxiety, restricting every breath I take. My devout parents raised me to find solace in scriptures, but beneath a facade of devotion, I remained suffocated by the pressure to conform. 

During my teenage years, I questioned strict attitudes about purity and subservience. Instead, I secretly devoured novels about adventure, forbidden love, and people who challenged social norms. The pages whispered rebellion.

‘Kiera, what’s that you’re reading?’ My father used to scowl, ripping the paperback from my hands.

‘Just an adventure story about dragons and a girl…’

He angrily flicked through the pages and walloped me over the head with it.

One Sunday, I met Erik, who joined our fellowship class. The warmth in his blue eyes held curiosity instead of judgment. We spoke of dreams, stars, and the vastness of the universe. When my parents discovered my inappropriate relationship with him, they locked me in my bedroom and prayed for my salvation. 

Now, fourteen years later, I’m married to a man who savagely beats me at every opportunity. A heavy sigh escapes my lips. How did I get duped into this misery? I reach into an open cardboard box and remove tins of peas and stack them neatly on the empty shelves.

As I inhale, an inner voice sneers at my uneventful existence. Sometimes I’ll splurge on a lottery ticket and escape into dreams of living abroad, sipping glasses of French champagne. Fantasies keep me alive, and occasionally make me laugh out loud, startling customers in the store. 

When Thursday arrives, a thrill surges through me, as I plan for party night. It's an escape from reality. A refreshing elixir with just a hint of freedom and fun mingled together. It’s a fleeting taste of what my life could be.

The first time I nervously stepped into the Spring Falls Bar & Bistro, I only stayed for one drink. I didn’t know anyone, but the exhilaration sparked an obsession—the fantasy of living another life. 

The electrifying escapades of my fake identity brought Rochelle into existence. With every clandestine visit to the bar, Rochelle infused me with a sense of purpose.

I rush home, unpack the secret blonde wig I bought in Atlanta weeks ago, and carefully tuck my dark, curly hair under it. Once satisfied with my transformation, I apply a little makeup while admiring my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Rochelle is born again. 

During the drive to Spring Falls, I morph from Kiera into Rochelle, an easy-going country girl. My excitement is overwhelming as I chant my new name to the beat of music on the car radio and grin at Rochelle in the rearview mirror.

The first few times I drove to Spring Falls, my husband, Frank Marsden, dominated my thoughts. His explanation for his elaborately inked arms tells his family story with a snake curled around the bulging muscles in his right arm and slithering across his shoulder. It struck me as odd his commitment to family intertwined with an evil symbol. Its exposed fangs should’ve been a warning. 

I still can’t figure out why I married this guy, twenty-one years older than me. I wanted an escape from an oppressive family home. Frank promised stability, security—everything I lacked growing up. My religious beliefs supported the ridiculous idea that love would grow out of duty and obligation.

Now I have a standing reservation at the Cedar Motel, conveniently placed within walking distance of the bar. After signing in and collecting the room key, I check my appearance in the tiny bathroom mirror before changing from trainers to sassy heels. 

Dressing conservatively in pale virginal blue, with subtle hints of sensuality, I avoid anything too revealing or attention-grabbing. Even my makeup and jewellery are unpretentious. 

I swirl around the confined space of the room before smoothing out my dress with both hands. Moments later, I head into town under the glow of the streetlights. Elated pleasure suffuses each step during the short walk to the bar. Long before it comes into view, I hear its thumping music. The rhythm beats in time with my heart.

I push through the swing doors. A temporary dance floor is lit up by an old-fashioned mosaic mirrored ball hanging from the centre of the ceiling. It sends flashes of light over the walls and across the timber floor. I grin. Rochelle loves this place.

A long, varnished Redwood bar countertop dominates the room. Shelves packed with bottles of liquor reach to the ceiling behind the bartender. I’ve thought about ordering an exotic cocktail, but I need to keep my wits about me. ‘Alcohol is the devil’s drink,’ I hear my father intone.

People call me Shell, a shortened version of my fake name, Rochelle. It seems appropriate, considering I’ve shed my normal self and traded it for a life of pleasure and excitement. Not quite. It’s only one night a week when my alter-ego delights in breaking out. I have done nothing wrong. Not really wrong. I hold myself accountable with strong morals and still believe in the power of good and God.

While basking in the thrill of living on the edge, I push the darkness of my real life into a tiny corner of my mind. I revel in the attention of men. Some leer at me while others are breathless with excitement. Some quietly enjoy watching me, imagining all the things they could do to me. 

I can easily tell the difference between genuine interest and casual entertainment. I know how to politely refuse advances from predators. Frank is in another category all on his own.

At home, I use survival tactics to please him. With just a word, or often a slap, Marsden commands my attention. After enduring four agonizing years of marriage, I’ve learned how to absorb his fists, block the pain, without a sound.

Two-years ago Marsden smashed me to the ground and broke my arm in a senseless rage. As I sat in the clinic waiting for my name to be called, I gritted my teeth to control the excruciating pain. A lanky doctor pushed up his glasses and raised an eyebrow when I lied about falling off the roof while trying to secure a loose gutter.

‘What about your husband?’ The doctor's blue eyes shone with genuine concern.

I shift uncomfortably, stealing a glance at the closed door to make sure Marsden wasn't listening. ‘Frank was driving his freight truck.’ I lied.

He leaned in closer, his frown deepening. ‘I understand. If you wish to press charges, you can always contact me.’

A ripple of fear slices through me as I turn towards the closed door again and shake my head. But that’s in the past. Things have changed since then.

The music in the bar blares as I laugh and chat with two women I’d met before, who are celebrating a birthday. A married man bought me a drink and attempts to flirt without removing his wedding ring. By ten o’clock, I’d had enough and exit the bar for the short walk back to the motel.

By 8.00am on Friday morning, I arrive back in my quiet hometown. Once I’m through the front door, I strip down, soak in a hot bath, and wash away all traces of Rochelle’s existence. After drying off and changing into old clothes, I brush out my hair and rub cooking oil on the ends to flatten it back into Kiera’s dowdy style.

I study my reflection in the bathroom mirror and Marsden’s tired, beaten-down wife gazes back at me.

What started out as an escape from misery has evolved into something more, a sparkling treasure, a beacon of light pulling me out of the darkness.

In Frank's arms, I found a twisted sense of security—even when his angry hands smashed me in drunken rages. Most times, I deserved it.

The following Thursday, I arrive as the sun sets over the small town. I’m confident the short wig is a perfect disguise as I stroll along the familiar path, leaving Kiera behind, and embrace the exhilarating life of Thursday's virgin.

As I enter the bar, the bustling noise and laughter hits me like a wave, providing a stark contrast to the bitter silence of home. Heads turn toward me, and I guess the halo of mystery and secrecy that surrounds me draws them. 

After settling down at the bar, I order lime and soda. A man with a predatory gaze locks eyes with me, his focus unwavering. I quickly glance away.

A sweet-faced young guy with a bright smile approaches. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

I tilt my head and look at him. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

‘What brings a beautiful girl like you to sit here all by yourself?’ 

‘Just looking for a quiet place to collect my thoughts,’ I hesitate. ‘I'm not really used to being...err… I'm just trying to enjoy some time out.’

He leans in closer, intrigued. ‘Oh? What are you trying to figure out?’

I swallow before muttering, ‘What I’m doing with my life...’ The partial lie tastes sweet on my tongue.

He seems unsurprised. ‘You’re not alone. Most people have those thoughts.’

I give him a shy smile and excuse myself, leaving him with a desire to know more. When I return from the bathroom, the man has gone. I lean over the counter and ask the bartender, ‘The guy who was talking to me earlier... did you see where he went?’

****

3. Final Word: READ THE OTHER HALF ON https://nickynfwebber.substack.com or consider subscribing to my Monthly Newsletter at https://nickywebber.com to get the latest updates and freebies. Here's a short summary of my new book, Whisper Island. Enjoy!

This is a short-story about how our love obsession began over traveling and possibly living in Greece. It's fiction of course! But who knows - great things start with the first step and this is it! Our Secret Escape!

A secret escape from our dull repetitious life was all we needed, and strangely, an idea sparked us both while sipping Whiskey on a Friday night. We laughed and joked, listening to cruisy beats while chatting outside on the timber deck. We needed a plan, a start, to kick off reality. This wasn’t the first time we’d talked about leaving the country.  Eventually we settled on a question so deep you couldn’t see the bottom of reason.

‘If there were no financial or physical constraints then, where would you live?’ 

I was only halfway through my drink. I considered places closer to home – in fact, so close I could drive there in twenty minutes.

‘Think bigger,’ my husband instructed with a grin while pouring his second glass. 

‘Australia?’ I shot back. ‘You can’t get bigger than that in the free world.’

‘Yeah, nah.’ His lips broadened into a smile as he tasted the next mouthful, warming his devoted heart, swirling the glass thoughtfully, ice clinking against the sides. He’s clearly trying to out manoeuvre me in this high stakes reveal. I was keen to hear his secret escape plan.

Pulling a face his mouth erupted into a single word. ‘Spain.’

‘Ahhh yes.’ Instantly the sparkling Mediterranean coastline elbowed its way into my mind. Images of warm, crystal-clear sea water hugging my body as I swam towards the cliffside rocks. Bliss.  

‘How long has it been?’ I frowned fixing my gaze on his.

‘Three years.’ His voice, solemn, as if we were discussing a death in the family.

Silence. Each of us considering the next move.

‘Kefalonia,’ I said with authority. The sound of this magical word showered us in bright sunlight, warm with laughter, and memories of our holiday there with Greek friends.

A heavy sigh escaped from him as he lifted his eyes to stare at me. ‘We could live there.’

I scoffed. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

He shrugged, slightly annoyed. ‘Not enough to make me wasted if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘No.’ I took a mouthful from my almost empty glass, stalling. I need to be careful here. Too much enthusiasm and he’s likely to laugh it off. Not enough passion and he’ll change the topic. I leaned back in the wicker chair, surveyed our surroundings, deep green plagued our New Zealand garden. Lots of rain, long winters, icy Arctic winds contrasted with our conversation about fleeing these Antipodean shores.

‘You had me at Kef.’ 

He laughed out loud. ‘You had me too, numerous times. Do you think it’s something to do with the sunshine?’

I sat up straight, my face deadly serious. ‘Have you noticed how densely populated countries have a hot climate?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You could be onto something.’

‘I am,’ my voice strong, full of determination. ‘How many short Kiwi summers have we got left?’ Before he could respond I continued. ‘We’re in the home-run phase of life so let’s call it ten. Ten summers. That’s all. There are over 300 days of sunlight every year in Greece.’ I couldn’t resist the weather data to add extra punch, expecting him to roll his eyes to the heavens and groan. Instead, his response caught me off guard.

‘It’s a no brainer,’ he chortled.

Could it be true? Our secret escape to Greece awaits!

The very next day we signed up for Greek lessons on our mobile phones and have challenged one another with mispronunciations over breakfast every morning since. 

My inner negative voice is already kicking in. All I hear when I speak mangled Greek are my dark sarcastic words. Is it going to be worth it? Your safer at home.

Learn more about my writing and enjoy other stories on Substack - The Webber Chronicles.