Paula Cappa's Blog - Posts Tagged "mystery"
The Supernatural Power in Dreams
Have you ever had a ghostly cold dream? A nightmare with the chill of death in it? Carl Jung (20th century Swiss psychiatrist) says a dream speaks for itself. Are nightmares telling us something important? Jung believed there is a psychic reality to dreams. He even went so far as to say they carry a supra-luminous level of frequency that exceeds the speed of light. That in itself is frightening.
As dreamers pass into this passage of sleep, they might feel like a heavy dark spot spreading out. This is akin to the fear of losing consciousness. And this fear is so great that—rather than become unconscious—we dream. We create images and action, stories, to maintain our identity. These are the thoughts of Dr. Laz Merlyn, psychiatrist, in Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural. A novel about nightmares, dreaming, and a supra-luminous frequency.
Laz Merlyn is a Jungian therapist. He sees a dream as a dance of alternate energy, an event that is actually a psychic reality taking action in our lives.
Let’s say you dream of a bird. A phoenix, lush with grand feathers and with wings pushing out. Merlyn will tell you that a phoenix, in Jungian theories, symbolizes the human spleen that protects against infection and cleanses the blood. Maybe in normal life, some bacteria or person or event is poised to attack you in some way. Merlyn will tell you that when you wake up, this phoenix will linger over your life. This psychic energy of the phoenix is present, day upon day, redirecting you, watching over. Are you becoming more guarded as the days pass? Suspicious? Cautious? For some people, this frequency goes unnoticed. For others who are alert to it, they are deeply affected.
But, what if you dream of a raging firehawk? A shadowy winged creature with a flaming chest, shedding ash, who captures you in your sleep and drags you into the bottom of an icy sea. This nightmare comes again and again and each night, you go deeper beneath the choking waves as the firehawk grows more fierce. What would Dr. Laz Merlyn say about that?
Merlyn isn’t the cliché handsome type. He has a rather hard face but with kind eyes. His patients find his voice to be tender, like a stream of blue smoke streaming through the air. He might tell you “The flow of psychic dream energy has the power to move inward and outward. In this dream of the firehawk, there is a negative psychic frequency. Likely caused by intense night terrors. What are you afraid of?”
Kip Livingston, an artist who lives alone on Horn Island in a house named Abasteron, dreams of this firehawk. She paints her dreams, bringing them into the physical world for all to see. With Merlyn, Kip explores her fears and the raging firehawk in the opening chapters of Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural.
But the exploration takes a turn, as the firehawk reveals it doesn’t just live in Kip’s dreams.
LOOK INSIDE the book on Amazon.com to experience Kip’s dreaming firehawk.
Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural
As dreamers pass into this passage of sleep, they might feel like a heavy dark spot spreading out. This is akin to the fear of losing consciousness. And this fear is so great that—rather than become unconscious—we dream. We create images and action, stories, to maintain our identity. These are the thoughts of Dr. Laz Merlyn, psychiatrist, in Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural. A novel about nightmares, dreaming, and a supra-luminous frequency.
Laz Merlyn is a Jungian therapist. He sees a dream as a dance of alternate energy, an event that is actually a psychic reality taking action in our lives.
Let’s say you dream of a bird. A phoenix, lush with grand feathers and with wings pushing out. Merlyn will tell you that a phoenix, in Jungian theories, symbolizes the human spleen that protects against infection and cleanses the blood. Maybe in normal life, some bacteria or person or event is poised to attack you in some way. Merlyn will tell you that when you wake up, this phoenix will linger over your life. This psychic energy of the phoenix is present, day upon day, redirecting you, watching over. Are you becoming more guarded as the days pass? Suspicious? Cautious? For some people, this frequency goes unnoticed. For others who are alert to it, they are deeply affected.
But, what if you dream of a raging firehawk? A shadowy winged creature with a flaming chest, shedding ash, who captures you in your sleep and drags you into the bottom of an icy sea. This nightmare comes again and again and each night, you go deeper beneath the choking waves as the firehawk grows more fierce. What would Dr. Laz Merlyn say about that?
Merlyn isn’t the cliché handsome type. He has a rather hard face but with kind eyes. His patients find his voice to be tender, like a stream of blue smoke streaming through the air. He might tell you “The flow of psychic dream energy has the power to move inward and outward. In this dream of the firehawk, there is a negative psychic frequency. Likely caused by intense night terrors. What are you afraid of?”
Kip Livingston, an artist who lives alone on Horn Island in a house named Abasteron, dreams of this firehawk. She paints her dreams, bringing them into the physical world for all to see. With Merlyn, Kip explores her fears and the raging firehawk in the opening chapters of Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural.
But the exploration takes a turn, as the firehawk reveals it doesn’t just live in Kip’s dreams.
LOOK INSIDE the book on Amazon.com to experience Kip’s dreaming firehawk.
Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural
SampleChapters Night Sea Journey
This week I'm offering a sample my writing of Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural. Here's the opening Prologue. A second chapter (with Prologue) is on my blog site at WordPress, along with links to my published short stories.
PROLOGUE
Horn Island, Rhode Island
The owl rises. A wrinkled blue spreads across the Atlantic. Above the brooding waves, winds blow to leave ancient face prints against the salt-caked windows in the house by the sea. Abasteron House is named for the angel who rules the fifth hour after sunset. A watchful creature, Abasteron can flash the air or whisper a note. She is known for her winter walks across the dunes in the tilting sun.
As angels go, Raphael rules the spring, Uriel the summer. Many know Duma as the angel-prince of dreams, blessed with spiky blond hair and shocking green eyes. The perfection of the universe requires these messengers who, on occasion, assume physical bodies or borrow them from nature.
From the rocky shoreline, all can see Abasteron House, a cream-colored wooden structure on a grassy hill. A fringed garden hugs the house bordered with sea lavender abandoned to run wild. Inside, the walls are painted oyster white. High bleached ceilings pitch into arches over the chimney room—named so because of the twin fireplaces set at each end. The wide floors spread with faded Carolina Ash: white wicker sofa, white stuffed chairs, and a bowl of yellow pears on the whitewood table.
In the bedroom, a woman sleeps under an iron headboard scrolled with delicate birds the color of eggshells. D. Kip Livingston clutches her pillow. Her coverlet is askew, bunched to leave a leg exposed, a foot to dangle on the edge. One hand grips a revolver beneath the lace trim of the sheets. Her night-bound eyes flutter.
Duma arrives. A chamber opens.
Pale light creeps over the ocean’s moaning verge. Kip stands on the beach, her ankles buried in spotted locusts. Thick bands of yellow nymphs and boat-shaped males with short horns swarm the shoreline like warriors on attack.
The waves advance. Battalions of quickened snakes shine the surface water. Above the grey sea, Kip sees a dark figure leaking streaks. It’s him. The firehawk.
He flies, full and fast, prowling the hump-backed crests. With a chest full of orange flames, the firehawk hooks his charred wings on a nest of stars. In a hot fit of pride, he races toward her.
A scream jams in her throat.
He hovers above her face, spewing ash, showing off one golden claw. He thinks himself full of beauty. What a plumage he has, all full of bone. The muscles on his neck bulge, lumpy veins galloping with blood. Greedy, his teeth plunge out. The beast lets go of his fire-tongue. From the open mouth, Kip hears his tumultuous heart.
He thinks himself a king.
Black snakes crisscross over Kip’s chest like a cage and propel her into the deepest waves pulsing with ice chunks. She twists and screams, but the high rollers crash over her, filling her mouth with foam. The firehawk soars in triumph. With his hairy ropes, he reels her out to sea like a thrashing trout. Blue arrows, boiling with fierce light, rip open the sky as she fights to keep her head above the freezing water.
A giant black-blue serpent swings up from the inky waves. It spreads its hood, expands its ribs to expose devouring jaws.
# # #
Kip bolted awake.
Shards of ice crashed the floor. She jumped out of the sheets before a chunk hit her. The black-blue serpent shot up from the mattress. His marble eyes darted just as he lunged at her like a sword.
Stunned, shaking, unable to draw a breath, she searched for the revolver under her pillow. Hurry! With slippery hands, her body dripping as if the sea were leaking from her flesh, her feet sliding on the wet floor, she found the gun. Kip tightened her grip on the metal, narrowed her vision into a pinpoint, and with razor-keen aim, she pulled the trigger. The serpent jerked and hit the floor, spurting filmy white liquid in all directions. Again, she pulled trigger, this time releasing a scream that knocked her back against the wall. She sucked in a breath, fists still clenched.
Angel Uriel blew a clean breeze through the open window. Heart calming, refreshed, she rolled her head against the firm plaster wall. Steady. Awake. Safe in Abasteron House. Was it Tuesday? Wednesday?
On the floor, the serpent twitched with spasms. There was no time to lose. She reached into the night table drawer and removed a hatchet. For leverage, she separated her feet, gripped the handle with both hands, raised her arms, and slammed down the hatchet.
What a cruel chop. The head flipped and landed at her feet. Another chop and she separated the tail. Again the hatchet came down. Methodically, Kip joined the tail at the serpent’s head, positioned the middle sections at both ends. It shook violently. With a close of its gleaming fangs, the serpent convulsed and finally lay dead.
Battle won. She gathered sheets soaked with seawater, sand, and slime and dumped the dead snake inside the bundle, then tied it with double knots. The eyelet hem of her nightgown hung heavy. She wrung it out, grabbed the sack, and headed outside.
The Atlantic rolled forth; it reminded her of rhythmic wave trains. How everlasting the waves were, their sine wave patterns a muscular inexhaustible power. Perhaps only God was mightier.
She dragged the sack through the darkness to the far sand dunes and didn’t stop until she reached a wide expanse dotted with sea grass. With claw-like fingers, she dug a deep pit. Sudden winds blew her dark hair into her mouth—the strands tangled between her teeth. Salt stung her tongue.
With a groan, she heaved the sack into the pit. How many times had she buried the serpents? For how many weeks, these wretched dreams, night after night. Months now. Quickly she covered the hole with sand and sat back on her haunches. With a huff, she patted the sand into a hard surface and walked away. No, she wouldn’t look back. What for? The dream was dead and buried now. Until she dreamed again.
Kip walked home along the shore, sea spray on her cheeks. Full morning broke. Sun ablaze, gulls flapped at the chin of sky. Abasteron House appeared small with its evergreen shutters and peaked roof against the big sky. Was that a white crane soaring over the roof? Maybe she’d pick some fresh sea lavender and fill Abasteron House with shades of plum and violet. And she’d let the soft aromas act as a balm for her thoughts.
Kip climbed the hills to the beach path that lead to the house. The flagstones felt warm against the soles of her feet. At the porch, each step gave her pause. That white screen door stood ajar over a foot wide and hung perfectly still. But the hinges squealed as if the wind were batting the door back and forth. Her own shadow shifted. She watched it slip inside the doorway, yet she hadn’t move a single finger. Who’s there?
She licked her thirsty lips, made a step back. Then another step. She grabbed the porch rail, a bad case of the shakes overwhelming her. Tears mounted. She swallowed them back.
Kip whipped herself around to face the sea. Her eyes wandered the soothing blues and greens. She swept her vision across the shoreline. Almost immediately, she spotted the sailor. “Good Morning!” Her voice cracked. She threw a wave even though he hadn’t seen or heard her greeting. Certain she was fully awake now, Kip saw this sailor as her guarantee she was back in the concrete world. Every morning, rain or shine, the man trotted the beach in his navy shorts and tee-shirt. That scoop of white sailor cap tilted perfectly to the right on his head. Some mornings he’d see Kip in the garden and give her a wave as he passed. What a smile. But not today. Today he was trotting up island, east to west, head down.
Oddly, the sky piled high with sudden clouds. Sailboats tossed on the horizon like twisted handkerchiefs. Even the beach seemed to retreat in the face of that ferocious surf heaving up sand and shells and driving the seabirds into fearful circles.
The shimmer off the sea swelled up like an old claw, long and suddenly greyed. Her tears surfaced but did not fall. Kip entered the garden and filled her arms with sea lavender.
Seven thunders rolled up from the sea, but she did not hear them.
________________End of sample________
To read another sample chapter of Night Sea Journey (when Kip meets with her psychiatrist for help with her supernatural dreams) visit my blog site:
http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
Purchase Night Sea Journey on Amazon.com $2.99
http://www.amazon.com/Night-Journey-T...
Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural
PROLOGUE
Horn Island, Rhode Island
The owl rises. A wrinkled blue spreads across the Atlantic. Above the brooding waves, winds blow to leave ancient face prints against the salt-caked windows in the house by the sea. Abasteron House is named for the angel who rules the fifth hour after sunset. A watchful creature, Abasteron can flash the air or whisper a note. She is known for her winter walks across the dunes in the tilting sun.
As angels go, Raphael rules the spring, Uriel the summer. Many know Duma as the angel-prince of dreams, blessed with spiky blond hair and shocking green eyes. The perfection of the universe requires these messengers who, on occasion, assume physical bodies or borrow them from nature.
From the rocky shoreline, all can see Abasteron House, a cream-colored wooden structure on a grassy hill. A fringed garden hugs the house bordered with sea lavender abandoned to run wild. Inside, the walls are painted oyster white. High bleached ceilings pitch into arches over the chimney room—named so because of the twin fireplaces set at each end. The wide floors spread with faded Carolina Ash: white wicker sofa, white stuffed chairs, and a bowl of yellow pears on the whitewood table.
In the bedroom, a woman sleeps under an iron headboard scrolled with delicate birds the color of eggshells. D. Kip Livingston clutches her pillow. Her coverlet is askew, bunched to leave a leg exposed, a foot to dangle on the edge. One hand grips a revolver beneath the lace trim of the sheets. Her night-bound eyes flutter.
Duma arrives. A chamber opens.
Pale light creeps over the ocean’s moaning verge. Kip stands on the beach, her ankles buried in spotted locusts. Thick bands of yellow nymphs and boat-shaped males with short horns swarm the shoreline like warriors on attack.
The waves advance. Battalions of quickened snakes shine the surface water. Above the grey sea, Kip sees a dark figure leaking streaks. It’s him. The firehawk.
He flies, full and fast, prowling the hump-backed crests. With a chest full of orange flames, the firehawk hooks his charred wings on a nest of stars. In a hot fit of pride, he races toward her.
A scream jams in her throat.
He hovers above her face, spewing ash, showing off one golden claw. He thinks himself full of beauty. What a plumage he has, all full of bone. The muscles on his neck bulge, lumpy veins galloping with blood. Greedy, his teeth plunge out. The beast lets go of his fire-tongue. From the open mouth, Kip hears his tumultuous heart.
He thinks himself a king.
Black snakes crisscross over Kip’s chest like a cage and propel her into the deepest waves pulsing with ice chunks. She twists and screams, but the high rollers crash over her, filling her mouth with foam. The firehawk soars in triumph. With his hairy ropes, he reels her out to sea like a thrashing trout. Blue arrows, boiling with fierce light, rip open the sky as she fights to keep her head above the freezing water.
A giant black-blue serpent swings up from the inky waves. It spreads its hood, expands its ribs to expose devouring jaws.
# # #
Kip bolted awake.
Shards of ice crashed the floor. She jumped out of the sheets before a chunk hit her. The black-blue serpent shot up from the mattress. His marble eyes darted just as he lunged at her like a sword.
Stunned, shaking, unable to draw a breath, she searched for the revolver under her pillow. Hurry! With slippery hands, her body dripping as if the sea were leaking from her flesh, her feet sliding on the wet floor, she found the gun. Kip tightened her grip on the metal, narrowed her vision into a pinpoint, and with razor-keen aim, she pulled the trigger. The serpent jerked and hit the floor, spurting filmy white liquid in all directions. Again, she pulled trigger, this time releasing a scream that knocked her back against the wall. She sucked in a breath, fists still clenched.
Angel Uriel blew a clean breeze through the open window. Heart calming, refreshed, she rolled her head against the firm plaster wall. Steady. Awake. Safe in Abasteron House. Was it Tuesday? Wednesday?
On the floor, the serpent twitched with spasms. There was no time to lose. She reached into the night table drawer and removed a hatchet. For leverage, she separated her feet, gripped the handle with both hands, raised her arms, and slammed down the hatchet.
What a cruel chop. The head flipped and landed at her feet. Another chop and she separated the tail. Again the hatchet came down. Methodically, Kip joined the tail at the serpent’s head, positioned the middle sections at both ends. It shook violently. With a close of its gleaming fangs, the serpent convulsed and finally lay dead.
Battle won. She gathered sheets soaked with seawater, sand, and slime and dumped the dead snake inside the bundle, then tied it with double knots. The eyelet hem of her nightgown hung heavy. She wrung it out, grabbed the sack, and headed outside.
The Atlantic rolled forth; it reminded her of rhythmic wave trains. How everlasting the waves were, their sine wave patterns a muscular inexhaustible power. Perhaps only God was mightier.
She dragged the sack through the darkness to the far sand dunes and didn’t stop until she reached a wide expanse dotted with sea grass. With claw-like fingers, she dug a deep pit. Sudden winds blew her dark hair into her mouth—the strands tangled between her teeth. Salt stung her tongue.
With a groan, she heaved the sack into the pit. How many times had she buried the serpents? For how many weeks, these wretched dreams, night after night. Months now. Quickly she covered the hole with sand and sat back on her haunches. With a huff, she patted the sand into a hard surface and walked away. No, she wouldn’t look back. What for? The dream was dead and buried now. Until she dreamed again.
Kip walked home along the shore, sea spray on her cheeks. Full morning broke. Sun ablaze, gulls flapped at the chin of sky. Abasteron House appeared small with its evergreen shutters and peaked roof against the big sky. Was that a white crane soaring over the roof? Maybe she’d pick some fresh sea lavender and fill Abasteron House with shades of plum and violet. And she’d let the soft aromas act as a balm for her thoughts.
Kip climbed the hills to the beach path that lead to the house. The flagstones felt warm against the soles of her feet. At the porch, each step gave her pause. That white screen door stood ajar over a foot wide and hung perfectly still. But the hinges squealed as if the wind were batting the door back and forth. Her own shadow shifted. She watched it slip inside the doorway, yet she hadn’t move a single finger. Who’s there?
She licked her thirsty lips, made a step back. Then another step. She grabbed the porch rail, a bad case of the shakes overwhelming her. Tears mounted. She swallowed them back.
Kip whipped herself around to face the sea. Her eyes wandered the soothing blues and greens. She swept her vision across the shoreline. Almost immediately, she spotted the sailor. “Good Morning!” Her voice cracked. She threw a wave even though he hadn’t seen or heard her greeting. Certain she was fully awake now, Kip saw this sailor as her guarantee she was back in the concrete world. Every morning, rain or shine, the man trotted the beach in his navy shorts and tee-shirt. That scoop of white sailor cap tilted perfectly to the right on his head. Some mornings he’d see Kip in the garden and give her a wave as he passed. What a smile. But not today. Today he was trotting up island, east to west, head down.
Oddly, the sky piled high with sudden clouds. Sailboats tossed on the horizon like twisted handkerchiefs. Even the beach seemed to retreat in the face of that ferocious surf heaving up sand and shells and driving the seabirds into fearful circles.
The shimmer off the sea swelled up like an old claw, long and suddenly greyed. Her tears surfaced but did not fall. Kip entered the garden and filled her arms with sea lavender.
Seven thunders rolled up from the sea, but she did not hear them.
________________End of sample________
To read another sample chapter of Night Sea Journey (when Kip meets with her psychiatrist for help with her supernatural dreams) visit my blog site:
http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
Purchase Night Sea Journey on Amazon.com $2.99
http://www.amazon.com/Night-Journey-T...
Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural
Free on Dec 28 and 29, Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural
Hello again,
To all my friends, readers, and authors, this is my last time for a FREE Ebook offer for Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural. You can download it off Amazon.com on Friday and Saturday (12-28 and 12-29).
The feedback I'm getting is that Night Sea Journey is a really fast read, quite mysterious, and very suspenseful.
The characters:
Kip Livingston, a stunning young artist living alone in Abasteron House on Horn Island. Her dreams drive her to paint, until the nightmares begin when a raging firehawk invades her mind.
Raymond Kera, a priest exiled to Horn Island, falls for the bewitching Kip Livingston and must choose between his vows and his desperate need for human love.
Garcia the Prophet, Raymond's mentor, a rebellious visionary who knows firsthand the alternate consciousness of dream power--and the all-consuming human desires that compel a man to deceit, murder, and evil.
Here are a few reviews.
Amazon customer review:
"Exciting, rather frightening at times. But a must read. A good book, I recommend it..."
"The writing is good, the story is truly engaging, the characters are memorable..." Teresa Kennedy, author of In the Country of No Compassion
From TomeTender Blogspot:
"It kind of reminded me of a movie with Robin Williams, WHAT DREAMS MAY COME, so I’m sure there are those out there that will love this story ..."
Editorial Review from Author Judith Reveal:
"Night Sea Journey is a startling story that captures the reader from the first page, through strong character development and a robust vocabulary. Paula Cappa's characters are three-dimensional - the kind the reader remembers long after the story has been read. Her descriptions of setting bring the story to life in the mind's eye, while her dialogue flawlessly carries the story from one stage to the next. Cappa joins fantasy with religion to both captivate and intrigue. Her narrative draws the reader through the fantasy of dream terrors with disconcerting clarity. This story is a fast read that holds one's attention from beginning to end."
- JUDITH REVEAL, author of The Brownstone
If you really liked the story, I invite you to make a comment on Amazon customer reviews.
And if you like to read short stories (the classics) don't miss my Tuesday's Tale of Terror on my wordpress site:
http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
http://www.amazon.com/Night-Journey-T...
To all my friends, readers, and authors, this is my last time for a FREE Ebook offer for Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural. You can download it off Amazon.com on Friday and Saturday (12-28 and 12-29).
The feedback I'm getting is that Night Sea Journey is a really fast read, quite mysterious, and very suspenseful.
The characters:
Kip Livingston, a stunning young artist living alone in Abasteron House on Horn Island. Her dreams drive her to paint, until the nightmares begin when a raging firehawk invades her mind.
Raymond Kera, a priest exiled to Horn Island, falls for the bewitching Kip Livingston and must choose between his vows and his desperate need for human love.
Garcia the Prophet, Raymond's mentor, a rebellious visionary who knows firsthand the alternate consciousness of dream power--and the all-consuming human desires that compel a man to deceit, murder, and evil.
Here are a few reviews.
Amazon customer review:
"Exciting, rather frightening at times. But a must read. A good book, I recommend it..."
"The writing is good, the story is truly engaging, the characters are memorable..." Teresa Kennedy, author of In the Country of No Compassion
From TomeTender Blogspot:
"It kind of reminded me of a movie with Robin Williams, WHAT DREAMS MAY COME, so I’m sure there are those out there that will love this story ..."
Editorial Review from Author Judith Reveal:
"Night Sea Journey is a startling story that captures the reader from the first page, through strong character development and a robust vocabulary. Paula Cappa's characters are three-dimensional - the kind the reader remembers long after the story has been read. Her descriptions of setting bring the story to life in the mind's eye, while her dialogue flawlessly carries the story from one stage to the next. Cappa joins fantasy with religion to both captivate and intrigue. Her narrative draws the reader through the fantasy of dream terrors with disconcerting clarity. This story is a fast read that holds one's attention from beginning to end."
- JUDITH REVEAL, author of The Brownstone
If you really liked the story, I invite you to make a comment on Amazon customer reviews.
And if you like to read short stories (the classics) don't miss my Tuesday's Tale of Terror on my wordpress site:
http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
http://www.amazon.com/Night-Journey-T...
Defying Death, Bloody Jack Is Back
Ripper fans, are you out there? Ripperologists? Slasher fans? Or just plain murder mystery fans? ...Tuesday's Tale of Terror is the classic short,
Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper by Robert Bloch. We all know Bloch from his novel, Psycho, adapted by Hitchcock for film in 1960.
Read it or watch the vintage film of
Yours truly, Jack the Ripper:
http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper by Robert Bloch. We all know Bloch from his novel, Psycho, adapted by Hitchcock for film in 1960.
Read it or watch the vintage film of
Yours truly, Jack the Ripper:
http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
The Dazzling Darkness, first review
The Dazzling Darkness will launch by end of April. Here is my first pre-launch review.
From best-selling author Jonathan Stone, author of The Cold Truth, Parting Shot, and the upcoming Moving Day (2014)
"In Paula Cappa’s paranormal thriller, The Dazzling Darkness, the spirit of Dan Brown meets the darkest and most somber ruminations of Ralph Waldo Emerson.
While the story ranges fluently across time and across the globe—from ancient Rome to modern Italy to the American Transcendentalists—it is centered in an old cemetery in Concord Massachusetts, and a neighboring family’s struggle with unleashed forces that they cannot understand: the intersection and tension between the seen and the unseen; between the manifest and the spiritual; between love and loss.
In smooth, highly descriptive prose, Cappa explores transcendence and eternity— sending a shiver down your spine all along the way. This is Paula Cappa’s territory, and her slant on them will bedevil your sleep and dreams as it does those of her characters."
From best-selling author Jonathan Stone, author of The Cold Truth, Parting Shot, and the upcoming Moving Day (2014)
"In Paula Cappa’s paranormal thriller, The Dazzling Darkness, the spirit of Dan Brown meets the darkest and most somber ruminations of Ralph Waldo Emerson.
While the story ranges fluently across time and across the globe—from ancient Rome to modern Italy to the American Transcendentalists—it is centered in an old cemetery in Concord Massachusetts, and a neighboring family’s struggle with unleashed forces that they cannot understand: the intersection and tension between the seen and the unseen; between the manifest and the spiritual; between love and loss.
In smooth, highly descriptive prose, Cappa explores transcendence and eternity— sending a shiver down your spine all along the way. This is Paula Cappa’s territory, and her slant on them will bedevil your sleep and dreams as it does those of her characters."
The Dazzling Darkness, Pre-launch Review
The Dazzling Darkness will launch on May 1st. Here's is another pre-launch review by the author of Finding Poe, Leigh M. Lane:
"The Dazzling Darkness is a lovely mesh of mystery and the supernatural that blends myth and reality in a way that is both bittersweet and breathtaking."
The Dazzling Darkness
A secret lies buried beneath the haunting statuary in Old Willow Cemetery. In Concord, Massachusetts, the surrounding woods are alive with the spirits of transcendentalists Emerson, Thoreau, and Alcott. Elias Hatch, the cemetery keeper, is the last of modern-day transcendentalists. Does he know the secret power buried in Old Willow Cemetery? Would he ever reveal it?
Next door to this cemetery is a lovely gabled house. When the Brooke family moves in, the secret of Old Willow strikes. On a cold afternoon in March, five-year-old Henry Brooke does not arrive home from the school bus stop. Antonia Brooke is frantic her child is missing, or—the unspeakable—stolen. Adam Brooke spends a harrowing night searching the Concord woods, fear gripping him as hours pass with no leads.
Finally, a police dog tracks Henry’s scent inside Old Willow Cemetery. Detective Mike Balducci suspects that Elias Hatch knows the truth about what happened to Henry. Balducci knows Hatch’s metaphysical beliefs. What Balducci discovers buried in the cemetery is beyond the grave, beyond apparitions or shadowy drifts rushing through the pine trees.
There are the dazzled faces in the darkened air … and their secret.
"The Dazzling Darkness is a lovely mesh of mystery and the supernatural that blends myth and reality in a way that is both bittersweet and breathtaking."
The Dazzling Darkness
A secret lies buried beneath the haunting statuary in Old Willow Cemetery. In Concord, Massachusetts, the surrounding woods are alive with the spirits of transcendentalists Emerson, Thoreau, and Alcott. Elias Hatch, the cemetery keeper, is the last of modern-day transcendentalists. Does he know the secret power buried in Old Willow Cemetery? Would he ever reveal it?
Next door to this cemetery is a lovely gabled house. When the Brooke family moves in, the secret of Old Willow strikes. On a cold afternoon in March, five-year-old Henry Brooke does not arrive home from the school bus stop. Antonia Brooke is frantic her child is missing, or—the unspeakable—stolen. Adam Brooke spends a harrowing night searching the Concord woods, fear gripping him as hours pass with no leads.
Finally, a police dog tracks Henry’s scent inside Old Willow Cemetery. Detective Mike Balducci suspects that Elias Hatch knows the truth about what happened to Henry. Balducci knows Hatch’s metaphysical beliefs. What Balducci discovers buried in the cemetery is beyond the grave, beyond apparitions or shadowy drifts rushing through the pine trees.
There are the dazzled faces in the darkened air … and their secret.
The Lashing Dangers of Miss Northcott
Who is Miss Northcott? And why is she dangerous? Miss Northcott is not the most famous of characters in fiction, but she a character in a well-known and admired author's short story, and, this author's birth date is May 22 (today's date) in 1859.
Here's a clue: this author's most famous character has the initials S.H., and he wears a very distinguished hat!
Stop by my Reading Fiction blog and meet Miss Northcott in the short story, John Barrington Cowles. Did you guess yet?
http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
Here's a clue: this author's most famous character has the initials S.H., and he wears a very distinguished hat!
Stop by my Reading Fiction blog and meet Miss Northcott in the short story, John Barrington Cowles. Did you guess yet?
http://paulacappa.wordpress.com/
