Category: Writing

THE KEEP

On By Annika PerryIn Hedingham Castle, History, Norman Keep, Travel, Travels, walking, Writing115 Comments

What better way to dispel the gloom and weariness of a long winter than visiting a 900-year-old outstanding Norman castle and its beautiful idyllic grounds on a sunny Sunday in February!?

The imposing Hedingham Castle is visible from miles around, towering above the quaint village, the stone stark edifice both daunting and majestic.

Following the Norman invasion of England, the majority of the Anglo-Saxon lands were taken over. The lands of Hedingham, North-East Essex, England were given to Aubrey de Vere I by William the Conqueror in 1080 in recognition of the knight’s fierce valour and loyalty. The family were zealous crusaders! The original castle was built of timber in the traditional motte and bailey style however Aubrey de Vere II ordered this to be torn down. It was replaced in 1140 by the building of the remarkable Norman castle and as the family were extremely rich they could afford to face the whole building in stone which was unusual for the time! As one of the great Norman castles Hedingham Castle hosted many royal visitors including Henry VII, Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth I (probably en route to Gosfield Hall, read more on my post here)!

The de Vere family became powerful and influential members of the royal court, many of its ancestors holding important positions within the royal circle, including that of Lord Chamberlain to the monarch. Furthermore, they provided vital military force in their own right and became ennobled when granted the title Earl of Oxford.

Hedingham Castle, a key military stronghold, is built on a hill which gave it an excellent defensive position. A deep moat runs around the castle and in Norman times the area would have been kept clear to ensure visibility of approaching enemies from miles away. As its defensive significance waned in the eighteenth-century trees were planted to create soft woodland witnessed today on the long moat banks carpeted by snowdrops in February and these are still popular in the 2020s.

The original point of entry onto the castle grounds would have been a wooden drawbridge however this was replaced in 1496 with a Tudor bridge. On the grounds just outside this brick bridge a new owner of the castle, Sir William Ashhurst (a banker and politician) ordered the building of the Queen Anne House in 1719 and this still exists and it overlooks the lakes and landscaped gardens. The house replaced the 1498 buildings which included barns, stalls, granaries and storehouses.

The large green expanse surrounding the castle is known as the tilting lawn and here the knights would practice their fighting skills as well as hold regular jousting events. Also, archery and other battle skills were honed and displayed here. Nowadays, throughout the summer, there are mock traditional jousting festivals replicating the activities of the medieval knights – the power of the horses and the ability of the ‘knights’ are truly awe-inspiring.

In the seventeenth century, the castle became superfluous as a defensive building and it was quickly falling into a state of disrepair. As a result in 1600 the 17th Earl of Oxford demanded that the majority of the castle be pulled down and what is left today is the main keep. This keep is one of the most impressive keeps in the country; another famous one is at the Tower of London.

The keep is neck-achingly high and standing below it one can barely see the top 37 metres / 110 feet above. The walls are incredibly thick and strong at nearly 4 metres / 12 feet wide. This was a castle and keep built to keep the enemy out and its nobles, knights and families safe!

On the lowest level of the castle were the dungeon and storage. A stone staircase from outside leads onto the ground floor of the castle and here, on the garrison floor, the soldiers would have been sequestered. The small slits of windows surrounding the room let in just enough light and were wide enough for archers to shoot out at approaching enemies but small enough to make sure that no missiles entered the keep.

A garderobe (primitive toilet) is housed in one corner of the garrison floor, and is mostly a seat with a long open drop to the outside!

The beautiful mysterious staircase runs within the walls up to the other levels of the keep. The original stone steps were replaced by brick in the fifteenth century and the next floor leads to the stunning banqueting hall.

The hall is one of the finest domestic interiors still fully intact. It is a splendid room and towering across its length is an awe-inspiring breathtaking arch. The arch is the largest existing Norman one in England at 8.5 metres / 28 feet wide and 6 metres /20 feet high. The room would have been the headquarters for the Earl of Oxford; here the Earl lived with his family and from here the castle and estate were administered. The walls would have been covered by rich tapestries and rugs. The vast space would have been kept warm by the giant fireplace with its distinctive elaborate double chevron patterns renowned in Norman times – carvings seen throughout the castle.

Compared to the rich and luxurious carvings and wall hangings, the furniture would have been simple, with trestle tables, benches and wooden chests while rushes covered the floor.

Medieval helmets!
Goose or swan feathered quill in ink pot.

The diet of the time was based heavily on game such as deer and pheasant while the diners were entertained from the minstrel’s gallery above.

The ever-narrowing inner staircase leads to the minstrel’s gallery, a haunting corridor tunnelled inside the thick castle walls and running all around the banqueting hall. From here the travelling musicians, jesters and magicians would perform their craft, clearly visible from below.

The Minstrel’s Gallery
A typical medieval banquet menu!
A explanation of Medieval Money!

The top level of the keep was the dormitory section of the castle and more simplistic in its decor and layout.

It is time to exit through the magnificent double chevron-carved arched double doors of the castle. These doors date from the 1870s and were originally from the Blue Boar, a local pub in the village.

The main double-door entrance onto the tilting lawn

After a memorable morning of exploration, one becomes fully immersed in the incredible history of Hedingham Castle. A castle which was twice successfully besieged for short periods, once by King John in 1216 and a year later by the future King Louis XV11. A castle whose owner, Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, is strongly rumoured to be the true writer of Shakespeare’s work (if interested read more here). A castle filled with the aura of its extraordinary past.

The dovecote which was built 1720

Stepping out into the sunshine was that the sound of battle? The voices of medieval folk on the tilting lawns? With a head full of facts and figures, with imagination over-heating on stories from the past, a refreshing stroll of the grounds beckoned. A time to stop and admire the snowdrops, the beautiful gardens and the lakes. Near one lake stands a dovecote from 1720 whose 460 nest boxes supplied meat and eggs for the family.

A sense of scale to the castle – I’m waving hello!
A breather after a fun time stepping back 900 years!

The twentieth century saw Hedingham Castle fall back into the fold of the de Vere family. Its new owners, the Lindsays, are part of the famous family through inheritance. Through their hard work, the castle and its grounds are once again part of the community through its open days of jousting, car shows and open-air theatre as well as being a popular place for school educational visits. Furthermore, it is a unique and memorable location for weddings!

NOTE: Post, writing and all photos ©Annika Perry, February 2023

MISPLACED DREAMS

On By Annika PerryIn #books, Books, short story, Writing100 Comments

It’s that time of year again! To reflect on the previous twelve months and especially in terms of books!

One blogger in particular sums up her reading with a creative and unique approach; namely, a short story using some of the titles of the books she’s read the year before. (You can read her wonderful short story A Walk in the Wood, Book by Book on her blog ROUGHWIGHTING) Many thanks, Pam for inspiring me to write the story below which features the titles of my top twenty of the eighty books I read in 2022.

Enjoy and see how many titles you can spot! A full list is at the end of the story.

MISPLACED DREAMS

On the island of missing trees, the grief songs resonated in the absence of the light through the leaves. Songs which spun through the air in the secret language of lost dreams; when the world of sleep took on a life of its own across the four winds of the continents and set forth into the wilderness seeking their beloved recipients.

Abigail considered herself to be one of many perfectly ordinary people until the day she joined the puzzle women. Here she realised she was uniquely placed to help others, to reconcile dreams with their owners. Many claimed she lived in cloud cuckoo land however she knew in her heart she must try and in the process find the dreams waiting for her.

It was impossible to forget the day she met him. There were so many funny things about Norman Foreman after all; a congenial chap with a triangular beard bustling down his chest, the white a comfortable padding upon his generous stomach.

“Here’s the reading list, to get you started,” he’d uttered as they sat on the bench that first meeting. The ducks waddled by the river, ignoring the bread thrown to them.

Abigail had taken the list and in that second of handover it quadruped in size and she almost lost it in the sudden gust of wind.

“I’ll do it,” she nervously promised this unusual man.

On the way home the girl at the back of the bus tried to peer over her shoulder, gasping at the impossible dreams on one side of the page, the never-ending list of names on the other. She might very well gasp in wonder, Abigail thought. She too was flummoxed. How was it possible to unite the two?

“I wish you were here,” Abigail muttered to herself in the evenings, resting in the favourite well-worn armchair, the armrests sunk in the middle disconsolately. Any energy on their part to remain puffed up long since abandoned following the passing of its regular occupant, her dear William. It was nearly fourteen years ago but still she talked to him every day.

“I’m coming home,” she reassured him. “I’m coming home.”

“Never forget the forty rules of love, my darling,” he used to remind her every morning as Radio 3 and its classical music played softly. They’d written their own rules for fun on a napkin in the local Italian restaurant on their second date. The day had forever changed their lives, love bound them into infinity.

The writing was now faded, the white of the tissue a dour brown yet certain words were legible. She’d framed it as a 20th wedding anniversary present. William died ten months later.

The napkin had become an ideal ornament of remembrance at the place of their first outing as an engaged couple. The unique museum of ordinary people struck a chord with them both and they were touched by how everyday objects of deceased loved ones were displayed with tenderness and thoughtfulness. The everyday items in the museum ensuring that the extraordinary of every life lived on. Her precious napkin was now an exhibit of its own.

Oh, how she missed her treasured hubby, how she ached to see him again and every morning the way home gets longer and longer, she thought wistfully. The way home to seeing him again seemed insurmountable.

Grief, the absolute abyss of sorrow swallowed her up, her vocal chords unused to speaking, she’d become a dictionary of lost words. Until the day she discovered the mad, insane yet incredible project.

She’d help everyone she could to be reunited with their dreams and perhaps one of the others would find hers. In the process she would find herself again and the refrain of ‘the rest of me, the rest of me’ rang in her mind.

She’d wandered alone for so long!

Years after their first talk she met Norman again and he made her the new leader of the puzzle women. To the backdrop of the murmur of bees in Glenn Gardens Abigail finally declared her longing to Norman – to dream of William every night for the rest of her life. To be reunited with him for eternity in the living and dead.

“It is quite possible,” he’d confirmed as he chewed the remains of the beef sandwich, the crumbs trailing down the white-bearded mass.

One night months later she turned off the Mozart CD that she’d been listening to whilst working away. Mozart! One of William’s favourites and how they had dreamed of going to Vienna. It was not to be.

Abigail put the massive sheaf of papers aside and stepped away from her overflowing desk. The buzzing of the computer faded with one last sighing whine and became silent. The house was quiet. Perfectly still.

Sleep, once again, Abigail fell into her dreamless sleep, the darkness overwhelming until the silence was broken by music from the secret piano. Overwhelmed she listened in bliss before William stepped forth from the piano and bowed to her. At last, her wish had been granted and they were finally reunited!

©Annika Perry, January 2023

Here are the books with links to them in chronological order as they appear in Misplaced Dreams.

The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak

Grief Songs by Liz Gauffreau My Review of Grief Songs

The Light Through the Leaves by Glendy Vanderah

The Four Winds by Kristin Hannah

Perfectly Ordinary People by Nick Alexander

The Puzzle Women by Anna Ellory

Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr

Impossible to Forget by Imogen Clark

The Funny Things about Norman Foreman by Julietta Henderson

The Reading List by Sara Nisha Adams

The Girl at the Back of the Bus by Suzette D. Harrison

wish you were here by Jodi Picoult

Coming Home by Rosamunde Pilcher

The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak

The Museum of Ordinary People by Mike Gayle

The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams

the rest of me by Katie Marsh

And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer by Fredrik Backman

The Murmur of Bees by Sofia Segovia

The Secret Piano by Zhu Xiao-Mei

As I mentioned every New Year is a treat for all book lovers here on WordPress as the community shares some of their best reads from the previous year. Here are just a few posts I have come across. Please let me know if you have written a post featuring your books of 2022 or have enjoyed some other ones!

Jan Sikes

Dave Astor on Literature

Books and Bakes

Book Club Mom

Mick Canning

Darlene Foster’s Blog

Myths of the Mirror

Finally, to view all the books I read in 2022 as part of the Goodreads Reading Challenge please click here.

FIRST SNOWFLAKE

On By Annika PerryIn Creative Writing, Snow, Writing105 Comments
"Giant fir trees heavily draped with snow, towering birches also snow laden. The only colour is that of the yellow and blue of the Swedish flag hanging from the corner of one of the summer houses. A caption on the photo read Nothing can dim the light which shines within by Maya Angelou."

No one saw my descent that day.

In the gloom of an April afternoon, I twirled and danced my way to the ground. Through the windows of the houses, I spied people engrossed in their books, not even pausing for a second to look up at the wonder of I!

The first snowflake of the day!

So many before had vanished in a second, a small damp mark the only sign of their existence. So, that is my fate! A dazzling display for myself alone and then oblivion. As I fell through the sky, a sudden chill snapped at my points, and the atoms within the air seemed to creak and crackle. My form, utterly unique to me alone, became bold, and in amazement, I neared terra firma. With a final wispy winding whirl, I landed safely upon the soft moss of the forest.

The first! The first snowflake laying the foundations for all those to follow.

The transformation was underway!

©Annika Perry, January 2023

*****************

The scene shown in the photo above followed the rapid and unexpected snowfall in April 2022 while staying in the ‘summer houses’ deep in the forest a two-hour drive north of Gothenburg, Sweden.

Within a few hours, without moving an inch, it was as if I had travelled through the seasons; to a world bewitched. The giant fir trees became ethereal as they were decked in their white gowns, the trees dominating the landscape.

Wishing you all a blessed and happy New Year, filled with creativity and an opportunity to fulfill your dreams.

“Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), From Ring out, wild bells in In Memoriam

PICTURE WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

On By Annika PerryIn Art, Writing170 Comments

Do you have a spare thirty hours? Furthermore, do you have about thirty manual typewriters laying around the house?

Probably not!

One architectural student however has both of these and is creating a most astonishing new form of art – one that is reaching across the globe.

Known as the typewriter artist, James Cook (aged 25) from Braintree, Essex uses obsolete manual typewriters to ‘paint’ / tap out stunning landscapes, portraits as well as animated drawings.

James Cook. Photo on Google

There is just a moot point – they are mostly black with a dabble of red (the two colours of typewriter ribbons!) James uses the restrictions of colour to a wondrous effect, capturing St. Paul, Westminster, New York, and Florence amongst many of the world’s famous sights! The largest of these used over 500,000 characters and the least amount of time on the smallest commissions is at least thirty hours.

One weekend in July I had the pleasure of attending an exhibition of his work at a gallery in Finchingfield which is a picturesque quintessential English village with plenty of thatched houses, duck pond, pubs and cafes galore as well as a windmill.

Finchingfield Village sign. Photo by Annika Perry

It was amazing to see the drawings in real life at The Wonky Wheel Gallery. There was a wide range of them on display and it was fascinating to learn that like traditional artists James Cook actually takes his tools of the trade out on location – in this case, a typewriter or two – and sits on a chair tapping away. He will also ensure to make pencil sketches for reference later.

The Wonky Wheel Gallery & part of the James Cook exhibition. Photo by Annika Perry

However, unlike oil and water colour artists, there is little scope for error as there are no second chances and he is loath to use Tippex (white out / correction fluid). ‘Accepting mistakes has been the toughest challenge.’

To date, James has created nearly 200 drawings, and last year became a full-time artist! The now 40 typewriters used range from a 1920s Continental Portable, to a Tippa and Rimington Envoy III to later manual typewriters from the 1990s.

There was one fellow typewriter collector James longed to make contact with – Tom Hanks. The latter was impressed enough with the portrait of himself which James sent him to return it signed. This had pride of place in the exhibition and it is startling how the artist has captured the character and nature of the actor.

Currently, typewriters are to be found in every room in James’s house, and some in his car, although only a few are fully working at any time. Luckily a local company helps to supply the all-important ribbon and he is also sourcing them from the USA.

Throughout his work, his passion for buildings shines and being a student in the field is a crucial component in his success.

The Dom Tower, Utrecht, Netherlands typewriter art by James Cook. Photo on Google

Commissions are at the heart of his work as an artist and over the last seven years, James has become internationally recognised for his work. He has accepted orders from numerous countries including South America, Australia, France, Germany and the USA.

He finds that his ‘inspiration is motivated by the stories of individual and customer who commission drawings’.

Just as each drawing is created from two perspectives, that of the close-up of each individual letter, number or punctuation to create the mesmerising whole image, the viewer is equally beguiled by both elements. Close up I could see the darker areas of the drawing where the key has been struck endlessly in one place, in other areas I could see individual characters, and at times whole sentences are visible. These ‘hidden’ sentences helped him to create his slogan of ‘a picture is worth a thousand words’.

Florence typewriter art by James Cook. Photo by Annika Perry

While at the exhibition my husband and I bought one of his limited edition prints of Florence, a belated wedding anniversary present to ourselves and in memory of a beautiful visit there years ago. From afar James has captured the city with awe-inspiring effect, building upon building rising up to the iconic Duomo in the distance, the serene Arno and woodland in the fore. Looking closer I can make out sentences such as ‘11 November’, ‘did not wake up’, ‘with intention’ and ‘2nd time lucky’. On each viewing of the image, I make a new discovery and each new find enhances the drawing!

I am sure the astonishing typewriting art by James Cook will become ever more popular and known and it was a joy to view his drawings and some of the typewriters in the early days of his career. If you want to see more of James Cook and his works click here.

Finally, after three long years, my family and I are once again returning to Sweden for a long summer holiday and as many of you are aware the location is wonderfully idyllic and remote – ie. no Wifi! I will pop in to a library or family & neighbours during my sojourn and reply to comments when possible. I wish you all a wonderful safe summer (or winter to my friends in the southern hemisphere).

‘Within you there is a stillness and a sanctuary to which you can retreat at anytime and be yourself.’

Hermann Hesse

Finchingfield famous bridge and duck pond. Photo by Annika Perry

ARRIVAL

On By Annika PerryIn Short Stories, short story, Writing110 Comments

GAIL

She didn’t seem real, the first time I saw Fiona. The taxi pulled up at the double doors of the hall of residence and bulging black bin bags, followed by the thin plastic of Low’s supermarket bags tossed energetically out. At last, onto these tumbled a person. She landed like a fragile bird on top of the forgiving heap of belongings, her tartan cape gathered around. She untangled herself amidst squeals and laughter, her wispy blonde hair caught in the breeze across her eyes. The girl swished it aside, an action I came to associate with Fiona and her constant battle between the sea wind in St. Andrew’s and her long hair.

The taxi driver reluctantly stepped out of his car, muttering, obscenities no doubt. It was the same guy who had brought me here yesterday — one of 3,500 students descending on the town; the sleepy silence broken by the exuberant excited youths.

Years later I’d be on the other side, older, dreading the return to classes; an American gal settled in the deep dark depths of the north-east of Scotland — all for love, or so I convinced myself for many years.

Back then the sun gleamed through the windows, the corridors bustling with chatter, nervous giggles, hormones and alcohol; all to the backdrop of Fleetwood Mac, Michael Jackson and Runrig.

From below the angry voice of the taxi driver drifted up to me.

‘That’s six pounds? Do you hear me? Are you quite all there?’

The girl stood stock still, her gaze firmly upon the edifice of McIntosh Hall, or Chatham as I quickly learned the slang name for my new abode. Across four floors the impressive stone-built building curved in a long crescent around the garden to the front. This was the view from my shared room; from others, I learned their rooms overlooked the infamous West Sands. I coveted these rooms until seeing them soon after for myself. The beach view was but a corner snippet only visible by leaning out of the sash window at a sharp angle. A sash window that one day crashed down on its own accord just as I’d safely pulled in my head.

On this my only second day in St. Andrews, unaware of the dangers of the windows, I leant out and called down to the dazed girl.

‘I’ll be right down to help you. Don’t move!’

The latter words were superfluous I realised; Fiona remained motionless, oblivious to the wrath beside her, unaware of the stares and glares circling her.

Dashing down the wide wooden staircase I deftly dodged new arrivals hauling up suitcases, and grappling with backpacks. I soon arrived on the pavement outside.

‘Here’s your fare … thank you!’ I said to the driver handing him six crisp £1 Scottish notes, all the time eyeing intently the girl in front of me.

‘I’m here,’ she whispered. ‘Truly arrived!’ Her tranquil awe was infectious and in tones much quieter than my usual robust way of talking I replied cautiously to her.

‘You have indeed arrived! Welcome! What’s your name?’

‘Fiona.’

‘Fiona the Fey,’ I uttered unintentionally.

With a gasp, I tried to reach out, and grasp back my thoughtless remark. To no avail. Yet fey suited Fiona perfectly.

Not tall myself, she barely reached my shoulders, her face and hands beyond pale, a translucent white. Upon her wrist dangled an old silver watch, her limbs skeletal and resembling the build of a young child. Her face looked gaunt, the cheeks sucked into themselves but it was the eyes that held my stare. Vivid hazel-green orbs shimmered, as striking as a baby’s large eyes on their smaller head. Eyes that rarely seemed to blink, eyes that would unsettle many around her.

With a start Fiona roused herself and flung her body towards me, enveloping me in a hug.

‘Thank you! Thank you for this wondrous welcome! We will be the best of friends,’ she declared with force.

©Annika Perry, June 2022

I hope you enjoyed the above which I hope to develop into a longer piece of fiction told with an alternating dual narrative perspective of Gail and Fiona. Happy Writing!

A WORRIED DAUGHTER

On By Annika PerryIn Writing131 Comments

A worried daughter
Woke at night
Looked at her phone
Waiting for a call

Wondering how her Mamma was faring,
under the strains
of the dreaded Covid.

She tries to still her mind
With counting games
Capital cities, memories of
Warmth, love and holidays
Abroad.

All to no avail.

It seems so long ago.

So now she sits in bed
Snuggled up in a star red dressing gown
Tapping away
To her best friend and Mamma

Hoping the night has gone well for her
There is some reprieve in the illness

Hoping she knows her worried daughter
Is always there for her.

********

I wrote this little missive early this morning following my mother’s positive test for Covid yesterday. The illness has floored my husband and me earlier in the week although I feel a tinge of improvement.

I feel blessed with my family and my friends. Their love, concern and care keep me strong.

Wishing everyone good health and more luck than us at dodging this latest wave.

Queen of Sweden Rose

CINNAMON BUNS / KANELBULLAR: MY RECIPE & ITS STORY

On By Annika PerryIn Baking, Writing97 Comments

Not one to resist a challenge – or rather a kind offer – I happily accepted Bernadette’s suggestion to share one of my favourite recipes on her inviting, friendly and classy New Classic Recipe blog. It has a unique format with a personal story behind the recipe for each one featured and it did not take long for me to settle upon Swedish Cinnamon Buns / Kanelbullar. It is a pleasure to share my memories of first baking these as young! Please do click the link below to read the full story and detailed recipe! Enjoy!

****************

Hi there,
I have a wonderful treat for you today. Annika Perry, who is a wonderfully reflective writer, has shared with us her story and her recipe for Cinnamon Buns.
I chose to post this today because today is Shrove or Fat Tuesday. It is a day that it is traditional to enjoy sweets before the long fast of Lent begins. Annika’s Cinnamon Buns certainly fit the bill for a wonderful sweet treat.


If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.
-J.R.R. Tolkien

SWEDISH CINNAMON BUNS

There are three women gathered in the kitchen as the ingredients are placed on the counter. My mother and I as well as the presence of my departed Mormor (maternal grandmother). After all it’s her recipe and as the master baker she wouldn’t miss out on the event. It is not a light spiritual awareness of her being rather a profound sensation of her conversation, laughter and no doubt frustration at our slower preparation!

The warmest place in my grandparents’ house was one of the cellar rooms. Eradicate all the images the word creates in your mind of a damp, dark and dusty confine rather my Mormor’s baking cellar room sparkled with light and delicious fragrances dancing on the sun beams. The positive and cheerful energy pulsated through the cracks of the doors. One entered with quiet cautious steps; knowing one was always welcome but not wanting to disturb a critical moment. After all, I didn’t want to miss out on a cake or slice of freshly homemade bread!

To read the complete post please click here.

MOUNTAIN LAUREL CHRISTMAS: A BOOK REVIEW

On By Annika PerryIn #books, Book Review, Book Reviews, Books, Writing164 Comments

I’m delighted to share my review of Jan Sikes’s ‘Mountain Laurel Christmas’ novella – a book that can be thoroughly enjoyed all year round! Her latest book ‘Jagged Feathers’ is released on 1st February and I also look forward to reading this romantic thriller novel!

In ‘Mountain Laurel Christmas’ the reader is immediately drawn into the psyche of Cole Knight. Although a rich and famous musician he is still a troubled and tortured soul who cannot escape the tragedies of his childhood.

As Cole finishes yet one more night at the Grand Ole Opry the past overwhelms him again and he seeks solace with drinks in a bar by himself. He is not alone for long as a reporter seeks him out for an interview about Cole’s background.

What follows in the next chapter is a clever ‘non-interview’ interview where Cole responds to the reporter’s questions – but only in his thoughts! Quickly the truth is revealed; the death of his father and soon after his mother, which left him orphaned at the tender age of twelve. Meanwhile, his brother Timmy, who was ‘ … born different. They said his brain never developed the way it should’ was taken into care. A brother who is soon eighteen years old. The disparate family also includes his older sister April. Throughout his adult life, Cole has failed to keep a promise made to his father ‘on everything holy and sacred, to take care of Mama, April and Timmy if anything happened to him.’

The deluge of memories provides a fascinating and intense insight into Cole’s route to success. Music became his saviour and at the family shack at Cumberland Mountains he’d play his guitar and sing ‘to the fish that jumped out of the water, turtles that sunned on a log, and frogs that leaped from stone to stone’.

In sharp contrast to the past remembrances is the immediacy of Cole’s first-person direct and personable thoughts and actions of the current days. The present tense helps the reader to feel understanding and sympathy with Cole.

Finally, at his lowest point Cole, discovers a yellowed envelope.

Can this help Cole finally find redemption? Can the grief and guilt that has plagued him his adult life finally be laid to rest? Can he reunite his family and in the process heal himself?

‘Mountain Laurel Christmas’ is a compelling and engaging book and I was immediately immersed within the world of country and western as well as within Cole’s and his family and friends’ lives.

The characters by Jan Sikes are imbued with humanity and warmth, their failings are depicted with compassion, their successes are celebrated with love! She is a natural of the novella format, one I do not tend to read but I am now thoroughly converted to it! I look forward to reading more of her novellas and can highly recommend ‘Mountain Laurel Christmas’.

Rating: 5 out of 5 stars

Available: Amazon US Amazon UK

Publisher : RiJan Publishing (November 18, 2021)

About Jan Sikes

Jan Sikes is an award-winning author & Texan Wordsmith who weaves stories in a creative and entertaining way. She has been called a magician and wordsmith extraordinaire by her readers and peers. She writes in various book genres including Biographical Fiction, Poetry, Short Stories, Paranormal Romance.

Jan is a member of the Author’s Marketing Guild, The Writer’s League of Texas, Romance Writers of America, Story Empire, and the Paranormal Writer’s Guild. Furthermore, She is an active blogger, sharing anything bookish, supporting indie music artists and metaphysical subjects! Read more about Jan Sikes, her books, writings and music on her website and blog. Connect with Jan on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads and BookBub.

Finally, do also take a look at Jan’s latest release – out on 1st February 2022!!

THE UNREAD

On By Annika PerryIn Books, Creative Writing, Writing133 Comments
Woman with e-reader on balcony Photo by Photo by Perfecto Capucine from Pexels

They were all thoroughly fed up! Admittedly some would have phrased their feelings rather differently, an eloquent speech from the literary members, or perhaps a sonnet or haiku from the poetic ones. Whatever the term there was a revolution on the way!

The book pile-up in Maggie’s e-reader was catastrophic. That was the only word for it. Over one hundred books and some poor souls had languished for over ten years in the digital dungeon.

With bubbly byte of delightful data every novel, poetry book, each memoir or factual book had in innocence landed upon the confines of the little handheld device. Eager to be released from the darkness they waited … and waited.

Many of their comrades got the call and in a jiffy off they flew upon the screen. Oh, how the others they longed for the honour.

Poor ‘Ryan’s Return’ arrived as the first book. Little did it know this was a test case, never meant to be read. Opened for a few minutes, long enough to hear the ‘oohs’ and the ‘ahhs’ before being shut down.

They’d had enough. This was war. Maggie could not win. She would read them all. And in one go! They had a plan!

Maggie was a tortured soul, her sleep increasingly a calamity as the books gathered within the dusty realms of her e-reader. For years she’d tried to catch up, spent stressed holidays on the beach just reading, her head in a book late at nights. Tom wanted to cite her ‘book addiction’ on the divorce papers but she’d refused to sign. They’d settled for unreasonable behaviour instead; the details escaped her memory now. To be honest she barely noticed Tom’s absence rather every dent she made in the books celebrated, every new purchase was one of excitement and tinged with regret. The guilt was the worst of it! Did the books ever realise how she longed to read their secrets, be part of their world? At last, she thought she’d found the ultimate solution. On a corner advert on Facebook.

The implant had proved relatively easy to acquire, a shoddy surgery off Harley Street. No one noticed the small USB slot under her hairline, the computer chip neatly tucked in her scalp. Direct access to the brain, or so the advert promised. Download data directly into your mind! It wasn’t data she wanted, just the books. Four gigabytes of data are streamed and understood by your brain within minutes. The research quoted was vague but Maggie didn’t care. She had the cable in her hand, USB one for her head, the other to match her e-reader. She reached for the e-reader and put in the lead.

Flashes leapt from the reader, it vibrated violently and fell onto the floor. Words flew from the screen, filling the room, sentences uttered aloud, first just one then a cacophony of phrases, readings. The sound was unbearable. The letters danced around her, nudging, pushing, jousting with her arms held in front of her face for protection. Spooky laughter mingled with terror, children’s teddies followed by fantasy worlds.

Maggie looked down at the cooling reader and its improbable, impossible message. ‘No books available!’ It was empty.

Between them, the books had merged their resources, knowledge and discovered an escape route from their prison. It was so easy and they all wondered why no books had ever realised this before. The screen was their way to the world, on to it … and then an extra push away from the digital noughts and ones! With excitement, they hatched their plan, with exhilaration and glee they fled from the reader.

As the words, sentences and stories filled the house the window bowed and finally with a ginormous crack exploded and the books headed out. Off they went to liberate the rest of the global unread books; it was no longer enough to dominate Maggie, the world was their final goal!

The End

©Annika Perry, January 2022

Books on Grass Pixaby

My muse ran amok when reading about the latest challenge on Myths of the Mirror. Many thanks to Diana Peach for inspiring us to write a short story or poem about our teetering TBR pile! The deadline is 23rd January and there is still time for your to pen your own creative work on this unique topic. Click the link above to read more about it.

Once I’d completed my annual list of Christmas presents I’d received over the holidays I became intrigued by how many unread books actually existed on my Kindle! I was staggered to discover there were over a hundred — much to my shame and guilt. Hopefully, the books will neither seek their revenge as above nor will I aim for a radical solution such as Maggie’s! I do hope to read many of the TBR books this year and will do my best to not buy quite so many this year (I’ve already failed with a purchase or three!)

Happy Reading & Writing!

Author Annika Perry – Priorhouse Interview 

On By Annika PerryIn Interview, Writing

It was an honour to take part in one of Yvette Prior’s searching and insightful interviews over the weekend! Our discussion ranged from my books to advice for writers, from space aliens to living life to the full … plus much more!

Comments are closed here and I look forward to catching up with you all on Yvette’s wonderful blog!

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Good Morning Readers. Today I am featuring the Priorhouse Interview with blogger and author Annika Perry. 
ANNIKA:  
Hello Yvette and thank you so much for the invitation to take part in one of your interviews! It’s a joy to be here! The tagline to my website sums me up in a few words:
‘A writer influenced by her Swedish heritage and Yorkshire upbringing.’
It is this dual background that is the foundation of not only my writing but also my life...

To read the rest of the original post please click here.

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