The Tarishe Curse―A NEW Post on Halloween

     Halloween is just around the pumpkin patch! I have finished writing the next installment of my traditional tale for All Hallows Eve, an ongoing story about the cursed queen of werefolk, Duvalla. Only a few short days and it will be time to post the next portion of this dark adventure. You have just enough time to re-read the story from the beginning. Enjoy, and be anxious for what is to come!

THE TARISHE CURSE

by Richelle E. Goodrich

A Different Type of Book

After finishing the last and final chapter of the Harrowbethian Saga, I wept for a short time, a mixture of joyous and desolate tears.  I had accomplished far more than the one book I had set out to write.  What a wondrous feeling of completion!  But now it was over.  "The End" inked on the page.  What now?  

It had taken me four years to write out the original first draft comprising 139 chapters plus a prologue and epilogue that in sum amounted to the entire saga.  I was well-pleased with the adventure, a fantasy—sci fi—romance sprinkled with myth and magic.  It had been a delightful and entertaining hike through my imagination.  A crazy, BIG achievement that left me itching to write more.

But what if I were to write a different type of book this time around.  A novel.  More realistic.  Less fantastical.  One with the power to manipulate a reader's heart.

Sold on the idea, I went about accomplishing the task.  The result is a book about little Miss Anna, entitled Dandelions:The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher.

It is a stand-alone novel that proved a struggle to compose, and yet I found it immeasurably rewarding.  In the end I was able to shape a loveable character named Annabelle, a girl both young and fragile, mature and clever. 

Dandelions:The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher is the fictional tale of an elementary-aged girl struggling to cope with her aggrieved mother and alcoholic father.  By day-dreaming characters to life from popular fairytales, she manages to create make-believe moments of happiness in the midst of harsh circumstances. School is the only place Annabelle interacts socially where a few individuals suspecting her circumstances attempt to reach out to the wary girl. But it is an imagined friend whom she turns to repeatedly for comfort and kindness. When his ghostly form appears before her during waking hours, his voice augmenting the hallucination, it becomes a struggle to keep reality and pretend from blurring boundaries. Her choice, it seems, is to succumb to madness, and happily so, or embrace her cruel reality.

     You will fall in love with Annabelle instantly, cherishing the way she makes you take notice of the simple wonders in life. Your heart will bleed for her and the awful circumstances dealt to the child. And yet you will find moments to smile—appreciating a simple, budding friendship and experiencing her young, beautiful imagination. Be touched by a kind heart and the amazingly mature spirit of this wonderful creature. This book is a worthwhile read for so many reasons.

Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher is available at the following online retailers:

in PAPERBACK or E-BOOK

KINDLE   NOOK   KOBO   iTUNES

Official Website for American Author, Richelle E. Goodrich

    My website has recently undergone a complete renovation, and I have to say I love it!  One of my favorite details is that on every page at the top border there is a stretch of forest behind the title.  It's no secret I have a thing for trees.  They are beautiful creatures and the best keepers of secrets.  So yes, I'm happy with the mystical forests that vary from webpage to webpage.  
    Other things you will find at my official author website include book quotes from my published works, vibrant cover images linked to summaries of each book, information about Harrowbeth and other nations on Moccobatra, a page for comments and questions, and a little blurb about me personally as an author.  Please, go visit my newly remodeled website at RichelleGoodrich.com and take a look around.  It's a walk through the forest, so don't forget to admire the trees!

The Mossy Hill

Behind my house within walking distance is a big, beautiful hill.  I fell in love with it growing up as a child years ago.  I would look to the hill many times a day, studying its mossy spots; its hairy, golden veins; and the muddy flecks that mimicked a scattering of bulbous rocks.  Because of the hill, I learned to adore the evening sunset for unusual reasons no one would ever believe.  Not because the red sun dyed the hump of my hill a dark maroon when the two appeared to touch.  And not because of the way the sky mixed rosy and smoky clouds together as they reached down from above…or up from below—it was hard to say which way they swirled to spread as sheer as a veil.  No, the reason I loved the sunset enough to watch it faithfully every night, either from up on the rooftop or from a private spot in the cattails near the creek below my house, was because that beautiful hill showed me twice in a night the same marvelous sunset. 

First upside up.  And then upside down.

Please don’t laugh.  The sun did indeed set twice in a night for me.  My mother would laugh whenever I tried to convince her it was true.  More than once I persuaded her to sit and watch, directing her eyes to a small rise attached to the steeper hill next to it.  When the final red tinge of sun vanished completely and the world went dark, I would look to the lesser rise, knowing a red sun would manifest itself once again on its rugged face.

“Look, Mama, look!  You will see it!  The sun will show itself again, it will!  And it will set upside down—I’m not lying!”

But no matter how long she waited, her patience was never long enough.  “Silly girl,” she would say.  “I see nothing but stars.”

“But it’s true, Mama!  The sun will show itself again if you wait.”

And she did wait.

But it didn’t show in all that time.

“It must be an illusion,” she finally decided, believing her daughter would not lie.  “Perhaps the moon reflects the sun onto that rise on rare nights.”

“On every night, Mama,” I corrected.

Her smile was playful and doubtful at the same time.  She then walked away sighing, “Oh, silly girl.”

Alone I would wait until, as faithfully as ever, the red sun appeared on the smaller rise, divided by a vertical wisp of black.  Slowly, surely, it sank upside down until it disappeared.

And so it was I grew to be a young woman in love with a magical hill—for that is the logical conclusion I drew at its repeating of an upturned sunset each night for my eyes only.  Mother, though she never witnessed the miracle, labeled it an illusion.  I dubbed it magic.  For what else could explain a single sun setting twice within a span of minutes, and topsy-turvy at that?  I will admit there were occasions when I stood on my head in the grass, feet propped high against the trunk of an oak tree, in order to see the second sunset properly.  Never with Mother nearby.  For she would surely gasp and say, “How terribly unladylike!” 

One cloudy evening, only a few sunsets after my seventeenth birthday, I was nearing my quiet spot amongst the cattails by the creek when something stirred in my stomach.  It felt awful.  At the same time, I glimpsed a figure move within the cattails, but I had no idea if what I’d find there would prove as awful as my stomach’s uneasiness seemed to anticipate. For those who doubt, I emphatically insist that it is a wise rule to listen to your stomach.  It has an uncanny sense about the reality of things.  On this particular occasion I failed to heed that uncomfortable warning and continued cautiously forward to my spot within the cluster of tall cattails.  My stomach did a somersault when a very large man stepped out into the open and faced me.  He was smiling in a manner that could never—even by the most naïve minds—be mistaken for friendly.

I turned to run back to the house, but I was grabbed by the man who lunged at me with the speed of a cobra.  He yanked my body to him.  When my lungs filled with air, preparing to scream, he stifled the sound with a firm hand, smothering my face.  Desperate to breath, I tried in vain to pry his fingers away.  He dragged me into the cattails before slipping his hand down off my nose, allowing me to draw in oxygen but still barring any ability to scream.  As the man growled in my ear, insensible words dripping with malice, I feared for my life.

“They thought they could hide you from me, that I wouldn’t detect your putrid stench out here in the middle of nowhere.  But I swore to them I’d hunt you down—every last one of you.  So far I’ve kept my word.  I’ve diminished your numbers and robbed you of those abominable service creatures.  And I never stopped searching for you, young one—in caves and deserts and every other inhospitable corner of existence.  I even bribed the vagrant sailors of pirate ships, thinking they might find you in transport when your superiors finally decided to call you overseas.  But no—you’re not quite old enough to be summoned yet.  So I’ll kill you now as I did the others.  I’ll end your life before it becomes my misfortune.  When you’re dead, I’ll wait here for your service creatures to show their vile forms, and then I will slay them as well.” 

I was sucking in air through my nose while these words hit my ear, void of meaning.  Nothing he said made the least amount of sense to me.  Surely, he had mistaken me for a hostile individual capable of causing him torment. 

I was no one to fear.  No one at all.

His fingers clamped down over my nose once again as if he meant to suffocate the life out of me.  I fought him with all my might, knowing my struggles were futile; his strength far surpassed my own.  My eyes flickered back at the hill I loved so much as if to say “goodbye,” at which time I caught a peculiar sight.  Two suns were visible at once—one red orb hanging above the hill and a second orb aglow on the face of the lower rise.  I thought, perhaps, that my senses were being impaired by lack of oxygen. 

When the ground quaked beneath my feet, it seemed as if the planet itself had chosen to come to my rescue.  The tremors managed to pull the grassy footing from beneath my assailant.  He tumbled over and his hands flailed outward, releasing me.  Coughing and gasping for air, I scrambled to get away from him, deterred by the shaking ground until it suddenly ceased.  My eyes darted from the grass to my beloved hill, only to find that it was gone.  The setting sun hung low in the sky over a completely flat horizon!

I was about to flee for home, more concerned for self-preservation than the miraculous disappearance of an entire hill, when the man shrieked, making my eyes turn back to him.  My body slowly followed suit, astounded by what my eyes were registering. 

My would-be killer was on the ground looking up into the face of an ominous, hovering beast kept aloft by giant wings.  The body of the creature was humped, covered in mossy spots and hairy, golden veins and muddy, bulbous flecks that resembled exactly the missing hill.  It dawned on me that the low rise normally sitting adjacent to the hill was the beast’s head.  I knew this without a doubt because a red eye glared from the side of its head, mimicking the sun at dusk.  I gasped, realizing my beloved hill was in actuality a dragon!  My topsy-turvy sunset wasn’t at all a second sunset but a dragon’s bright eye which opened up each and every evening to look out at the world before vanishing under dragon eyelids.

I wondered, was this beast a service creature like those the vile man had muttered about in my ear?  There would be no asking him, for he was swallowed whole by the beast in question, scarcely able to let out a final shriek.

The dragon’s face turned to stare at me full on, revealing two glowing, red eyes.  My stomach felt calm, but in my mind I feared this was no service creature but a monster that meant to feed on me as it had the unfortunate man.  The dragon made no sudden moves, however, and the sword-like teeth I had glimpsed in its mouth were not shown to me again.  The dragon lowered its head.  Cautiously I approached, moving just close enough to reach out and touch its snout.  As my fingers made contact with the scaly texture of its skin, a waft of swirly, gray smoke puffed from both nostrils, startling me, convincing my feet to scuttle backwards.  Its immense body rotated in the air, and I watched in awe as a pair of giant wings took the creature back to its resting place where once again he appeared as a distant hill blocking out the setting sun.

“Thank you,” I breathed as the dragon closed its eyes.

I immediately ran to the house to relay the entire story to my mother who became greatly agitated at my mention of a stranger, and then greatly perturbed at my insistence that a man-eating dragon did indeed live past the creek behind our house.  The truth was ultimately labeled an outlandish illusion, and I was informed by my mother that a career in story-telling might very well suit me.

That was all about a year ago today.  And I shall never forget the life-changing moment I discovered that the hill I loved was in truth a dragon I loved even more.  Now, as I turn eighteen, my stomach twists itself up into knots.  I have learned to listen to it, for its predictions have yet to be wrong.  I know something is coming.  A change in my life and in the world itself.  What sort of change, I don’t know.  But I am sure it involves me and my dragon.  The great beast has awakened for the second time in my young life, but I have no fear.  It intends to take me somewhere.  Somewhere I am needed.  And when my mother sees that I and the great hill behind our house are both gone, she might come to believe in my illusions… and in dragons.

~ By Richelle E. Goodrich  Copyright 2016

His Open Door

"Ma'am," he said, reaching for the door.  He held it open, his posture as erect and sturdy as a pole.

I eyed the man's uniform, the pins and badges that signified his military rank and position.  At that moment I felt opposing forces wash over me, clashing internally like a cold and warm front meeting in the air.

At first I was hit by a burning sense of respect and gratitude.  How privileged a person I was to have this soldier unbar the way for me, maintaining a clear path that I might advance unhindered.  The symbolism marked by his actions did strike me with remarkable intensity.  How many virtual doors would be shut in my face if not for dutiful soldiers like him?

As I went to step forward, my feet nearly faltered as if they felt unworthy.  It was I who ought to be holding open the door for this gentleman—this representative of great heroes present and past who did fight and sacrifice and continue to do so to keep doors open, paths free and clear for all of humanity.  

I moved through the entrance and thanked him.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

How strange that I should feel such pride while passing through his open door.

~ From the book, Slaying Dragons by Richelle E. Goodrich

                      

Fathers and Trees

When I hear the word fathers I think of trees.  Perhaps because I see in trees the finer qualities all great fathers share.  

The obvious, their strength and sturdiness.  A tree will bear things thrust upon its branches without an uttered word of complaint.  Reaching limbs hold a person up, supporting him throughout many days and nights.  

A tree is rooted where it stands.  One never needs to glance repeatedly out a window to be sure it hasn't walked away.  It is planted firmly.  It is always there.  Its form may sway with the wind, but it never falters.

A tree is dependent upon sunlight; therefore, its majestic form reaches toward Heaven for nourishment.  It does not hide its need for the light, but flourishes beneath the sun for all eyes to see.

A tree bears fruit to feed others, even though it is unable to partake of the fruit itself.  It complains to no one.  And if called upon to sacrifice itself entirely in order to warm and protect another, it does so without a word of protest.

Trees shade and protect.  They shield us from the elements. I have never seen a child fear a tree, but smile up at its grandness, eager to climb into its arms and observe the world from a higher viewpoint.

One can talk to trees without fear or reprisal.  All secrets remain in a tree's confidence despite the passing of generations.  

Out of all God's creations, I admire most the mighty trees. They are a grand sight to behold, and as necessary to us as are fathers.

— Richelle E. Goodrich

Book Two is Out in Beautiful Color!

Prepare to continue the adventure...

Read the continuing tale of Queen Eena in this newly-released book two in the Harrowbethian Saga!

Eena, The Return of a Queen

By

Richelle E. Goodrich

PAPERBACK or E-BOOK   KINDLE   KOBO   iTUNES

Experience more adventure, peril, mystery, fun, new race s, old legends and developing romance in this second volume of the Harrowbethian Saga.  Read the introductory chapters here!  

Synopsis:

The young queen of Harrowbeth, has been saved from the clutches of her enemy, only to fear prophetic nightmares of being captured by Gemdorin again. A red-eyed dragon haunts her dreams frequently, portending doom within his fortune-telling gaze. It is Derian and Ian's job to keep the beast's grim visions from coming true.

Joined by their allies—a large and warring race called the Viiduns—Captain Derian and his militia escort their queen across the galaxy toward home. An unexpected detour takes them to an advanced world where a quirky king might possess the power to rid them of their enemy for good. But is trusting the promise of a stranger a risk worth taking? It will require Eena to face her worst nightmare alone.

The most difficult challenge

an honest man will ever face

is having to choose between

duty and love.

One creates a man of honorable character–

a life worth dying for.

The other creates a vulnerable soul

that madly yearns for

either death or immortality.

― Richelle E. Goodrich

Do More than Just Remember

Memorial Day is set aside for remembering those who gave their lives fighting for their country.  More specifically, fighting to defend a lifestyle of enviable freedoms enjoyed by citizens of the United States of America.  It is important we understand that these freedoms came about because of the willingness of individuals to sacrifice for every human's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, unalienable rights endowed by the Creator of us all.  

It is important that we remember.  

It is vital we do more than just remember.

How wonderful the occasion is when a banquet is laid out before us, rich with foods and delicacies in sweet variety.  We may feel immense gratitude towards those who spent days preparing the feast.  We may to some extent attempt to understand the sacrifices made by these men and women who made possible our enviable feast.  But what good is all their hard work and effort if those at the banquet do nothing more than sit and admire the end results? Compliments are ill-served if no one ventures to taste the delicacies. 

Likewise, we may express our gratitude while keeping in our hearts those who have fallen to defend our precious rights and freedoms.  But our gratitude is ill-shown when we fail to use those freedoms to our advantage by creating better homes, better lives, and better communities within our united states. 

On this Memorial Day, take time to remember those who have fallen.  But on every day after, do more than simply remember; put the freedoms they died for to greater and nobler uses.  

Do I Love You?

I stand in the night and stare up at a lone star, wondering what love means.  You whisper your desire—do I love you?  I dare say yes.  But my eyes drift back to that solitary star; my mind is plagued with intimate uncertainty. 

What art thou, Love?  Tell me. 

I contemplate what I know—the qualities love doth not possess.  Love lifts no cruel or unkind hand, for it seeketh no harm.  It shirks from constraints and demands, for tyranny is not love.  A boisterous voice never crosses love’s lips, for to speak with thunder chases its very presence from the heart.  Love inflicts no pain, no fear, no misery, but conquers all such foes.  It is said love is not selfish, yet it does not guilt those who are.  On a heart unwillingly given it stakes no claim.  Love is nothing from Pandora’s box; it is no evil, sin, or sorrow unleashed on this world. 

My eyes glimmer as the star I gaze upon twinkles with brightness I do not possess.  I recognize my smallness—my ignorance of the One whose hands placed that star in the heavens for me. 

He is love.  By His own mouth He proclaimed it. 

Again the whispered question hits my ear—do I love you?  I dare say yes.  But my eyes squint tight, wishing on a lonely star, wondering what love means.

— Richelle E. Goodrich, Smile Anyway

Copyright © 2013 Richelle E. Goodrich

You Breathe...Thank Your Mother

It's almost Mother's Day, and so I've been pondering ways I can convey to my mother the depth of gratitude I feel for those great and numberless tasks she performed for my good when I was a child, not to mention her continual influence still shaping my thoughts and actions today.  My mother has given me much by making sacrifices beyond my comprehension.  She means the world to me.

The truth is, I have a wonderful mother.  

The truth is, not everyone can say those words.

I know people who ignore the holiday entirely.  Some rehearse a mental list of faults possessed by the woman they call mother.  Still others wonder around this time who their mother is....or was.....if only they could have been blessed to know her.  Despite our varied differences and attitudes about Mother's Day, there is one thing we share in common—one precious truth for which we can show our gratitude regardless.  And that is this:

Our mothers—apart from their strengths and defects, their successes and failures, their good and bad behavior, and even their mental, emotional, or physical absence or overbearing attentiveness—gave us the miraculous, valuable, precious gift of life.

Miraculous because we could never have bestowed it upon ourselves.

Valuable because of the endless opportunities and experiences it affords us.  

Precious because we have but one.  

So regardless of blame, faults, and flaws, remember you were given life by a woman.

You breathe.

You feel.

You see

and hear

and smell

and taste

and think

and move

and laugh

and weep

and heal

and dance

and sing

and love.

Thank your mother.

Such a Nasty Bruise

     

     “Such a nasty bruise,” he says, staring straight into my eyes.  I am stunned he can see it.  Delicate to the touch and tender on every side, the bruise is deeper than days.  My hand automatically moves to my chest.

     Science taught me with valid assurance that my heart was fixed in my rib cage, but life has since shown me otherwise.  My heart in fact dangles from a tangle of strings.  The ends are grasped tight by numerous people who yank and release, having caused many painful bruises over time.  I cry because they are invisible to most.

     “Such a nasty bruise,” he repeats, tugging on my poor heart. 

     His kind eyes fall away from mine as I feel a squeeze on my arm.  He twists it enough to show me a small, round patch of purple surrounded by a sickly yellowish corona. 

     “Oh.  My elbow.”  I let the air exhale from my lungs.  Another bruise forms where my heart has hit the floor.  It is jerked up again. 

     “Can I do anything for you?”  I see in his eyes the mirror image of a finger—his finger—wrapped in one of the dangling strings.  He tugs and I feel it.

     “No,” I reply to his question.  But it is a lie.  There is something he could do, along with all who grasp a portion of the web entangling my heart.  I wish they would mercifully let go.

Copyright 2016 Richelle E. Goodrich

I Slay Dragons at Night

I slay dragons at night while you sleep.
I see by the way your face contorts how they exist in your dreams.
Willing a magic sword, I plunge into your deepest nightmares and swing at the beasts with all my might, dodging flames exhaled by monsters that would eat me alive to go on torturing the fair one I love. I see your face relax, eyes still drowsily closed, when the mighty dragon is slain.
It may be that my fingers rub soft circles on your forehead as I imagine my brave fight as a knight reclaiming your dreams. You smile under the spell of my touch, and I am rewarded.

And so, my love, as I await the dawn, I stand ready to slay dragons while you sleep.

― Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
 Copyright 2016 Richelle E. Goodrich

Before the Dawn

In the darkest night the sun may seem like an extinguished match or an ember drowned by rain. 

A light forever lost.

The cold world grows steadily colder and shrinks like the abused, closing in on all sides.  Laughter, smiles, the glimmer of dancing eyes, and all else indicative of human brightness is gone.  Colors leeched from everything leave shadows and emotion dull-gray in their absence. 

Time is a void.  A moment feels eternal. 

Hope does not blossom in the darkness but withers fast, starving for what only the sun can offer.  As its petals turn to dust, fear blows in and sweeps the remnants away.  The soul succumbs by degrees to nightmares emboldened by the dead of night. 

All is lost!  All is lost! 

The wretched sun, repulsed by our nothingness,

has abandoned the lives in its care!  

And then the eyes open wide, 

seeing mountains take shape on the horizon.

~Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons

Copyright 2016 Richelle E. Goodrich