Saturday, October 23, 2021

Isolation - A Poem



On a dreary, cold October while I watched the leaves descending,
twirling orange, red, and golden from the trees,
my frame of mind, it dourly echoed the depressing song of autumn,
for my life had turned as dull and dry as leaves.

I slipped on a woolen sweater, though a coat may have been better
to protect my skin from harsh and chilly winds.
It was not my first concern to contemplate external comfort
when my heart and soul were agonized within.

Nay, I don’t recall the day when joy began to fade to nothing,
turning every hour a somber shade of gray.
Drawn out weeks I spent alone while urgent business called you elsewhere,
keeping both your mind and body far at bay.

It was never my intention to reside apart from others,
but the woods’ enchanting mood had won our hearts.
I remember how romantic it had seemed to build a cottage
in the trees for you and me to make a start.

Nonetheless, when life demands it, love and fantasy erode
until the push to make a dollar turns to greed.
And so you spent more time without me, crafting deals and making money,
never meaning to neglect my greater needs.

Oh, it was a slow descent that over time brought me to madness.
Years before, my heart did love you evermore,
knowing hours away were only meant to ease our mortal burdens,
so with eagerness I’d meet you at the door.

Day by day you lingered longer in the caves of money changers.
Night by night your presence failed to warm my bed.
But oh! The times you did appear with pretty gifts and warm affections,
not one small complaint or griping word was said.

Perhaps that was my err. I should have voiced how dreadful lonely
and depressing isolation was for me.
So stale and stagnant fell my solitude that time and time again
I tried to coax intruding squirrels to sit for tea.

Sipping chamomile while nibbling almond crumpets, I would
hear a spotted owl that answered every noise with “who?”
And for weeks my desperation found the owl a fine companion
‘til I realized we were “whooing” out for you.

It was on this dark and starry night I first set out to wander
far beyond our property into the woods.
And despite the nippy weather, with a sweater wrapped around me,
I determined to hike on as best I could.

An enchanting moon shone luminous upon my virgin path,
highlighting every step into the yet unknown.
I traveled on with neither destination nor a goal in mind
except to walk the aching sorrow from my bones.

‘Midst the timbers I did travel, scrunching underbrush and mushrooms,
being careful of dead branches on my way.
Moss and pine assailed my nose while I was much opposed to stepping
foot in mucky piles of weather and decay.

It was in an open circle, very small but boasting daisies
and white asters growing wild among the grass,
well-illuminated also by a moon so full and glowing
it appeared to be a lid of giant mass.

Though the night was getting colder, it was like the sun had risen.
I absorbed a ray of warmth that wasn’t real.
Nonetheless, my skin behaved as if the hotness of the day
was being mirrored by the moon for me to feel.

With my face turned up to heaven, eyelids closed against the moonlight,
I stepped slowly to the circle’s very heart.
There my foot bumped into something far more supple than a boulder.
When I looked, the image gave my fright a start.

For a moment I stood frozen, hardly breathing in the evening,
hoping what my eyes beheld would cease to be.
But the body, white as ivory, lying still within the grasses
neither vanished nor attempted aught to flee.

Just a gasp at length I managed, for a scream seemed rather pointless
in the middle of the forest in the night.
With wide eyes I scanned the body, more than certain it was lifeless,
seeking evidence of how she’d met her plight.

A young woman, maybe twenty, seemed to sleep among the flowers,
blooms so white and wild around her pretty dress.
I could see no sign of mischief, not a wound or laceration.
By my scrutiny she seemed in no distress.

Then I noticed in her fingers lay a vial. It was empty.
I could picture how in life this troubled soul
had destroyed herself through poison in a bleak, crestfallen moment,
having nobody and nowhere else to go.

Oh alas! How bitter sorry I did feel for this sweet maiden,
empathizing with what mystery was her pain.
The enormity of anguish must have been an awful burden
to convince her every hour was lived in vain.

As I shed a tear or two, my fingers touched the cold cadaver
and the strangest shiver traveled up my spine.
At my back, I felt a chill that far surpassed the curious warmness
I’d encountered stepping through the ring of pines.

The impression of a presence made me glimpse across my shoulder
where I spied a being ethereal and fair.
The ghost was no illusion but a shadow of the maiden
lying at my feet, devoid of mortal cares.

For a brief eternal moment I believed my life in danger,
but that notion faded with a simple smile.
The young spirit kept her distance as she studied me in wonder,
lost in mutual contemplation for a while.

Then she spoke, her visage beaming, and she seemed a friendly specter,
overjoyed to come across a living soul.
And despite her eerie aura, I could honestly admit
her mere existence did my loneliness console.

“Speak your name,” said she in eagerness. I did without delay.
She told me hers, at which we shared a pensive sigh.
Placing both feet on the grass, she stepped beside me near her body.
Pointing to the vial, I softly uttered, “Why?”

In a dull and solemn murmur she replied, “What’s done is done.”
And then she turned away, refusing more to tell.
As her ghostly form moved off to wander weightless o’er the grasses,
my gaze lingered longer on her lifeless shell.

Then, as if she were a child, I heard her say, “Come play with me.
It’s been so very long since I have had a friend.”
I turned to find her two eyes hopeful, glowing near as white as starlight,
with a longingness my heart could apprehend.

I too was greatly hungering to make a new acquaintance,
craving personal companionship once more.
So I shed my woolen sweater, amply warmed by mystic moonlight,
to engage in dance and singing tales of lore.

In the morning I awakened ‘mid the mossy ring of pine trees
with my sweater draped across my shivering arms.
I had almost deemed the evening but a figment of my dreaming
when I spied the ashen corpse with some alarm.

Casting glances ‘bout the meadow where the air had felt like summer
up until a timely autumnal sunrise,
I was highly disappointed not to spot the pretty specter who
had capably my sorrows minimized.

Determining it wise to leave the body where it rested,
I stepped back into the trees to head for home.
Momentarily, I paused to scan the circle for a sign
that night had not elapsed with me out here alone.

Seeing nothing in the daylight, I moved off somewhat bewildered.
I could not erase the maiden from my mind.
It was crazy to feel grief o’er an imagined apparition,
yet I could not leave her memory behind.

Had I fantasized this friendly specter out of desperation?
Had the solitude and quiet made me mad?
Or, rather, had the most delightful night I’d spent in ages
been a pleasure for one living and one dead?

Wrestling sanity amid these thoughts, I drifted off in slumber,
waking just as sunset turned the sky maroon.
I pulled on my woolen sweater and ducked out into the forest,
keen to reach the meadow heated by the moon.

When I passed between the pine trees, smelling moss upon the branches,
I glanced everywhere with highest hopes indeed.
At the feel of drenching warmth my eyelids closed to face the moonlight.
Then I felt a shiver, followed by a plea.

“Please come play with me.” A soft request that covered me in goose bumps.
When my eyelids flickered open, I grinned wide.
“I would love to play,” I answered to the same incorporeal being
whose mortality had ceased in suicide.

I scarcely can express the great relief I felt to know
I wasn’t half as mad as I had first assumed.
And throughout the moonlit evening we did laugh instead of grieving.
In my heart a bud of optimism bloomed.

Daylight hours I used for sleeping while each precious night I rushed
To find my ghostly sister waiting patiently.
The moon above remained a nightlight warming up our magic circle
where the wild asters grew tenaciously.

One wet and drizzly afternoon while fast asleep in bed
I felt a large and gentle hand against my cheek.
My mattress shifted at the weight of someone sizeable and heavy,
and I heard a man inquire if I was weak.

“You look pale, my dearest. Are you ill? Your skin’s in need of sun.”
I felt big fingers cup my face as I awoke.
And for a moment it was if I had an onset of amnesia
‘til I recognized my husband, and I spoke.

“It is you!” I cried. “My darling, you’ve returned to me at last!”
He hugged me tight, and in his ear I breathed a sigh.
“How I’ve missed you!” “Oh, I’ve missed you too, but sadly I can’t stay.”
A cold remark to which I gravely uttered, “Why?”

“There’s important work to do, my love. Please try to understand.
It is our future for which business doth provide.
But I promise I shall not be long. One week and I’ll return.”
He smiled softly while my tears I blinked aside.

He then showered me in gifts, so I put on a glad expression
and accepted dainty trinkets and a ring.
I was grateful for the night we shared exchanging warm affections,
but by morning he was flittering his wings.

“Must you fly from me so soon?” I asked, already feeling lonesome.
“You could sit a spell and share a pot of tea.”
With a hand upon my cheek he pacified me with a kiss.
“I’m sorry, dearest, but I’ll be home soon—you’ll see.”

Now, before I said goodbye I made him swear to backtrack quickly.
He assured me it was just a few more days.
“I’ll be standing on our doorstep by this very hour next weekend.
Hear my promise; I shall rush and not delay.”

Late that evening I revisited the moonlit grassy meadow.
There I found the ghostly maiden shedding tears.
Strands of haze were misted sorrow that fell o’er her empty body;
She was mourning loss of life, so it appeared.

I rushed over, arms outstretched as if to offer an embrace,
but when I reached the girl my hands dropped to my thighs.
A dismal exhale crossed my lips; my features twisted with compassion.
No one spoke until the mourner raised her eyes.

I was shocked when she proceeded to recount her day of death
by first confessing that a man had won her heart.
They had proved their love in secret when society forbade them,
though in open view they spent their time apart.

Months elapsed and turned to years while their love blossomed undiscovered,
yet they yearned for more than meetings in the dark.
But alas! The unforgiving world denied them any refuge.
To the afterlife they both vowed to embark.

It was here inside this same secluded circle they met up
to swear their love to one another evermore.
If the world refused a nuptial kiss for man and wife to wed,
the pitying angels would hold open heaven’s door.

Beneath a harvest moon they spent their last devoted hours,
resolute to make the final sacrifice.
Star-crossed lovers held up vials as they toasted their affections.
To their lips they put the poison and imbibed.

But that wasn’t true. Her sweetheart hesitated as she swallowed.
Not a drop of poison touched the craven’s tongue.
First confusion, then betrayal, lastly fear sunk in to haunt her
knowing there was no reversing what she’d done.

She collapsed and breathed her final dying breath among the daisies
while her living lover muttered deep regrets.
He scurried off, a single kiss upon her icy hand in parting--
wanton cowardice she never would forget.

She remained night after night beside her still and frigid body,
where the moon’s full eye had witnessed bitter woe.
And there she meant to haunt the woods until his passing made things right,
for she had nobody and nowhere else to go.

A well of tears I shed at hearing her disastrous tale of heartbreak,
and upon its end she questioned where I’d been.
Disappointing her the prior night had caused a valid worry
that, just like her love, I’d ne’er return again.

I apologized and then began the tale of my own sorrows,
how essentially I lived each day forlorn.
Though I loved my husband dearly and I longed to have him near,
his frequent travels meant he scarcely stayed at home.

We connected much like sisters and divulged a wealth of secrets.
In our misery, we howled up at the moon.
For the first time in my life I felt both understood and pitied.
It was hard to part when morning came so soon.

Daylight hours I slept away until the moon became my sunshine.
After dusk, I basked in treasured company,
until one windy autumn night a whispered wish disturbed my thoughts;
my ghostly sister bid eternity with me.

She said there was yet another vial of poison, left untouched.
Her fleeing lover had abandoned it in haste.
She suggested that if someone sought to reach the world beyond
the vial’s contents would require but a taste.

I’ll admit at first the notion was distressing to my mind.
“I have a husband and a home and seeds to sow!”
My spirit sister forced a smile. “And so you shall….at least a while.
Though eventually all treasures we forgo.”

I understood her subtle meaning: now or later ends the same.
But giving up my now seemed wasteful and unwise.
“You forget what you’d be gaining—an eternity together.
What you’d lose are lonely days that you despise.”

At the leading rays of sunrise, I proceeded toward my home.
It was impossible to sleep a wink that day.
Call it madness. Call it reason from an otherworld perspective.
The allure to join my friend had taken sway.

She was there for me. A ghost! Not now and then but every evening.
While the flesh-and-blood I’d married, he was gone.
Though he’d promised one week prior to return at dawning light,
my sole companion was an owl the whole day long.

Pulled apart by clashing wants, I chose to stay the night at home
and pray my husband would arrive before the dew.
I yearned to speak to him of love and verify his heart’s desire,
but the only voice I heard kept crying, “Who!”

So I contemplated hour by hour that one repeated word,
and in the morning I continued wide awake.
As the owl and I “whooed” out for you, my tears turned to a river.
And the sun, he traveled slowly for my sake.

And I waited.
Oh, I waited! ‘til the sky turned red with envy!
But you didn’t come to beg me stay with you.
Hence, my darling, where one lay now there are two.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E. Goodrich


Wednesday, September 15, 2021

The Harrowbethian Saga

     This is a six-book, young adult, fictional series that tells the story of Queen Eena of Harrowbeth. Though the tale begins on the planet Earth, it does not remain grounded in one, small area of the universe. There are diverse characters introduced along Eena's journey, each with a unique personality, culture, and background. Travel to new worlds as you share in the adventures of a young queen and her companions. Learn a bit of original mythology. Fret over life and love decisions. Treat your imagination to unexpected twists and turns! 

     Below are summaries of each book that makes up this fun saga. Start here, and prepare for some enjoyable days of reading...


The Harrowbethian Saga (6 books)


Series Summary:

After an unplanned trip to the doctor’s office, Sevenah Williams discovers that her ancestry is anything but human. This shocking news puts her on a course to find out the truth about her parents and a tragic past that placed her in hiding at a very young age. Eventually, she takes on her birth name, Eena, and accepts her birthright as the only living heir to the throne of Harrowbeth.

Eena soon learns that this privilege comes with a price, beginning with the painful process of being physically joined to an heirloom necklace known as the dragon’s soul. From that point on, Queen Eena slowly uncovers powers granted her by the necklace, giving her the ability to manipulate energy—a gift that comes in handy when she faces enemies who wish to see her royal line eliminated.

Eena must fight with new friends at her side including Derian, the captain of the Kemeniroc; Kira, a Mishmorat with might and spunk; Shanks and his crew of giant Viiduns; and Ian, her best friend and sworn protector. Her greatest challenges, however, turn out to be personal: learning to love, to trust, and to handle adult problems as a teenager.


_______________


Book 1 - Eena, The Dawn and Rescue
Book Summary: Sevenah Williams lives a quiet farm life until she stumbles upon a mysterious past and learns she is heir to the throne of Harrowbeth. She is the last living of royal blood able to don a peculiar and enchanted heirloom necklace. Given the new name, Eena, she sets off for a new home—a world plagued by civil war—only to discover that her enemies and allies are near impossible to distinguish.



Book 2 - Eena, The Return of a Queen


Book Summary: The young queen of Harrowbeth, has been saved from the clutches of her enemy, only to fear prophetic nightmares of being captured 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.



Book 3 - Eena, The Curse of Wanyaka Cave


Book Summary: Captain Derian and his crew have successfully returned the young Queen Eena to her home in Harrowbeth. Their enemy of over a decade has been defeated. The world awaits healing as peace once again settles over the land. Unfortunately for those closest to Eena, this much-deserved rest proves short-lived.Deep within Lacsar Forest inside the black walls of Wanyaka Cave, a childhood ghost story has become reality. A more powerful and enduring enemy lures the young queen to where two immortal sisters await in confines, having been imprisoned there for generations. These evil sisters and their brother, along with a dragon forced to do their bidding, combine efforts to manipulate Eena into helping them accrue a means of escape. Though she tries to refuse her assistance, every move she makes only seems to worsen her predicament. She fears losing Derian's trust, Ian's friendship, and possibly someone's life.



Book 4 - Eena, The Two Sisters


Book Summary: Queen Eena sees her world crumbling, chiefly the lives of those she loves most. Affected by a compassionate heart, she tries to console one man who mourns for a lost love while endeavoring to assure another she does indeed plan to marry him... someday. But emotions are sensitive and doubts strong, especially when provoked by the lying tongue of an immortal scoundrel.All the while the young queen continues to search for a way to defeat two devious, indestructible sisters who seem capable of manipulating outcomes regardless of Eena's attempts to thwart them. The closer she gets to fulfilling the final demands of these witches, the more it appears only one way exists to save herself and her world—by agreeing to join the enemy. But would that make her a hero or the ultimate traitor?



Book 5 - Eena, The Tempter's Snare


Book Summary: It is the queen’s eighteenth birthday, and all of Moccobatra is eagerly prepared to participate in a world-wide celebration. Mallawum ballgames; multicultural song and dance; bartering booths filled with books, trinkets, clothing, and other treasures; children’s games; delectable banquets—these are but a few things in store for the party. Within the year, the young queen of Harrowbeth will be married as tradition dictates. Her husband will then become the rightful king of Harrowbeth, and together they will rule the land as Shen and Sha.With a sure promise of happiness for Eena predicted by Arden’s Vision, it seems nothing can go wrong. But not everyone is happy with her choice of a suitor, especially when respectable men more fitted for the calling of king anxiously wait in line. Pressures mount and are added upon by disturbing dreams that seem beyond the average nightmare. Are these dreams merely a reflection of regrets? Or are they messages that require Queen Eena’s serious attention?



Book 6 - Eena, The Companionship of the Dragon's Soul



Book Summary: The young queen of Harrowbeth is determined to set things right, but doing so means breaking a few big rules. Joined by a select group of Harrowbethian militiamen, as well as a handful of Viidun warriors and a few spunky Mishmorat sisters, Queen Eena sets off for Laradine—the home world of the immortals.There in the land of Tribanees, with the support of her traveling companionship, she intends to confront the immortal governing body and convince them to undo a terrible wrong. But persuading immortals to concern themselves with the troubles of temporary beings may prove to be a futile waste of time. Things get carried away, plans are drastically altered, and before long Eena starts to wonder how many wrongs it will take to finally set things right.








The Harrowbethian Saga by Richelle E. Goodrich Copyright 2012 - 2019



Monday, August 2, 2021

An Excerpt from Slaying Dragons

 

"Many of us draw lines which we intend never to cross.

But life tests our resolve, mercilessly at times, and a foot budges, nudged past that thinly-drawn line. So we draw another, resolving never to cross this one. Days grow dark and fog creeps in to blind our view, clouding the reason for the line’s existence from our minds. We draw another mark, ashamed that the last was crossed with less coaxing than we imagined it would require. Shadows and doubts give further need to draw a new line, and then another and another.

Lines, I think, are too slim and obscure to be dependable deterrents for behavior. Too often, too easily, people stumble into places they later regret entering. What, then, keeps some individuals from crossing those narrow lines?

It is the power of values.

For if a person possessing values were to step one foot outside their line, they would be forced to release hands with those inflexible values and consciously abandon them. But their values are persuasive, keeping a tight grip, warding off the luring temptations beckoning one to test the line. Thus values maintained keep a person safely away from areas they dare not travel, steering a life between the lines, enhancing willpower and shaping mighty strength of character."

Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons: Quotes, Poetry, & a few Short Stories for Every Day of the Year 





Friday, March 12, 2021

What to Expect from Author, Richelle E. Goodrich, in 2021




“Enemies may unite to eliminate a common threat, but never without a wary eye fixed on their ally.”  
― Richelle E. Goodrich, The Tarishe Curse


Writing Again

     Yes, it has been a while since I last published a newsletter—nearly two years, actually. Hard to believe so many months have passed since I seriously sat down and authored anything creative. My heart and mind have found it difficult to focus on fictional worlds and poetry because a lot has happened in my real world.

     Normally, I refrain from mentioning much about my personal life; I prefer to shine the spotlight on my books rather than on me. But the truth is, my life was greatly upset some months ago. My circumstances were altered in drastic ways. I will not say tragic, because trials often prove to be doorways to improvement and growth, though I doubt many of us (if any) pray for experience in the form of harsh trials. Nonetheless, I have evolved throughout these months and find my life far better for what was done. I did not desire the hardships—betrayal and divorce (drop an epidemic on top of it)—but you can hardly force people to do or say or choose what you wish. It is not like shaping book characters where you can write a happy ending and make it so. But “what’s done is done,” as they say, and though I am not quite “right as rain,” I am well, confident, and happy.

     And I am ready to write again.

     That said… some of you may recall how in October of 2012 I started an annual Hallows Eve tradition. It was the year Duvalla, the Queen of Werefolk, came to life in my chilling tale titled The Tarishe Curse. Originally, it started as a short story written for a friend; I had no intention of creating a world around Duvalla. But curiosity as to “what happens next” made me consider the possibility of further adventures for the werewolves. I decided to add to the story the next Hallows Eve… and every October since (excepting last October for above mentioned reasons.)

     This year I made it my goal to finish writing The Tarishe Curse in its entirety. I will then self-publish the completed book in e-book, paperback, and hardcover forms. I hope to have this done with illustrated cover sometime in 2022. I am excited to give readers a spectacular ending—wild, blood-tingling, unpredictable, and well worth the long wait!

     In the meantime… where can you sample some beginning pages? Well, you are in luck! The first part of Duvalla’s story is posted on my author blogsite. Feel free to read it and share the link with friends. My plan is to have The Tarishe Curse available to preorder by the end of 2022… hopefully.


Read sample pages NOW!


SUMMARY: A thrilling piece of fiction from the Queen of Werefolk's point of view. It is challenging enough for Duvalla and Kresh to protect their young family in a world of Hallows Eve creatures, but such a feat proves near impossible when a witch bent on vengeance against the werewolves casts a Tarishe curse that manipulates both heart and mind. The fight is not only with the sword but an internal struggle to love the ones Duvalla has sworn under a spell to hate, and hate the one who through evil enchantment manipulates her heart.

____________________________________________________


What else am I working on?

Besides putting my main efforts into finishing up The Tarishe Curse, I am writing new poems to include in my book of original poetry, A Heart Made of Tissue Paper. I plan to include a few black-and-white illustrations with this book.



Wednesday, February 3, 2021

Little Gracie Gubler

 

Little Gracie Gubler was eight. She was a striking sight with her lava-red hair that hung as curly as a piglet’s tail and the sprinkling of cinnamon freckles on her nose and cheeks and fingers and toes. When she stood in place, it was with both feet apart, hands on her hips, shoulders square, chin high, lips grinning as if she were the most remarkable child in a school where nearly every other student towered over her. The truth is, Gracie’s confidence and pluck overflowed more than most. And it happened that these qualities—made manifest in her demeanor and countenance—were hard not to stare at.

Now, this freckle-faced, sprightly child had been born with a small frame and small ears that were somehow well-tuned to surrounding chit-chat. And Gracie Gubler had no qualms about joining in on a transpiring conversation if the topic proved of interest to her. In fact, she did so quite often. On one tulip-blooming spring day she happened to overhear Jeffrey Turner and Dylan Ewing gossiping about Mr. Quilter’s bald head—a head that had been covered with blond fuzz just a week ago. It was the last time they had seen their math teacher until he walked into school that morning without his hair. Jeffrey and Dylan were discussing Mr. Quilter as if they were piecing together a puzzle that would reveal the whole story; never mind if there existed any amount of truth to it.

“I heard that he was away on family business.”

“That’s what adults call it when it’s serious.”

“Yeah, like when someone dies.”

“Or when they’re going to die….like from a disease.”

“Like cancer.”

“Yeah. You know, they shave your head bald if you get cancer.”

“No they don’t; your hair falls out on its own. That’s what cancer does. That’s how they know you have it.”

“Well, it amounts to the same thing.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, really. And either way your head ends out bald, just like Mr. Quilter.”

“Poor guy’s probably real sick. No wonder he needed a week off.”

“Yeah. I bet he doesn’t even know that when your hair falls out it’s the worst kind of cancer. He’ll probably be dead in another week.”

“Or sooner.” The boys sighed a dismal sigh in concert. About that time, Gracie Gubler joined in their conversation.

“Do you two know what you’re talking about?” she asked. “Did Mr. Quilter tell you he was sick?”

Dylan and Jeffrey exchanged a guarded glance before answering. “Well, no, not exactly, but he didn’t have to say anything. He missed a week of school and came back with no hair…”

“And he’s acting really tired. It’s obvious he’s seriously sick.”

“Yeah, and only cancer takes all your hair that fast.”

Gracie pursed her lips together and placed both hands on her hips before swiveling about and marching directly to the school’s math room. There she found Mr. Quilter sitting at his desk, his bald head lowered into his hands. He did look tired. The classroom was empty; all the kids were outside on the playground.

Gracie interrupted the math teacher by clearing her voice. When he looked up, she asked him a simple question.

“Mr. Quilter, why is your head bald?”

After flashing a humored smile, he proceeded to explain how he had flown home to attend the funeral of his grandfather the prior week, and during that time he had been invited to play on his brother’s basketball team. Mr. Quilter had eagerly agreed, being tall and athletic and quite fond of the game. He had been less eager to agree to shaving his head in order to look like the other team players who took great pride in reflecting through appearances their team name—the Bald Eagles. However, a little guilt-ridden convincing by his brother had done the trick. Mr. Quilter flashed a wry smile as he rubbed his head and told Gracie, “It does make for faster showers in the morning.”

Little Gracie told her math teacher that she thought he looked fine with a bald head. Then she marched outside to report the truth to Jeffrey and Dylan who had already convinced a dozen surrounding children that they would soon be getting a new math teacher. Gracie stated that it was not so.

Later that day, outside the local grocery store where a troop of girl scouts was selling mint crèmes and coconut clusters and chunky chocolate cookies, Gracie was exiting the store behind her mother who stopped to purchase three boxes of mint crèmes, supporting the troop that her friend, Karin Summers, happened to direct as a parent volunteer. Both adults watched a neighbor lady, Miss Tyra Darling, walk out of the store carrying a case of beer in either hand. They began to talk in loud whispers, easily overheard by curious, young ears.

“That’s four cases this week. I saw Tyra purchase two cases a couple days ago.”

“Really? I say, that’s an awful lot of beer for a single woman who lives alone.”

“She’s got an obvious drinking problem. Beverly, who lives right next door to Tyra, told me no one ever comes over to that lonely house. Tyra never throws any parties or anything. Not that Beverly wants any loud, drunken partiers carrying on next door.”

“No, no, I’m sure she doesn’t want that. She would have to call the cops on something like that.”

“The woman is just a serious alcoholic. No doubt she’ll die from a bad liver—young and miserably alone.”

“What a tragedy. I don’t understand why people do stuff like that to themselves.”

During this conversation, every girl scout from Hannah Pepper to Hallie Nogues had their ears perked, listening. Gracie Gubler, alone, spun about and marched toward the silver sedan in which Tyra Darling had deposited her two cases of beer. The woman was just opening the driver’s seat door when a chipper “excuse me” stopped her. Gracie went to stand directly under Tyra’s nose and looked up to ask a simple question.

“Miss Darling, are you going to drink all of those beers yourself?”

The shocked recipient of the question put a hand to her heart, and her cheeks flushed red. She laughed at the thought. “Oh dear, dear, no, no!” She then leaned forward and explained to little Gracie that her hobby and passion was gardening. Every spring and summer she tended to a half an acre of garden behind her house which included rare flowers mixed with all sorts of herbs, fruits, and vegetables. The beer was used as bait in homemade bowl-traps that effectively lured and killed slugs, snails, and earwigs. She also sprayed the trees and bushes with beer because it attracted the most beautiful butterflies to her garden. Tyra laughed again and skewed her eyebrows. “I don’t even like the taste of beer,” she said. “But I will admit, I do mix up a pretty good beer batter when I’m in the mood for a fish fry.”

After accepting Miss Darling’s invitation to drop by at a later date and visit the beer-fertilized garden, Little Gracie Gubler marched back to report the truth to her mother and Karin (as well as the eavesdropping girl scouts.) The adults stared silently at Gracie for a few stunned moments.

“Huh, that’s good to know.”

“Yeah. I wonder if I could get her beer batter recipe.”

The next day at school, freckle-faced Gracie was in the library checking out a fairy tale storybook about Dimearians—people born with moth-type wings on their backs. She cocked an ear when she overheard Russ Montgomery whispering (partly because he was in a library and partly because he was gossiping) about LeiAnn Jones, a new girl from Wisconsin who had joined their class two weeks prior. She had proven to be a quiet sort and had checked out five thick books after receiving special permission from the librarian.

“She’s a snot, I tell you. Thinks she’s smarter and better than the rest of us. I bet she doesn’t even read those books. Just showing off, hoping the rest of us will think Wisconsin grows brainiacs like it grows cheese.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t grow cheese…” someone started to say.

“You know what I mean. That LeiAnn girl is so big-headed, she won’t even say ‘how d’ya do’ to anyone. Has she talked to you? ‘Cause she hasn’t said one word to me.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Nope.”

“Not one word.”

“And have you said one word to her?”

The question took the other kids by surprise, in part because it was voiced louder than appropriate for a library setting, but mostly because the speaker had not been included in the conversation. Gracie Gubler ran her probing eyes over every kid huddled about the reading table. Then she turned and headed to a corner of the library where LeiAnn Jones was sitting by herself with a pile of books on her lap. She had one cracked open hiding her face. It took LeiAnn a moment to lower the book when she heard someone address her by name. As soon as Gracie could see the blue of LeiAnn’s eyes, she asked a simple question.

“Why don’t you join the rest of the class at the reading table?”

LeiAnn glanced in the direction of the other kids who were staring with tight eyes at Gracie’s back. The new girl swallowed hard, and then timidly explained that she felt uncomfortable. No one had invited her to sit with them, and she didn’t want to assume they would welcome her. Shrugging it off, she told the inquisitive red-head that she was fine—“I have my books.” LeiAnn then confessed, “I’m not very good at making new friends.”

After chatting with LeiAnn Jones, finding that they had a common love for fantasy books, Gracie marched back to the reading table to report the truth to Russ Montgomery and the other children, after which a few of them decided to go introduce themselves to the new girl.

And so it was with Gracie. Whenever she heard someone speak a word of assuming gossip, she was quick to learn and share the truth. Thus, Bobby Black learned that he had not been callously dumped by Darin Caraway as a best friend; the birthday invitation had been mailed by his mother to the wrong address. Elizabeth Bifano learned that Kimmy Jackson did in fact adore her daisy-yellow dress, even though Kimmy’s least favorite color in the world was yellow. Madelyn Jenks learned that their school teacher did not own a jar where he kept the names of bad students he meant to feed to the alligators at the end of the school year. And Mindi Bergeson learned that Scarlet Elliott’s unfortunate case of acne was not the result of kissing frogs in the pond on the Elliot’s farm. Therefore, when anyone saw the little freckle-faced redhead marching near, they would check their conversation—because if their comments weren’t the verified truth, it was foolish business to gossip in front of Gracie Gubler.


-- A short story from Slaying Dragons by Richelle E. Goodrich

Copyright 2017 Richelle E. Goodrich




Wednesday, January 6, 2021

New Writing Goals


     This last New Year's Eve, I jotted down a few goals to accomplish, which of course include eating healthier and writing significantly more; those are ongoing. I am presently working on a story I started a few years back--a Hallows Eve short story that, year-by-year, has evolved into a book. My goal is to finish writing the entire book and then illustrate a beautiful cover before publishing this magical tale about the cursed Queen of Werefolk. Look for the complete story of The Tarishe Curse in 2022. It will be a truly epic treat!


Book Summary:

A thrilling piece of fiction from the Queen of Werefolk's point of view. It is challenging enough for Duvalla and Kresh to protect their young family in a world of Hallows Eve creatures, but such a feat proves near impossible when a witch bent on vengeance against the werewolves casts a Tarishe curse that manipulates both heart and mind. The fight is not only with the sword but an internal struggle to love the ones Duvalla has sworn under a spell to hate, and hate the one who through evil enchantment manipulates her heart.

Thursday, December 31, 2020

Looking Back, I See Progress



    Eight years ago, I published my first book, Eena, The Dawn and Rescue

 
  It was a huge accomplishment for me. A dream that I worked hard to make a reality. At the time my book debuted, I introduced myself on social media. It was exciting to gain followers and receive feedback on my work. It was a surprise to discover quotes from my book and later books printed in magazines, newsletters, and on various social sites. it was touching to hear from individuals who told me my words influenced their lives. 

     Over the past eight years I have been blessed to have my book quotes appear in a variety of places, including in seven plus versions of Chicken Soup for the Soul, in an Oxford Philosophy: Being Human course book, in a Revlon ad magazine campaign, and on an opening scene of the television program, Alone. What a thrill!

     I enjoy looking back to compare the starting numbers with present numbers. It is motivating to see progress. I have learned to appreciate the slow and steady increase in followers, book sales, internet posts, and loyal readers.  On the brink of a new year, one in which I place great expectations, it seems like the perfect time for personal reflection. So here goes...

Eight years ago, 40 people liked my most popular book quote on Goodreads. I had about thirty quotes on Goodreads at the time. 
Four years ago, my most popular quote reached 237 likes (out of 977 posted on Goodreads.)  
Today, my most popular quote on Goodreads has 371 likes, and there are now1,665 of my book quotes posted on Goodreads. Wow! I guess I have a lot to say.

Eight years ago, 8 people considered my writing inspiring enough to call themselves a fan or follower on Goodreads. 
Four years ago, the number reached 149
Today, 228 people now follow me as fans on Goodreads. Thank you!

Eight years ago, I started out with 3 followers on Twitter. 
Four years ago, that number increased to 887
Today, I have 2,294 Twitter followers. Thank you too!

Four years ago, 13,552 visits were made to my author website. 
Today, my author website has had 20,089 visits (and counting.) Yay!

Four years ago, 441 people followed my Facebook author page, 397 followed me on Instagram, and 41 followed me on Tumblr. 
Today, 581 people follow my Facebook author page, 466 follow my Instagram page, and 155 follow me on Tumbler. Slow and steady progress.




From the first book I published in April of 2012, eleven other self-published books have followed: a six-book saga titled the Harrowbethian Saga, a Novel with an  accompanying short fairytale, and four motivational books that give readers an original quote/poem/story for every day of the year. I love this stuff!




     I am grateful to all who have supported me as a poet and novelist. Thank you for purchasing my books. Thank you for leaving kind comments and reviews on Amazon, Goodreads, and other websites where my books are sold--it really helps. Thank you for telling friends and acquaintances about my written works. 

     2021 promises to be a perfect year for writing. It may not be lightning fast, but I am clearly moving closer to reaching my goals as a writer. I can see it as I look back at my progress.

Happy New Year, all, 




Friday, December 4, 2020

A Santa Story by Richelle E. Goodrich

I could feel excitement radiating from every person in the auditorium. Holiday carols featuring jingly bells and brash horns boomed from surrounding speakers. Glitter-heavy, paper snowflakes twirled overhead, dangling from silver string. There were lots of kids. Dozens. Most of them my age, some younger, not many older. An entire line of us were eagerly waiting, smiles pinned on our faces. Why would we not smile when Santa Claus—plump, jolly, fluffily bearded, and in the flesh—sat on his golden throne at the front of the line?

The fat man in red was surrounded by skinny, happy elves dressed in festive attire. None of the elves were as dwarfed as I had imagined they would be, but that meant nothing. Short or tall, they were plainly Santa’s elves. I could tell by how they beamed pure joy while handing out candy canes to mesmerized kids seated on Santa’s lap. I could hardly wait for my turn to tell the big guy how well-behaved I had been this year and how desperately I hoped for a brand new, cobalt-blue, silver-striped, Razor SX500 McGrath Rocket Electric Motorcross dirt bike for Christmas… with matching-blue full-face helmet of course.

I’d been waiting in line for a full thirty minutes, watching elves twirl candy-canes around their fingers, when a larger kid at the front of the line climbed up a set of wide, wooden steps to meet Santa. It was hard not to stare at the kid because he looked like an actual son of St. Nick. They were both big guys, both dressed in Christmas-red pantsuits with black belts and gold buckles. I suppose what happened next should have been anticipated, but it actually surprised us all.

It’s not like I never imagined doing the same thing, but a nagging inner voice always warned me that no-way-in-the-north-pole could I expect a gift from Santa Claus if I ever succumbed to the temptation of tugging on his snow-white beard. Such an act of disrespect seemed a naughty-list offense for sure. That said, it genuinely stunned me (and everyone else in the room) when the big kid seated on Santa’s lap had the nerve to do just that! It was no gentle tug either. He yanked so hard that the pillowy beard ripped clean off the old man’s face! A collective gasp echoed within the vaulted ceiling like a sound of rushing water, and we all stood there frozen…stunned…staring at a most unexpected sight.

Green.

That was the color of the exposed facial hair. It was short, scruffy, and green. I had never seen a green beard before. Well, except once on an animated character from a show that rhymed a tale about some dastardly creature who hated Christmas so much he tried to steal it from an entire township of Whovillers.

The big kid who was holding an apparently fake, white beard quickly tore off Santa’s velvety hat as well, revealing a matt of hair as green in color as the man's real beard. A few girls screamed at seeing it.

I pointed an accusatory finger at the charlatan. “He’s not Santa!” I hollered. “He’s the Grinch!

The little girls who had screamed a note of shock were joined by others who screeched much louder and much longer, supporting my hasty deduction.

Now, I’m not sure if things that happen as a result of what you say are rightly your fault, for I had no intention of setting into motion what transpired next; nonetheless, my announcement caused a bit of alarm. The Grinch—that Christmas-hating monster—had already heard and memorized the gift-wishes of numerous children. He knew what kind of presents would be under their trees on the eve of December twenty-fourth. Aghast at this thought, we understood that the greatest enemy of Christmas had tricked us in the same way he had tricked unsuspecting Whovillers! Christmas was in jeopardy, and unless something was done to prevent it, the holiday would be spoiled for everyone!

The bold kid who had unmasked the pretender was first to assail the Grinch, grabbing him by his green whiskers while accusing him in a loud voice of abducting the real Santa Claus.

“Where is he?” the boy demanded. “What have you done with Santa?”

The Grinch growled a sound of pain and attempted to pry the boy’s hands from his face, but the kid held on tight, demanding the release of old St. Nick. Many other children chimed in, voicing their concerns about the welfare and whereabouts of poor Santa Claus too until all at once we witnessed an unthinkable betrayal by none other than the candy-cane-toting elves! Three of them laid hands on the big kid and yanked him off the Grinch’s lap; however, the green-haired villain was pulled along because no one thought to remove the chubby fingers clamped to his beard.

A child in line shouted out the obvious. “Traitors! You’re not elves!”

I had suspected as much earlier, having naïvely forgiven their uncharacteristic tallness in light of a convincing merry performance. They had fooled us and nearly gotten away with it!

The nonelves ganged up on the big kid and worked together to pry him off their bossthe nasty Mr. Grinch. Just then, a lanky, blonde-haired boy in Harry Potter glasses cupped his hands on either side of his mouth and sounded a deafening war cry. It was instantly heeded by good little children desperate to protect their spot on Santa’s nice list. We rose up like an army, prepared to defend the old man who would have been dizzily proud of us had he witnessed our united act of loyalty.

Children stormed the stage—despite parental attempts at interference—and tackled the Grinch, taking down his pointy-eared cronies as well. The villains tried to resist but were outnumbered by angry boys and girls who hugged tight to limbs, tugging at hair and clothing. It was enough to force them to the ground where they were stripped of their candy-canes and festive hats. Soon enough, a chant began that quickly rose in volume.

“Bring back Santa! Bring back Santa! Bring back Santa!”

“Okay, okay!” the Grinch surrendered, shaking two toddlers off his arms in order to sit up. “I’ll go get Santa.”

“We want the real Santa Claus,” growled the big, bold kid. He eyed the Grinch distrustfully.

“Yeah, yeah… the real St. Nick.” But no sooner had the name been voiced when a hearty “Ho, ho, ho!” carried across the room. It was a strong voice. It was confident. And it was jolly.

The nonelves were allowed to sit up as all eyes darted about, looking for the man in red. He appeared from behind a tall, decorated Christmas tree, his tubby tummy shaking with every “Ho, ho, ho.” No one moved. No one blinked or breathed or uttered a word. We simply watched the fat man in his plush, red suit; black, shiny boots; full, blushing cheeks and snow-white beard make his way to the stage before climbing up to take a seat on the golden throne.

“Well, now,” he said to the big kid who still looked the spitting image of St. Nick. “You mind letting my elves have their hats back?”

“Those are really your elves?” the kid asked. He looked skeptical. I was skeptical too.

“Yes, son, they are some of my best elves.”

The big kid scrunched his eyes wondering. There was only one way to tell if this jolly old man was telling the truth. Without missing a beat, the boy’s fingers clamped onto a fistful of beard and tugged. A collective gasp echoed once again but was quickly drowned out by cheers of joy.

The beard was real! The old man truly was Santa Claus in the flesh!

He belted a good, hearty laugh and accepted warm hugs from relieved young persons who then lined up to have a turn on the real Santa’s lap.

Thank goodness Christmas had been saved—due to the combined efforts of good, brave, observant boys and girls. We were heroes! At least I think we were. Our parents seemed less than pleased. And apparently no one noticed when the Grinch slyly slithered away. 

Copyright 2019 Richelle E. Goodrich, Being Bold

Monday, November 30, 2020

Being Grateful - Nov 30th

 


This November, I have taken on the challenge of pondering blessings that I commonly overlook. Things I would certainly miss if they were gone, yet scarcely give much thought. My goal is to share daily one typically-ignored blessing for which I am truly thankful.



Nov. 30th:

This past month I have made daily posts about things for which I am thankful, particularly blessings I seldom contemplate. This self-appointed assignment to document my gratitude has been a positive experience. That’s the thing about gratitude, it has great natural benefits.

Gratitude actually improves psychological and physical health. Not all that surprising if you think about it. Feeling thankful is a happy emotion that in turn reduces toxic emotions such as envy, regret, and disappointment. This healthier mental well-being has a positive effect on the body’s physical well-being since happy people are more likely to exercise, treat themselves well, and get medical check-ups. 

Studies have shown that gratitude reduces social comparisons, resulting in improved self-esteem. Counting your blessings before bedtime has been shown to improve the quality and length of sleep. According to some university studies, people who regularly show appreciation are also more likely to be kind and empathetic towards others. Being thankful and appreciative reduces the desire for retaliation, even when the hurt is significant.

There are additional benefits to being a person who is grateful in all things—improved quality in romantic relationships, added friendships, stronger family relationships, reduction in suicidal thoughts, greater satisfaction with life, increased optimism, more generous nature, improved patience, better decision-making, and more! So, this final day of November, I am truly thankful for the rich, abundant benefits of being thankful.


 

Sunday, November 29, 2020

Being Grateful - Nov 29th

 

This November, I have taken on the challenge of pondering blessings that I commonly overlook. Things I would certainly miss if they were gone, yet scarcely give much thought. My goal is to share daily one typically-ignored blessing for which I am truly thankful.



Nov. 29th:

I am thankful for simple, thoughtful acts of kindness. Small gestures that make a huge difference to the recipient. Hugs and kisses. Friendly letters. Thank-you cards. Smiles. Empathy. Mercy. A helping hand. Wise advice. Genuine compliments. Words of encouragement. 

There are so many things a person can do to extend kindness to others. Acts of recognition, acts of gratitude, acts of love, acts of support—all can be communicated through small and uncomplicated means. I love that this is true. It honestly takes very little to make someone feel appreciated.

Saturday, November 28, 2020

Being Grateful - Nov 28th

 


This November, I have taken on the challenge of pondering blessings that I commonly overlook. Things I would certainly miss if they were gone, yet scarcely give much thought. My goal is to share daily one typically-ignored blessing for which I am truly thankful.



Nov. 28th:

I like titles and designations such as teacher, healer, mother, daughter, sister, philosopher, author, poet, manager, companion, wife… the list goes on. 

Some titles we earn. Others we are given. Either way, they play an important part in defining who we are, both to ourselves and to other people. They contribute to our developing self-image. A title outlines a role; it suggests what we do and what we know. 

It is a strange thing how a simple title or designation modifies the way we see ourselves. As we grow, our titles change and often multiply. With these changes in title come changes in our self-perception. I appreciate that they reflect our evolving maturity and progression over time.

Friday, November 27, 2020

Being Grateful - Nov 27th

 

This November, I have taken on the challenge of pondering blessings that I commonly overlook. Things I would certainly miss if they were gone, yet scarcely give much thought. My goal is to share daily one typically-ignored blessing for which I am truly thankful.



Nov. 27th:

I have a voice. With my throat and mouth, I can form audible sounds—words, laughter, melodies, and other noises. I can speak to an audience, argue with a colleague, giggle with my girlfriends, sing in a choir, yodel, whistle, cheer, and roar. It is wonderful to have a voice. 

I love using my voice to talk over the phone. My closest friend lives many miles from my house, so we spend many hours on the phone, often reading books to each other. My friend is talented at character voices, both male and female, which makes the stories come to life. It is incredible how a single voice can be altered to create such a wide range of sounds! 

I am grateful to have a voice with which to communicate and entertain, and I am grateful to hear so many wonderful voices chatting, singing, and laughing all around me.

Thursday, November 26, 2020

Being Grateful - Nov 26th

 

This November, I have taken on the challenge of pondering blessings that I commonly overlook. Things I would certainly miss if they were gone, yet scarcely give much thought. My goal is to share daily one typically-ignored blessing for which I am truly thankful.



Nov. 26th:

My family just celebrated Thanksgiving, and my oh my did I use my hands a lot! I chopped a lot of vegetables, stirred thickened sauces, sliced a whole turkey, whisked and spooned and peeled and buttered and scrubbed... oh yes, my hands were very busy! 

Now that Thanksgiving is over, my kids are spending time together playing card games (busy with their hands) and I am writing this blog about how grateful I am for the hands I take for granted. I write, I draw, I paint, I play piano (a little) I cook, I clean, I type (for hours at work.) It is amazing how useful and used my hands are, yet I seldom stop to appreciate the miracle they are. I am very grateful to have two, healthy, able hands.