Image by Anja from Pixabay

Something stares at me from the end of the lawn every morning.

At first I thought it was a shadow, the way the sun cast its light against a tangle of trees and shrubs. At first, I thought it was nothing, just my imagination on a cold morning. At first I thought it was nothing…

Yet each day it watches, me just on the edge of civilization, at the edge where the bramble by the stream rises up to meet the manicured lawn of my apartment complex. It stands there, just inside the shadows, possibly human, possibly not. I think it’s just my imagination…

Every day it watches me.

Author L Becker: This is how the end of the world shall be written….

Once upon a time there were two brothers who shared a face. The oldest, the first born and heir to his father’s vast lands, was short tempered, angry, and cruel. He was born with a fierce nature his parents could never explain or control. The younger brother was sweet, a loving and devoted son who brought his parents only joy. 

As the brothers aged the people embraced the younger son with his smiles and charming ways and shunned the older, who became more angry, more sullen, and quicker to boughts of rage.

As it happened as the boys grew into adulthood the neighboring kingdom attacked and all men of fighting age, the brothers included, were conscripted to fight the king’s war.

Many years passed while the brothers’ parents waited for word on their sons. At long last a single rider came, dust laden and weary to bring them the joyful news, their son was returning home. Which son they demanded even as another rider approached, more travel stained and wearier than his predecessor.

The news this rider carried answered the question of which son would be coming home. With somber eyes and sad voice, the rider told the old man and his lovely wife that their eldest son, the king’s champion, the greatest warrior of the land, had been slain even has he had secured victory for all. The messenger expressed his sorrow and sympathy for their grief, only to find there was none. They shed no tears at the news he carried, instead they hugged each other in joy because their youngest, their beloved, charming son, lived and was coming home.

They thanked both me, fed them well and sent them on their way. Then, filled with joy that their beloved son was returning, his parents turned their attentions to preparing for his triumphant return.

Many days and many nights passed before a lone rider was spotted approaching in the distance. The manor house came alive and excitement, prepared to welcome their beloved son, the new and rightful heir to the lands. The people rejoiced, for now they would be ruled upon the old lord’s death by his kind and generous second son, and not the angry, short tempered eldest, who had to their great joy, perished in the death of a hero.

Anwinn, beloved of the eldest brother was the only one who did not rejoice in his death and the deliverance of his youngest brother. Only she had loved Cuillen, only she had seen beneath the dark looks and angry eyes. Only she had been recipient of his tenderness, his kindness. She had loved him and had awaited his triumphant return so that they could be wed and she could become his wife. Now, her love was gone and his brother, a charming fool, was returning in his place.

She had no love for Carrick, though he carried his brother’s face. She had seen beneath his charm to the selfish boy who lived in leisure while his brother Cuillen, heir and unloved had been pushed and shaped into a weapon, into the perfect heir. She had seen how their parents had fawned upon Carrick because he was quick to smile and possessed a silver tongue. She had seen the bruises Cuillen carried because he did not smile and would not bend so easily to their father’s iron will. His shyness they had taken for sullenness, his innate sadness for angry and rage. They had silenced and imprisoned him in their beliefs and his anger had been unleashed. Yet it had been no greater than Carrick’s spoiled rants. Yet their view of him had been twisted since his birth, they had shaped him into a man to be feared. A man who did not smile and who only showed kindness to few. He had been all they created him to be and now he was no more. Her beloved was dead and she was now to wed his copy, the lesser version of himself with an arrogant smile and careless charm.

At last, the new heir arrived, a single ride dust laden and road weary. The man that swung down from his exhausted steed had no ready smile. Had no quick and charming words for his parents. He approached them; weariness evident in his every step. Bowing low he greeted them. “Your son has returned.”

A cry of joy went up as he was folded into the embrace of his loving parents. Only Anwinn wept tears of grief while many wept tears of joy.

Three days of rejoicing followed and none missed how the Carrick never smiled. The bright son had changed, and they whispered of how the horrors he had faced upon the battlefield had changed him, yet still they were happy he had returned. How much worse would have Cuillen been they reasoned, if Carrick was so stern, how much darkness which Cuillen had returned with? Glad were they that the younger son had been the one to return since war could change a man so much.

A month passed and Anwinn, beloved of Cuillen was now to wed his brother Carrick, now heir to his father’s lands and benefactor of all that had been his brother’s.

Duty bound she pledged herself before God and all mankind to be a devoted wife, yet when darkness fell and Anwinn found herself awaiting her new husband alone in their chamber she began to weep. She still loved Cuillen, and raged that it would not be he to which she gave up her maidenhead. To which she was now bound until death. She wept and did not hide her tears when the doors opened and her groom entered, bringing with him the raucous laughter of the revelers on the floor below.

The door closed behind him, closing them into silence, yet he did not approach. He stood just by the door, watching her, and defiant, even in her grief, she met those eyes and for a moment saw her beloved in the man standing before her. Her heart broke anew and she wept aloud at the cruelty of the fates.

“Why do you weep lady? Is it fear that washes your lovely eyes?” He asked, though he still did not approach and the room lay between them, empty and cold.

“I do not fear you.”

“Good. I am your husband; you have no need of fear when in my presence.”

Now he stepped closer and Anwinn could not prevent the new wave of grief from washing over her.

“Come lady, confess to me the cause of these tears.”

Anwinn looked up into the face so like her beloveds and confessed as he had demanded. “You are not the one to which I belong. You are not the one to whom my heart is bound. You are not him.”

To her surprise only laughter met her words. 

“Why do you laugh, sir? Do you mock my pain?”

“No, lady. I laugh because you, and only you, have wept for me. I laugh because it is all I do not to cry. The whole world has rejoiced at the deliverance of Carrick the bright. They have welcomed me with bright song and joy, all the while maligning the memory of who I truly am. It was not Cuillen that died alone upon the fields of battle. It was not Carrick who returned alone through the lands of his enemy. It was not Carrick to which you were wed this day, beloved. Cuillen did not die though his parents and people wished it. Cuillen overcame the blades of his enemies, earned favor in the eyes of the king and returned home a hero to carry the ill news that though he lived his twin had perished. It was Cuillen who returned and was embraced as his fallen brother. It was Cuillen who was told how pleased they were that Carrick had lived and Cuillen had died. And it was Cuillen who you married and who now stands before you.”

The truth of his words Anwinn never doubted. She knew that voice, knew those eyes and knew the soul that looked at her from the face of her beloved.

She rose from the bed and ran into his arms, a willing and joyful wife.

And so it was that Carrick the Bright was never mourned and Cuillen the Dark was never missed. Cuillen and Anwinn lived long, raised many children, and never shared the truth that Carrick the Bright had never returned to the village of his birth.

Author L Becker: This is how the end of the world shall be written….

When something really resonates, I often find myself writing in my sleep. During my dreams I sometimes capture the perfect words to describe my thoughts and what is lingering my heart. When I wake the words have flown, and I struggle to recapture them so I can voice myself, my heart, my mind. Last night was the same. I wrote in my dream, had the perfect words to describe what the lyrics of “Strange Fruit” sung by Billie Holiday woke inside me. It was perfect, my words, my thoughts, accurately displayed. But with the rising sun they have faded and I am left trying to stumble my way through all I feel inside. 

I have always known of slavery, of lynching, of the horrors done to Black men and women. I read of them in black words on white pages, in history books and articles. I knew, but somehow, never “knew”. How is it that we can be taught dates and times and names and are never told the story? We’re never told in history class the way it smelled. The bodies hanging on trees, how the flies gather and the crows cry with greedy voices to devour our family. We’re never told how it would feel to stand beneath the shadow of your mother’s dead body, her eyes plucked away, her tongue sticking out, swollen in death because she choked and struggled at the end of a rope. A rope tied by angry, selfish men. We’re told and not. This is information, a picture we should all see and for some reason we have to hunt it out. Why? Why haven’t we been told ALL the stories? Why haven’t we been made to connect and feel like this is OUR history? Why do we say it is Black history when it is all of ours? The horror of it is ours. The pain they endured, all of it is OURS. They are US. They are our family and they are ignored. 

They cry, they hurt. They are WE. This horrible past is our responsibility. And don’t start the argument of “my family never owned slaves”, “my family-“ 

Shut up! That’s not the point. OWN THIS HISTORY. OWN THE HORROR. OWN AND ACKNOWLEDGE THEIR PAIN!

It happened, so show me. Show US. Make it REAL. 

Stop hiding behind shame and take responsibility. It belongs to us. It belongs to me. 

This is the history of my people, because they are MINE.

Make is Real – A Poem by L Becker

When you read of things in history class

It looks and feels the distant past

Very rarely do we compare

The distance in time from here to there

I read of slavery and do not see

Bodies swinging on the trees

I read words in black and white

Never feeling the urgency in the fight

For justice and equality

For human beings just to be free

It seems separate, disconnected from me

To this past I’ve been partially blind

Disconnected and not claiming it as mine

I have no distant relative

Who were killed because of their skin

I say what does this have to do with me?

Because what’s written doesn’t make me see

Doesn’t make me feel and realize

What children watching parents eaten by flies

I do not live inside their hearts

Having read only bits and parts

I am disconnected to the truth, to reality

Living in a bubble, white washed, so pretty

Tell me more than what is written and told

Make me feel, see, smell what it was like to be sold

Tell me more than facts and a date

Make me understand the root of hate

Bring the truth home to me

So I can finally truly be

Connected to the world in which I live

So at long last we can outlive

The past so broken and wrong

To acknowledge a people made strong

No longer shall I be

Disconnected from my world’s history.

I’m a pagan who very rarely gets to be. Who doesn’t always have the choice to observe the high holidays, the sabbats and esbats and traditions of my chosen faith. I don’t even get to observe the traditional holidays most of the world does. In part it is by choice. A large part by necessity and through survival. Self-employed people don’t always get to choose their time off. I get days off when no one wants my services, not because I choose not to work. I’ve worked on Easter, 4^th of July, Thanksgiving, every Memorial Day and Labor Day for the past ten years. I’ve worked Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the  day after. I’ve worked more New Year’s eves than I can count and my share of Valentine’s and Halloween. It is part of being self-employed. I take the work when I can get it, which means many of my holy days you’ll find me at work, wishing I was out in nature, celebrating, commemorating and connecting to my faith.

Today is Ostara, and I am at work. I did not get to watch the sunrise over a circle, I will not get to walk under trees in the new light of spring. 

Still, I will celebrate in my way. I will take a moment to acknowledge this day, this rebirth of the sun. To revel in new warmth, new life, new everything. Spring is my season, my time. I am an April baby and with the new found sun I come alive each year. The cold melts away and I feel renewed like flowers coming back from a long winters slumber.

Ostara for me is the birth of that new life. A new year, refreshed and invigorated. I am ready to embrace the sun, the flowers. I am desperate to be outside and alive.  These sabbats are more than the acknowledgement of gods, old and new. They mark the passage of time, the reminder to be grateful because life is short and precious. The reminder to acknowledge the passing seasons, the ebb and flow of the tide of time. To remember we are connected to the earth, to nature. That we do not live apart, but a part of this amazing world. 

I start fresh, I start anew each sabbat, each turning of the wheel. I reaffirm myself to myself. I set new goals, shake off old doubts and begin again. Rebirthed and reborn so many times throughout the year, every shedding the old to don new layers of self. 

Ostara for me is another rebirth. The quickening of life and energy inside my mind. It brings me hope and happiness and, I will confess, a little fear. Not fear that time is passing or that my birthday is quickly approaching to count down the years of my life. No, the fear that something more will awaken me, the fearful mania of my Bipolar. This is the season I will go manic if I do. So while I am awake and happy, I am watching myself. Waiting, worrying that this joy is not real and will spiral into a storm of manic anxiety that will lead to fear and self-destruction. 

Still, I love the spring. It is my time.

What does success look like to you? Fame, fortune? Contentment? For me defining success is a struggle, a tight rope I walk in balance drive/ambition and joy. How do you define success? I’m working to define mine.

Until next time,

L

For me the best fiction has fully developed, real-feeling characters that I can love and hate. As a writer of Romantic fiction it’s important to develop the proper balance of power in the main couple. Here’s my two cents.

Until next time,

L

So, for years I’ve been a PC girl and have been happy. Mostly. However, over the past few years I’ve been leaning more and more towards getting a Mac and switching OS. Most of this decision was prompted by the random virus, slowly degrading usability of my PC’s and the necessity of having to purchase a new PC every 2 years. I kept trying to find the perfect PC. But my discontent kept growing, so, after much debate I finally broke down and am now officially a MacBook owner. I knew it would happen, I’m an Apple girl all the way, owning an Apple Watch, 2 iPhones (one personal, one business) and an iPad. So, you would think the transition would have happened sooner. Honestly, I had considered a Mac, but the idea of learning a whole new OS, not to mention the price tag that is attached to one of these bad boys deterred me. Now, at long last, I gave in and bought the Mac I’ve been wanting for a long time. 

After lots of research I opted for the MacBook Air, a lightweight, mobile friendly version with a nice, bouncy keyboard, and all the benefits of an Apple product. After downloading Windows/Word for Mac OS I’ve got to say I’m already in love. Yes, there is a learning curve, but not as big of one as I had feared. I’m still trying to learn all the shortcuts, but I’m a quick study. I’m a happy girl and can’t wait to write my next book on this bad boy.

So, tell me, are you a Mac or PC user? Which do you prefer and why? Let me know. 

Until next time, 

L

Storytime again! This time we’re getting a tidbit from Chapter 2 of Angel’s Gate. Angel’s Gate is the first book in my ShadowGate Series. Available now for purchase. Today I wanted to give you a little preview, the beginning of Chapter 2. We are introduced to our MC, AG’s, childhood home. Read on for a teaser of Angel’s Gate or click the video above to have me read to you!

Chapter 2 – Angel’s Gate:

It still looked the same.

With the gray of dawn spreading through the streets, it looked to AG as if no time had passed since she had left Shelter Cove. As if the last decade had simply been erased. The mountains cupped it on three sides, their shoulders heavy with the deep green of pine and hemlock. The slinking mists of early dawn rolled in off the lake, disguising the signs of progress, the scars left by time. It was easy not to notice the scattering of new houses set back in the trees or the new marina, swallowed by the morning fog as it stretched out into the still, dark waters. There were other signs time hadn’t stood still, yet not enough to remove the strange and sinking sensation that she had never really escaped.

She was not the same kid who had left, in that decade she had found her freedom, her strength and one quick trip back couldn’t strip all of it away. Could it? She wasn’t a child anymore and this wasn’t her world. Still the feeling of being sucked back in time remained with her, darkening her heart and thoughts.

The SUV wove its way through the familiar roads and she found herself remembering her childhood at every turn. There was the corner she had crashed her new ten speed on Christmas twenty years before. There was the high school where she had kissed her first boy and done a lot more than that a night or two in senior year. Those were memories she looked back fondly on. She had loved Luke Olson as only a teenage girl could and he had been a sweet boy.

Somewhere she had heard he was married, the father of two. Still a sweet boy.

There was the Midtown Market, where she had worked her first job the summer she turned sixteen…

Shelter Cove was filled with memories, both good and bad, but it would never again be her home. She could not see herself growing old in that place. She couldn’t see herself ever giving up her career and life in San Francisco to live in that postage stamp town. Couldn’t imagine herself marrying and raising a passel of kids, with two cars in the drive and a dog in the yard. She couldn’t imagine that as her life, even though a small voice whispered it would have been easy to if she tried. She didn’t want to try. That domestic vision was what her mother had wanted and had never achieved. She wasn’t going to want the same thing and spend her life regretting when it never happened. She was smarter than that. She would make the life she wanted and her life was in California, three thousand miles away.

When they turned onto the street leading to her childhood home the pain inside of AG seemed to shift, expand. Unconsciously she raised a hand to press it against her heart. Home…

The house still stood as it always had, two stories, rich brown siding with a wide porch and peaked ceiling. Two large windows looked out onto the carefully kept lawn, one from the living room, the other from the breakfast nook. In the dim morning light the house looked tired, sad. Or that was how AG felt inside as she looked at it, knowing it was empty.

Until next time,

L

I’ve been a fan of Steve Alten’s since I was nineteen years old. Ever since I discovered Meg. That book introduced me to sharks in a new way and I’ve loved megalodon’s ever since. I even have a 1.8 million year old Carcharocles Megalodon tooth sitting in my office. My pride and joy. So, being a huge fan of his, when I saw the Loch sitting on the shelf at a local thrift store I just had to buy it. I mean, Steve Alten, and the Loch Ness monster? What more could I ask for.

Apparently, a LOT more. While Mr. Alten is an extremely intelligent and imaginative writer, with great, fast paced action and clear visuals, he really SUCKS at writing humans. While all his characters SUCK, his female characters are enough to make me want to slap the man, almost enough to make me forget how much I loved Meg and the sequel, The Trench. Almost. His females are completely one dimensional, all big boobs and brainless.

I was, to say the least, disappointed. On the Brightside however, I did end up with an amusing rant for my YouTube channel.

Check it out for all the details and why you shouldn’t waste your time reading The Loch by Steve Alten. If you’re going to read anything by him, buy the Meg. I don’t think you’ll regret it.

Until next time,

L

2020 has been a weird year. I know you’ve heard me say that a million times and have said so yourself even more. There’s been so much crazy it can be hard to focus on the good. To slow down and try to make yourself live even when it feels like there’s no end in sight and normal has flown far, far away. All of us have been forced to adapt, forced to isolate away from the ones we love and during this isolation we’ve occasionally neglected ourselves, both the physical and the motional.

With that knowledge in mind my sister, Lily, and I decided we needed a self-care day. In years past we might have gone to our favorite spa for manis and pedis or to Asha, our local bathhouse. But, being as we are still on quarantine here in California, we chose to do an at home spa day. And, for your amusement as well as our own, recorded the whole thing. I hope you enjoy.

Until next time,

L