Summers in my corner of the world are long and lonely. The tiny orange orchard that shelters Dove Cottage from the merciless southern Arizona sun is no match for the blast furnace that drops down from a sky seemingly stretched above the earth like a cheap party balloon about to snap. Those who live in these parts during the summer months, hide. Interaction with neighbors, mail-carriers and the errant landscaper looking to drum up business by hacking the dead palm leaves from the dried out fan palms, is restricted to a wave, a dash across brown lawns to the mailbox and back, or a mumbled excuse about why your palm trees look like that in the first place.
It was during such a spell in the waning days of June, 2006, after a particularly mind-numbing afternoon spent sitting at the kitchen table listlessly picking up one of a thousand puzzle pieces , twisting it this way and that before tossing it back onto the table, that I looked out the kitchen window at the pool, sparkling in the back yard—the pool that was too hot to swim in. I knew I needed to find an escape. Needed to find someplace dark, and dank that reeked of ancient mystery and an ominous past.
And so I went searching…and discovered just the place I'd been looking for—the website is www.opacity.us. It is there that I discovered the ruins of Danvers State Asylum, a 300,000 sq. ft. mental health facility long abandoned atop the Hill of Hathorne in Danvers, Massachusetts. The Hill of Hathorne is named for Judge Hathorne—the hanging judge of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692, when Danvers was still called Salem Village and witchcraft was a hanging offense.
As so often happens when I'm sitting at my computer (as I presently am), in my nook, the characters of my novels begin to emerge and make themselves known. And so, Dynnis the gnome stuck his head round my bookcase that day and began to tell me the tale of the celebration of Hollantide, and of the sea journey of the terrible Lord Astaroth. As I listened, my fingers began to fly across the keyboard and so the story began. But as I sit here just now—Dynnis and Hob have both begun to whisper of the next story…the one in New Orleans…and the dark voodoo of Astaroth. L.C.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Harry Potter...? Meet AMERICA'S Answer...!!
Prologue
The Bargain
Salem Village, Massachusetts
November 11, 1701
The moon was in its last quarter in the house of Gemini. This would prove to be important on another such night in Salem Village. But on this night, six solemn-faced men sat round a rough-hewn table, in the tiny rectory of the Meeting House, arguing over the neatly penned words of an ominous document. Their raised voices drowned out the sound of the rising wind that shook the windows and blew sparks from the flue of the woodstove in the corner, and the sudden howling of the neighborhood dogs, that echoed into the cold night. The strong gusts of frigid night air were forceful enough to move the heavy brass bell hanging in the tower.
Its iron clapper sounded eight times as the men continued to pound the table and shout before the door to the Meeting House flew open, causing them to jump to their feet in surprise. Two figures, one tall and wide as the door frame, the other half his size, stood just inside the threshold. Time seemed to stand still as all sound ceased both inside the building and out.
It could have been an instant or an eternity that held each man in the room frozen in the
posture he’d assumed just as the door was flung wide. The giant figure, wrapped in a deep purple cape, broke the spell by striding into the meeting room, his footfalls making an odd tapping sound as if he wore hobbled boots.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It appears there are some concerns regarding our...agreement.” His whispery voice matched the sounds of the brittle autumn leaves that had blown through the doorway behind him and his companion, and were now scuttling across the dusty, pine floorboards. Once inside the circle of light thrown out by the large oil lamp, he pushed back his hood and an intake of breaths could be heard round the room.
Except for the elderly man seated at the head of the table, none of the others in the group had ever met the two strangers with whom they were about to seal the most important deal of their lives. But even at his
advanced age and with all his worldly dealings, he had never noticed the strange shape of the big man’s pupils before, as they reflected the flickering lamplight. Almost vertical, they seemed to have the power to immobilize.
The newcomer nodded to his assistant who produced a razor-sharp quill from beneath his own cloak and laid it atop the vellum document on the table. Rubbing his hands as if to warm them, the large man indicated the pen. “Gentlemen, I believe we have business to tend to.”
Outside, a sudden snow squall had come up, the fierce wind whipping the heavy white flakes until they resembled sheets flying on a clothesline on a black, blustery day. The snow collected quickly on the frozen ground and window sills of the sleeping village. At this hour no sensible man was anywhere but beneath several layers of goose down quilting. So no one in the village saw the white stuff pile deeply everywhere except on the roof of the Meeting House, where it hit the glowing cedar tiles like drops of water on a flame. And much later, no one but the large brown and gray hawk riding out the storm in the belfry saw the shadow of a figure bury a wooden box beneath a sapling in the churchyard
The Bargain
Salem Village, Massachusetts
November 11, 1701
The moon was in its last quarter in the house of Gemini. This would prove to be important on another such night in Salem Village. But on this night, six solemn-faced men sat round a rough-hewn table, in the tiny rectory of the Meeting House, arguing over the neatly penned words of an ominous document. Their raised voices drowned out the sound of the rising wind that shook the windows and blew sparks from the flue of the woodstove in the corner, and the sudden howling of the neighborhood dogs, that echoed into the cold night. The strong gusts of frigid night air were forceful enough to move the heavy brass bell hanging in the tower.
Its iron clapper sounded eight times as the men continued to pound the table and shout before the door to the Meeting House flew open, causing them to jump to their feet in surprise. Two figures, one tall and wide as the door frame, the other half his size, stood just inside the threshold. Time seemed to stand still as all sound ceased both inside the building and out.
It could have been an instant or an eternity that held each man in the room frozen in the
posture he’d assumed just as the door was flung wide. The giant figure, wrapped in a deep purple cape, broke the spell by striding into the meeting room, his footfalls making an odd tapping sound as if he wore hobbled boots.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It appears there are some concerns regarding our...agreement.” His whispery voice matched the sounds of the brittle autumn leaves that had blown through the doorway behind him and his companion, and were now scuttling across the dusty, pine floorboards. Once inside the circle of light thrown out by the large oil lamp, he pushed back his hood and an intake of breaths could be heard round the room.
Except for the elderly man seated at the head of the table, none of the others in the group had ever met the two strangers with whom they were about to seal the most important deal of their lives. But even at his
advanced age and with all his worldly dealings, he had never noticed the strange shape of the big man’s pupils before, as they reflected the flickering lamplight. Almost vertical, they seemed to have the power to immobilize.
The newcomer nodded to his assistant who produced a razor-sharp quill from beneath his own cloak and laid it atop the vellum document on the table. Rubbing his hands as if to warm them, the large man indicated the pen. “Gentlemen, I believe we have business to tend to.”
Outside, a sudden snow squall had come up, the fierce wind whipping the heavy white flakes until they resembled sheets flying on a clothesline on a black, blustery day. The snow collected quickly on the frozen ground and window sills of the sleeping village. At this hour no sensible man was anywhere but beneath several layers of goose down quilting. So no one in the village saw the white stuff pile deeply everywhere except on the roof of the Meeting House, where it hit the glowing cedar tiles like drops of water on a flame. And much later, no one but the large brown and gray hawk riding out the storm in the belfry saw the shadow of a figure bury a wooden box beneath a sapling in the churchyard
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Why fantasy is better than reality...
It's 104° outside of Dove Cottage today. I sit in my nook and watch the heat shimmer like a genie rising from the asphalt. Summer has come to my corner of the world—the desert begins to settle beneath the weight of the sun and hunkers down for the long haul. It is during this time that I begin my travels into a darker place, not evil dark—just not as sharp, nor glaring, nor cruel—well not in the way most of us define cruelty.
Two years ago in the middle of a vicious June heat wave I discovered Danvers Asylum and although physically more than 2500 miles from the dank entrance to its catacombs, I happily crawled inside and began to explore the ruins of the moldering old pile of stones. What I discovered there lead me to begin writing—writing about the world that exists just outside our reach. Most of you know that world, though you'd never admit it in public. But if you allow yourself a moment to drift away from the biting reality that holds you tightly in its jaws (or is it that you're holding on so tightly to the tailcoats of the reality demon that your fingers have become claws) you just might remember that single time when you almost tasted the freedom of escape, that moment just before you let go and drifted into sleep—when you had the chance to step into the realm of shadow.
Night is the time when the soul surrenders. No one makes the voyage through the dark alone. When mortals sink into the sea of sleep, they are caught at once in nets of dreams. The dark sets free a thousand creatures—feline, serpentine, half-bodied, disembodied—that roam everywhere, upstairs, and downstairs, and in the sleeper's chamber. Endowed with a shadow life of their own, these beings care nothing for order and reason and sense. They exist in a baffling world where time moves backward and walls melt at a glance, where beasts can talk and stranger things than beasts can walk. It is a world long forgotten by most mortals—but not by me. And so, when the cloudless sky is so unforgiving that not even shadows exist, I retreat into that place I discovered long ago—the place filled with mystery and night shadows—between dreaming magic and the waking future.
Come back again and join me in the weeks to come as I make my way into the Hill of Hathorne. Maybe you will discover you like traveling through the gates of fantasy, away from the white noise of reality to become, like me—fate's fugitive.
Two years ago in the middle of a vicious June heat wave I discovered Danvers Asylum and although physically more than 2500 miles from the dank entrance to its catacombs, I happily crawled inside and began to explore the ruins of the moldering old pile of stones. What I discovered there lead me to begin writing—writing about the world that exists just outside our reach. Most of you know that world, though you'd never admit it in public. But if you allow yourself a moment to drift away from the biting reality that holds you tightly in its jaws (or is it that you're holding on so tightly to the tailcoats of the reality demon that your fingers have become claws) you just might remember that single time when you almost tasted the freedom of escape, that moment just before you let go and drifted into sleep—when you had the chance to step into the realm of shadow.
Night is the time when the soul surrenders. No one makes the voyage through the dark alone. When mortals sink into the sea of sleep, they are caught at once in nets of dreams. The dark sets free a thousand creatures—feline, serpentine, half-bodied, disembodied—that roam everywhere, upstairs, and downstairs, and in the sleeper's chamber. Endowed with a shadow life of their own, these beings care nothing for order and reason and sense. They exist in a baffling world where time moves backward and walls melt at a glance, where beasts can talk and stranger things than beasts can walk. It is a world long forgotten by most mortals—but not by me. And so, when the cloudless sky is so unforgiving that not even shadows exist, I retreat into that place I discovered long ago—the place filled with mystery and night shadows—between dreaming magic and the waking future.
Come back again and join me in the weeks to come as I make my way into the Hill of Hathorne. Maybe you will discover you like traveling through the gates of fantasy, away from the white noise of reality to become, like me—fate's fugitive.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Excerpt from November in Salem : The Bargain of Witches
Prologue
The Bargain
Salem Village, Massachusetts
November 11, 1701
The moon was in its last quarter in the house of Gemini. This would prove to be important on another such night in Salem Village. But on this night, six solemn-faced men sat round a rough-hewn table, in the tiny rectory of the Meeting House, arguing over the neatly penned words of an ominous document. Their raised voices drowned out the sound of the rising wind that shook the windows and blew sparks from the flue of the woodstove in the corner, and the sudden howling of the neighborhood dogs, that echoed into the cold night. The strong gusts of frigid night air were forceful enough to move the heavy brass bell hanging in the tower.
Its iron clapper sounded eight times as the men continued to pound the table and shout before the door to the Meeting House flew open, causing them to jump to their feet in surprise. Two figures, one tall and wide as the door frame, the other half his size, stood just inside the threshold. Time seemed to stand still as all sound ceased both inside the building and out.
It could have been an instant or an eternity that held each man in the room frozen in the
posture he’d assumed just as the door was flung wide. The giant figure, wrapped in a deep purple cape, broke the spell by striding into the meeting room, his footfalls making an odd tapping sound as if he wore hobbled boots.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It appears there are some concerns regarding our...agreement.” His whispery voice matched the sounds of the brittle autumn leaves that had blown through the doorway behind him and his companion, and were now scuttling across the dusty, pine floorboards. Once inside the circle of light thrown out by the large oil lamp, he pushed back his hood and an intake of breaths could be heard round the room.
Except for the elderly man seated at the head of the table, none of the others in the group had ever met the two strangers with whom they were about to seal the most important deal of their lives. But even at his
advanced age and with all his worldly dealings, he had never noticed the strange shape of the big man’s pupils before, as they reflected the flickering lamplight. Almost vertical, they seemed to have the power to immobilize.
The newcomer nodded to his assistant who produced a razor-sharp quill from beneath his own cloak and laid it atop the vellum document on the table. Rubbing his hands as if to warm them, the large man indicated the pen. “Gentlemen, I believe we have business to tend to.”
Outside, a sudden snow squall had come up, the fierce wind whipping the heavy white flakes until they resembled sheets flying on a clothesline on a black, blustery day. The snow collected quickly on the frozen ground and window sills of the sleeping village. At this hour no sensible man was anywhere but beneath several layers of goose down quilting. So no one in the village saw the white stuff pile deeply everywhere except on the roof of the Meeting House, where it hit the glowing cedar tiles like drops of water on a flame. And much later, no one but the large brown and gray hawk riding out the storm in the belfry saw the shadow of a figure bury a wooden box beneath a sapling in the churchyard.
The Bargain
Salem Village, Massachusetts
November 11, 1701
The moon was in its last quarter in the house of Gemini. This would prove to be important on another such night in Salem Village. But on this night, six solemn-faced men sat round a rough-hewn table, in the tiny rectory of the Meeting House, arguing over the neatly penned words of an ominous document. Their raised voices drowned out the sound of the rising wind that shook the windows and blew sparks from the flue of the woodstove in the corner, and the sudden howling of the neighborhood dogs, that echoed into the cold night. The strong gusts of frigid night air were forceful enough to move the heavy brass bell hanging in the tower.
Its iron clapper sounded eight times as the men continued to pound the table and shout before the door to the Meeting House flew open, causing them to jump to their feet in surprise. Two figures, one tall and wide as the door frame, the other half his size, stood just inside the threshold. Time seemed to stand still as all sound ceased both inside the building and out.
It could have been an instant or an eternity that held each man in the room frozen in the
posture he’d assumed just as the door was flung wide. The giant figure, wrapped in a deep purple cape, broke the spell by striding into the meeting room, his footfalls making an odd tapping sound as if he wore hobbled boots.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It appears there are some concerns regarding our...agreement.” His whispery voice matched the sounds of the brittle autumn leaves that had blown through the doorway behind him and his companion, and were now scuttling across the dusty, pine floorboards. Once inside the circle of light thrown out by the large oil lamp, he pushed back his hood and an intake of breaths could be heard round the room.
Except for the elderly man seated at the head of the table, none of the others in the group had ever met the two strangers with whom they were about to seal the most important deal of their lives. But even at his
advanced age and with all his worldly dealings, he had never noticed the strange shape of the big man’s pupils before, as they reflected the flickering lamplight. Almost vertical, they seemed to have the power to immobilize.
The newcomer nodded to his assistant who produced a razor-sharp quill from beneath his own cloak and laid it atop the vellum document on the table. Rubbing his hands as if to warm them, the large man indicated the pen. “Gentlemen, I believe we have business to tend to.”
Outside, a sudden snow squall had come up, the fierce wind whipping the heavy white flakes until they resembled sheets flying on a clothesline on a black, blustery day. The snow collected quickly on the frozen ground and window sills of the sleeping village. At this hour no sensible man was anywhere but beneath several layers of goose down quilting. So no one in the village saw the white stuff pile deeply everywhere except on the roof of the Meeting House, where it hit the glowing cedar tiles like drops of water on a flame. And much later, no one but the large brown and gray hawk riding out the storm in the belfry saw the shadow of a figure bury a wooden box beneath a sapling in the churchyard.
Chapter One--next time...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Giveaway--Win a signed first edition of November in Salem : The Bargain of Witches
Has anyone read November in Salem : The Bargain of Witches...? I'm wondering what you think about the main characters, November Atwood and her cousin Hawk. Hawk has needed the aid of a wheelchair since birth and yet that doesn't stop him from going beneath the old Danvers Asylum and into the Hill of Hathorne to rescue his twin brother from the elfin realm and free the souls of those hanged for witchcraft in 1701 Salem. Search inside the book at Amazon.com and go to www.lcrussell.com and click on "My Blogs" to win a signed first edition.
For those of you who like fantasy and especially those with lots of witches, elves, gnomes and obscure Celtic lore–don’t miss November in Salem : The Bargain of Witches (some reviews have compared this book to Tolkien) Click here to Search Inside the Book
For those of you who like fantasy and especially those with lots of witches, elves, gnomes and obscure Celtic lore–don’t miss November in Salem : The Bargain of Witches (some reviews have compared this book to Tolkien) Click here to Search Inside the Book
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Are there witches in Danvers Massachusetts…?
Yes…! And gnomes and elves and an evil dark angel who is ready to sacrifice those poor souls who were hanged for witchcraft in 1692 in exchange for one soul, that of thirteen year old November Atwood—the last of the Children of Avnova.
Read an excerpt from November in Salem : the bargain of witches by LC Russell available in most online bookstores.
************************************************************************
The Bargain
Salem Village, Massachusetts
November 11, 1701
The moon was in its last quarter in the house of Gemini. This would prove to be important on another such night in Salem Village. But on this night, six solemn-faced men sat round a rough-hewn table, in the tiny rectory of the Meeting House, arguing over the neatly penned words of an ominous document.
Their raised voices drowned out the sound of the rising wind that shook the windows and blew sparks from the flue of the woodstove in the corner, and the sudden howling of the neighborhood dogs, that echoed into the cold night. The strong gusts of frigid night air were forceful enough to move the heavy brass bell hanging in the tower. Its iron clapper sounded eight times as the men continued to pound the table and shout before the door to the Meeting House flew open, causing them to jump to their feet in surprise.
Two figures, one tall and wide as the door frame, the other half his size, stood just inside the threshold. Time seemed to stand still as all sound ceased both inside the building and out. It could have been an instant or an eternity that held each man in the room frozen in the posture he’d assumed just as the door was flung wide.
The giant figure, wrapped in a deep purple cape, broke the spell by striding into the meeting room, his footfalls making an odd tapping sound as if he wore hobbled boots.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It appears there are some concerns regarding our...agreement.” His whispery voice matched the sounds of the brittle autumn leaves that had blown through the doorway behind him and his companion, and were now scuttling across the dusty, pine floorboards. Once inside the circle of light thrown out by the large oil lamp, he pushed back his hood and an intake of breaths could be heard round the room.
Except for the elderly man seated at the head of the table, none of the others in the group had ever met the two strangers with whom they were about to seal the most important deal of their lives. But even at his advanced age and with all his worldly dealings, he had never noticed the strange shape of the big man’s pupils before, as they reflected the flickering lamplight. Almost vertical, they seemed to have the power to immobilize.
The newcomer nodded to his assistant who produced a razor-sharp quill from beneath his own cloak and laid it atop the vellum document on the table. Rubbing his hands as if to warm them, the large man indicated the pen. “Gentlemen, I believe we have business to tend to.”
Outside, a sudden snow squall had come up, the fierce wind whipping the heavy white flakes until they resembled sheets flying on a clothesline on a black, blustery day. The snow collected quickly on the frozen ground and window sills of the sleeping village. At this hour no sensible man was anywhere but beneath several layers of goose down quilting. So no one in the village saw the white stuff pile deeply everywhere except on the roof of the Meeting House, where it hit the glowing cedar tiles like drops of water on a flame. And much later, no one but the large brown and gray hawk riding out the storm in the belfry saw the shadow of a figure bury a wooden box beneath a sapling in the churchyard.
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