#Halloween in #Miniature 2015: Jean Rabe Spooky Fiction 2

Welcome to Day 2 of Halloween in Miniature 2015. 

(Go back to Day 1 - Next: Day 3) 

Today's story is a little longer. Author Jean Rabe. She's known best for her work in science fiction including the Dragonlance series and some of the Rogue Angel books, but she's written in a variety of genres, including some creepy, spooky stories.

I tried my best to get the essence of this story in the pictures... A good word since that is what this featured story is all about.  

----------------------------------

The Ascension of Mary Grace

by Jean Rabe

   Mercy Grace Flannery hadn’t done the right things to gain her entrance to heaven. While this hadn’t concerned her during the first two hundred years of her life, it was weighing heavy now. Mercy was dying.

(bed-PatriciaPaulStudio)

   She didn’t have cancer or heart disease or any other particular ailment that doctors at the Letcher County Clinic would be able to slap a diagnosis on. Mercy was simply running out of “essence,” and there wasn’t enough of it left in the land to sustain her.

   When she was born in 1789, outside of Jeremiah, Kentucky, the essence was thick, ribbons of it writhing in the earth and waiting for anyone with the proper skills to harvest it. Mama Flannery had schooled her daughter early on in how to use it, and Mercy had wisely never passed the knowledge along to anyone else; sharing was not something she practiced.

   But she did practice often with the essence.

(PatriciaPaulStudio)

  The magic—the essence—in the great Appalachian Mountains made her strong and kept her looking like a woman of twenty summers for nearly two centuries. But the presence of more people settling in the mountains—coupled with the miners who dug into the earth’s belly and the tourists who came in droves to ogle the scenery—weakened the essence, the pristine nature of the earth, and thereby weakened her.

   Now Mercy Grace thought she looked every one of her two hundred and twenty-two years, skin as gray as ash and deeply wrinkled like the bark of an ancient sweetgum, hair as wispy as a spider web, gait as slow as a slug.

(PatriciaPaulStudio)

   Maybe she’d spent too much of the mountains’ essence through the decades clearing patches of ground for her garden—magically coaxing beetles to churn the dirt and grasshoppers to eat only the weeds. She siphoned off more than she should have on her crops to get magnificent yields, calling bees to pollinate everything.

(Bugs - Patricia Paul Studio)

   She’d given her animals longer lives and greater intelligence, her cabin warmth in the winter and coolness in the summer, and she’d used the essence to slay and bury the increasing number of poachers and hikers and lookee loos who’d traipsed onto her property and stuck their noses where they didn’t below—the insects acting as her assassins. No one would find the bodies, as she’d used the essence to bury them so deep that they could never be recovered. It was those murders that worried her the most; they’d tainted her soul pretty dark.

   “Thou shalt not kill,” she said, her voice as soft as a feather. It was a struggle to speak these days.

   She also worried about the “thou shalt not steal” directive, as she’d done that on a regular basis during the first century or so—clothes from the little shops in town, along with a nice assortment of baubles for her neck and hair; she had a fondness for things that sparkled. She’d never been caught, used the essence to see to that, entrancing the clerks to look the other way, momentarily entranced by a pretty butterfly. And she’d used it to sometimes empty their cash boxes so she could buy her a fine dinner at the town’s only restaurant. Up until the past few months she’d been stealing from the convenience store on Highway 7, which stocked a variety of liquors, potato chips, and iced chocolate cupcakes.

(Miniature chocolate cake - Linn's Minis)

  

 She had once coveted things that had belonged to a neighbor, and eventually made said neighbor “disappear” so she could expand her property and acquire his possessions. A large nest of hornets had helped with that.

(house- Joanna Campbell Slan)

   

She’d taken the Lord’s name in vain every day of her life; cursing was something she’d never been able to shake.

(nancy cronin dolls)

   While Mercy had never married, she had enjoyed dalliances with men who were such . . . though none of that had went on since she’d started to turn gray. That didn’t make her adulterous, and so she figured she was safe on that one commandment.

  
 But as far as the Sabbath went? She certainly hadn’t kept that very holy, and so she was morally and religiously in trouble on several levels.

   There was a heaven, Mercy had learned that early on through the essence. And so she was pretty certain there was also a hell. Since she had no desire to go to the latter—and was assured to make the trip if she let nature take its course, she knew she would have to do something soon to find her way to those proverbial Pearly Gates.

   Jeremiah had a Baptist church out on Highway 7, and there was Letcher Independent Baptist Church about a half-mile down the stretch from it, not any other denomination represented that she knew of. The town’s population was a hair over eight hundred, and so religious diversity apparently wasn’t an option. The Baptist pastors at either of those places might forgive her sins . . . but she doubted God would. Maybe a Catholic priest held more sway with the almighty, what with the ornate robes and confession booths, the celibacy and the statues of Mother Mary, and the other accoutrements. But she worried she might die before she found one in some nearby town, and there was no guarantee anyway that a priest could absolve her of all the “thou shalt nots” that she had so often “shalted.” 

(This story first appeared in the anthology, "Mountain Magic.") 

*** Come back tomorrow for Part 2 of the story -  Go to Day 3   *** 

 *   Jean Rabe's latest works include The Love-Haight Casefiles: Seeking Supernatural Justice about lawyers Thomas Brock and Evelyn Love crusading for the rights of OTs—Other-Than-Humans. Their clients include ghosts, gargoyles, vampires, and things that have not yet been given names. The city’s OT element is sometimes malevolent, sometimes misunderstood, and often discriminated against. Brock and Love represent them, whatever the case, whatever the species. 

* Miniatures by: * 

  * Food, furnishings, Patricia Paul - Patricia Paul Studio.com

* Miniature cake - Linda Cummings - Linn's  Minis 

* Nancy Cronin dolls

* Haunted House - Joanna Campbell Slan

  * Joanna Campbell Slan is also author of the Kiki Lowenstein and Cara Mia mystery series. 

She is also contributor and editor of the new anthology - Happy Homicides: Thirteen Cozy Holiday Mysteries; see details. - Oh, and it includes a story about a dollhouse. 

#Halloween in Miniature 2015: Spooky Fiction, Stephen D Sullivan

 * Welcome to Halloween in Miniature 2015.  * 

This year I'm featuring some terrific spooky and eerie short fiction by fellow authors with miniatures from various miniaturists as illustrations. I'll match them as best as I can with the story,  but you may have to use a little imagination...

Today's eerie story is... 

A TRACE OF VIOLET

By Stephen D. Sullivan

I feel so much better now.  I look better, too.  My dark hair falls in long waves over my smooth shoulders.  My lips are full and red.  My skin seems very pale, but that’s not surprising, given my recent ordeal.

(cverstraete collection)

My gown looks beautiful—just like new—with delicate handmade lace at the collar, sleeves, and hem.  It’s violet, of course, like my eyes … and like my name, Violet Frost.

All Frosts have violet eyes.  Every family member has, stretching all the way to the Middle Ages, which is as far back as reliable ancestral records go.  In those dark times, some people called our eye color a curse, proof that the Frosts consorted with witches and demons.  

(witch- nancy cronin)

For me, though, it’s a trademark—like lavender dresses, lilac perfume, and purple sapphires.

Unfortunately, our family has plenty of actual curses.  My mother’s was catalepsy. She had a lifelong fear of being buried alive, ever since she fell off her horse as a girl and woke to find herself being given Ministration at the Time of Death (what Catholics call “Last Rites”).  Two subsequent incidents—at age twenty-six and thirty-nine—caused her to make plans to avoid any premature burial, strategies agreed to by the rest of the family and, since then, adopted as a Frost tradition.

Frosts are neither embalmed nor buried in the ground.  Rather, when we die, we are placed in a niche in one of the family crypts, the oldest of which lie in the catacombs beneath Frost Hall.  

(British library public domain collection)

Our tombs are not sealed, but, rather, can be opened from within by the slightest touch on the capstone plaque. It’s true that easy infiltration of air into the niche speeds decomposition, but that’s a far less grievous insult to a corpse than not being able to breathe would be for a living cataleptic.

Despite these elaborate precautions, when my mother was finally sent to the tomb—at the too-young age of forty-nine—she never again walked in the light of day. As her only child, I waited and waited—and frequently checked her sepulcher myself, just to be sure—but my mother did not return to the land of the living. When we put her into the crypt, she was well and truly dead.

I never exhibited any signs of my mother’s affliction.  Not until the night of my twenty-sixth birthday, a little more than a year after my mother’s death. The birthday celebration my uncle had prepared for me was one of the most elaborate ever seen at Frost Hall.  He spared no expense.  Partly, I think, as a tribute to my late mother—who had been fond of big parties—but also, I’m sure, because I remained unmarried, and he hoped to attract for me an acceptable suitor.

The fete proved exceptional, with delicious food, marvelous music, and wonderful dancing.

(food, cverstraete collection)

I was enjoying the attentions of Ephraim Corman and Bramwell Winslow, both of whom were charming and well-heeled local gentlemen, and either of whom might have made a suitable mate for a Frost maiden on the verge of spinsterhood.  

(Image detail, Luncheon of the Boating Party, Auguste Renoir, 1881)

Delightfully, I found no easy way to choose between them. Then an idea struck me. Perhaps, I thought, I should play a game of hide-and-seek, and see which one of them can find me.  Given the sprawling nature of my ancestral home, catching this eligible Frost lass would be no mean feat—and perhaps a sign of true love and devotion. And the winner would get, at the least, a kiss. My little scheme brought a smile to my lips.  I always liked hide and seek!

I relayed the notion to my suitors, both of whom readily assented to the test.  Then I ran off into the twisting corridors of the manse. They waited the agreed upon time before following, each in his own direction, each doing his utmost to track me down and capture my affections.

I moved swiftly through the mansion, careful to leave only the barest trace of my passing: a purple flower removed from its vase and left on a table, a spritz of my lilac perfume in the air. I intended to hide in the gardens, amid the lilacs and lavenders.  But as a final jest, I circled ’round behind my beaus—using some of my home’s many hidden passages—and made a visit to the punch bowl in the great ballroom. 

 My appearance at the main revel would, I hoped, both throw my admirers off the true scent and tease their masculine sensibilities. If everyone else at the party had seen me while they were searching, why hadn’t they?

  

(linsminis.com)

I chuckled quietly at the jest as I raised the glass of punch to my lips. But I had taken barely one little sip, when, all of a sudden, a fit of dizziness overcame me. The whole world swam before my eyes, and I heard the partygoers crying out in alarm as my knees buckled and I crumpled to the ballroom floor.  Then everything went black.

When I awoke again, at first, I had no clear idea of where I might be. Had I been taken to my chambers?  If so, it was darker than any night I ever remembered—completely black, in fact.  Perhaps the curtains of my bed had been drawn, as well as the drapes covering the windows.

I reached out to throw back the bed curtains.

(bed - patriciapaulstudio.com)

My hand encountered a wall of solid stone.I reached in the other direction and found stone there, as well.A horrific chill ran through my body.  I panicked, wailing and scratching at the walls of my tomb—for I realized now, that was where I must be.  I’d had a cataleptic fit, and my well-meaning relatives had buried me!

I am not sure how long I screamed and clawed at my niche; it seemed like ages.Then I remembered my mother and her elaborate precautions that had, over the years, become a family tradition. Yes, I was in my sepulcher, but I was not trapped.

(detail - haunted bed, #68, gallery, patriciapaulstudio.com)

Forcing myself to calmness, I pressed on the capstone above my head. At first, it did not budge, and the fear built inside me again. Steady pressure, though, soon caused the stone to swing outward, revealing the contours of the tomb beyond.The catacombs beneath Frost Hall are dark, but not lightless.  The tradition started by my mother requires that a series of oil lamps always remain lit within.  These lamps do not shed enough light for a normal person to navigate easily, but they are more than adequate for someone just awakening from the total darkness of the crypt.

Using the dim illumination from the lamps, I made my way back through the deep tunnels to the tomb’s exit. Joy suffused my entire being as I burst through the door and back into my home. I ran through the halls, shouting: “I’m alive!  I’m alive!”

Frost Hall remained dark and silent; it must have been very late at night, and only the faintest glimmer of starlight leaked in through the mansion’s many-paned windows.

The first person I encountered was MacGinnis, the wine steward; he’d always had a penchant for late-night tippling.  Upon occasion, I had even joined his midnight libations. Far from being delighted to see me, though, MacGinnis turned white as a sheet, dropped his purloined bottle of brandy, and ran in the opposite direction, quickly vanishing into the manse’s darkened halls. Peggy, the housemaid, also fled my entreaties, as did Naill, the butler, after her, each raising enough racket to wake the dead.

(butler - Julie Campbell dolls)

I must look a terrible fright, I realized.  How long had I slept in the tomb?

I determined to return to my room and repair my appearance before attempting to contact any more of the household or my family. My fingers, numb from disuse, fumbled with the doorknob to my chambers.  Eventually, though, the knob turned, and the big oak door gave me admittance.

Within, all was as I had left it on the night of my birthday party—save that a thick layer of dust covered my worldly possessions. No matter.  I’d soon have the maids set things right.

I moved to my dressing table mirror and sat down before it. Then I screamed. For staring back at me was a wide-eyed horror—a rotting corpse clad in a moldering purple dress.  Skin sloughed off the thing’s body in long, tattered strips; its grizzled hair fell over its bony gray shoulders; its white teeth shone through its lipless grin.

(Skeleton lady, patriciapaulstudio.com)

For a moment, I could not comprehend how this frightful ghoul had lodged itself in my mirror. Then I understood…

I feel so much better now.  I look better, too—as lovely as I did when I was alive. The rotting remains of what was once Violet Frost lie at the foot of my dressing table, cast aside like old clothing, its bony fingers almost touching the hem of my violet skirts...

(This is  a shortened version of the story. Read the full story and ending here.) 

( ** Go to Day 2 **  )

   * Stephen D. Sullivan is author of a number of books including some original novelized versions and screenplays of of classic horror films.  His latest is an original comedy take on the classic "bad" horror film, MANOS - The Hands of Fate - see details. A straight horror version is coming soon.

** Miniatures by: **

* Doll, food table, Christine Verstraete - cverstraete.com

* Witch, Nancy Cronin dolls  -  * Cauldron - Linda Cummings, Lins Minis

* Butler - Julie Campbell Dolls  - see her Pinterest page.

*  Furnishings, skeleton lady, Patricia Paul - Patricia Paul Studio

* NOTE: Many of the artists have been featured in past Halloween in Miniature blogs. Be sure to check the top page link for more of their work and visit their websites!

candidcanine.blogspot.com

New AIM Miniatures Magazine Now Out!

Get the latest free AIM Magazine #56 (Oct 15) here!

I have several photos in this issue.

Halloween in Miniature - Coming Soon!

Get ready! Halloween in Miniature 2015 is in the works!

I'm working out this year's posts and it'll be interesting, a little spooky and something different. With miniatures, of course!

The spooky fun will run for five days.

It starts on Tuesday, Oct. 27 and ends on Halloween, Oct. 31.

Don't forget your costume!!

YA Graphic Novel Reveal: True Adventure Story of Indian Capture

 Today I'm sharing an intriguing new book, Captive of Friendly Cove: Based on the Secret Journals of John Jewitt by Rebecca Goldfield - actually a graphic novel based on a real life story.

 The original account was first published in 1807 and detailed Jewitt's three years as a slave following a shipwreck The author read a book about John Jewitt and thought it would make a great graphic novel. "I thought John’s story was a perfect example of an overlooked story readers would love," the author said.

Jewitt, a British sailor and blacksmith, was captured and held for three years by the Mowachaht tribe on the west coast of Vancouver Island before freeing himself and a fellow shipmate., the author thought it would make a great graphic novel. "

Interestingly enough, present day readers will find a modern but familiar theme - the consequences of an argument centering around a gun. In this case, the ship's captain presents a gun to the tribal chief in an exchange of gifts. But on a later return visit, the chief claims the gun was broken, and the angered captain strikes out. Jewitt is among those later captured when the chief and tribe members return to the ship for revenge.

There are some bloody parts when other ship members are killed, but Jewitt is taken as a hostage because of his armory skills. 

Graphic novels are a great way to draw the younger reader into history in a fun, but sneaky way! Note: there is some violence depicted which may disturb sensitive or much younger readers.

Get the book at:  Indie Bound  Barnes and Noble, Books-A-Million

Q & A with author Rebecca Goldfield:

  Your graphic novel is based on a true story?

Yes! I had a chance encounter with another book, White Slaves of

Maquinna, while on a trip to British Columbia. The book was about John Jewitt—a real person who was captured by the Mowachaht tribe and eventually won his freedom. I read the book in one day and immediately thought it would be a great story for a graphic novel. Fulcrum, my publisher, is known for publishing nonfiction, historical comics that focus on unsung heroes and overlooked stories. I thought John’s story was a perfect example of an overlooked story that readers would love.

What inspired you to tell John Jewitt’s story in a graphic novel?

In reading both the journal and the narrative, there was tremendous time spent describing John’s world; what a house looked like; and how the people fished, made a canoe, or built a house. I thought we could convey much of that descriptive material through the art, which freed me up to focus on the action, drama, characters, and actual story as I envisioned it. I was also interested in trying to write a young adult graphic novel, and had been keeping an eye out for a sympathetic young protagonist who faced tremendous odds and had to overcome them in order to survive.  John Jewitt was the perfect candidate for just such a story.

Speaking of dark things, Captive of Friendly Cove does depict violence in

a variety of contexts. How did you choose to illustrate these scenes and what

do you hope young readers will take away?

I was concerned about the violence, and much of the gory stuff happens right away in chapter one. As we worked on those scenes I’d continually show them to kids and parents, both of whom were very accepting, and even eager to see the rest of the story.  

The arc of violence, however, ends on a healing note. John Jewitt ultimately helps to prevent further bloodshed between native people and outsiders, and his story highlights the value of human life. We do a disservice to children when we rewrite history to make it more palatable. Violence happens and it exists within a context that should be explored. Captive shows the motivations of both the English traders and the Mowachaht people, and I hope sheds light on a divisive period. We cannot rewrite history, but we can learn from it. 

John Jewitt was an educated British armorer and blacksmith, which is one of the reasons he was kept alive. What kind of weaponry research was done for the book and did you discover anything surprising? 

We looked at original art from artists aboard the ships of the early explorers and traders, went to museums to look at Native art, and visited Yuquot, the site of the actual story. We relied on Jewitt’s descriptions and those of scholars and anthropologists. With regard to weapons, early on in the book, a quarrel over a gun called a fowling piece incites a terrible conflict. And I had to ask myself, what the heck is a “fowling piece”? We debated if we could call it a rifle, but a rifle has a twisted bore and a single projectile, while a fowling piece has smooth bore and multiple projectiles. That bit of research, by the way, came directly from my husband, who is skilled with firearms. So you never know where you will find an expert! Ultimately, we considered what would be the best for the reader. The team used a healthy amount of imagination and creative license. It was one of my favorite parts of the making of this book.  

You mention in your author introduction that you met descendants of the Mowachaht tribe. How did that visit inspire the Native dress, food, and rituals that are depicted throughout the book? 

One thing that struck me was the extraordinary generosity of the people in allowing us even a glimpse of their way of life today, their obvious pride in their culture, and their openness about some of their present-day struggles. I had the great pleasure of meeting the Chief Mike Maquinna, a descendent of the Maquinna featured in the book. But the thing I really remember learning was how little the John Jewitt story meant to them. We’ve told a story that was central in John’s life, but these people had been there for thousands of years, and John was barely a blip in their history.

Mini Class Previews for Spring Bishop Show

Here are sone pix of some of the neat projects that'll be coming up at the spring Chicago International Show. The preview was at the fall show at the Holiday Inn in Rolling Meadows. Interesting hotel as the whole inner meeting area and pool was all decorated like a giant tiki room and a Hawaiian setting.  Quite unique.

half scale

half scale

New Miniature Style Ebook Cover - Now on Kindle!

If you don't have it already, my first ebook In Miniature Style is now on Kindle - with a new cover!

You should know we changed the cover from the original pink/purple ebook cover above.

The contents are the same unless you want to get a version for your Kindle.  See Amazon page for In Miniature Style: Original Homes and Rooms, Big in Quality, Small in Size.  You can get more details on the contents on my website. - Here is the link for all the Amazon pages.

Happy minis!

Note: there may be an issue with too small text on captions that is being worked on.
 
** Projects original to this version include:

* Handmade kaleidoscope
* Coordinating picture frame
* Antique reproduction mantle clock
* Pigeons
* Fun flowers
*  Wall a room and make hats
* Original lamps and tables
* Art rugs

Half Scale Dollhouse Living Room

It's been a while since I posted photos of the Half Scale Country House,

I had one room left to finish the details in - now the living room is done!

I made the furniture from the d. Anne Ruff half scale furniture kit. The table and chairs are the cafe set kit from SDK Miniatures.  The console is a magnet, too.

Hopefully I'll have some kind of case made as I want to take the house to the county fair  - gasp- next week. Already!  (More photos - attic.)

The chair under the stairs is one of those smaller plastic dollhouse chairs. I covered it in fabric to match my curtains. I also made the clock. The phone table is a magnet.

Margaret Grace talks Manhattan in Miniature!

 
Today I welcome fellow author Margaret Grace (Camille Minichino) whose latest fun miniatures mystery, Manhattan in Miniature: A Miniature Mystery , recently released for  Kindle and in ebook, as well as print. (See Barnes and Noble, print and Nook.) 

This was a fun addition to the series, with Gerry and her granddaughter Maddie heading to Manhattan for a craft show, where the pair also find some deadly mysteries to solve!

About the book:

Perhaps Manhattan, like Christmas, is best seen through the eyes of a child. Gerry Porter provides both magical experiences for granddaughter Maddie when a SuperKrafts manager takes them to New York City for a huge crafts fair. They get to work on both making miniatures and solving crimes, the detecting duo’s favorite pastimes. All this, plus Rockefeller Center and Radio City, too! But a crafty murderer wants to make sure they don’t make it safely home again to California…. (Amazon.com)

Let's see what Camille has to say about the book. And.... be sure to comment about why you like the series - two winners will be chosen to win either a PDF or a print copy (Print - US shipping only.)  Make sure to include a way to contact you. 

What was your favorite part of writing this book?

“Researching” Manhattan! I lived in New York during my grad school days and have always loved the city. I visit as often as possible, spending entire days in museums. It was effortless to recreate the streets and sounds in this book. And a huge crafts fair set in Midtown was too tempting to resist! I was able to give Maddie a “small crime” of her own to solve at the fair while Gerry was pursuing major trouble on the Upper West Side.

How do you see Gerry and her granddaughter in the future? What’s next for them?

I’m currently writing #9, Matrimony in Miniature, so you know what’s up for Gerry and Henry! As for Maddie, she may never get past 11-years-old — I’m not sure I want to deal with a teenager!

Oh! Another book is coming? When?

Matrimony in Miniature is scheduled for Fall 2016. Of course, a murder puts a damper on wedding plans.

Why did you pick Manhattan?

I’ve never taken Gerry out of fictional Lincoln Point, California, and I wanted to take her back to her roots. She’s from the Bronx, but her old neighborhood is quite changed. She decides to take Maddie to Manhattan first. Maddie is beyond excited, loves the Rockettes and the city, and wishes Lincoln Point had doormen!

How about a short excerpt of your favorite part of Manhattan in Miniature: A Miniature Mystery? 

When I was in Manhattan last fall, I was in a fender bender on Fifth Avenue! I thought I'd have Gerry experience it, too. So here’s how it reads in the book:

I still felt a little jet-lagged and tired enough to grab a few minutes of sleep. If a cab could be a phone booth, why not a bed? We were traveling slowly enough in midtown rush hour traffic. I scrunched down a bit, got comfortable, head back, legs stretched out as far as possible, volume turned to zero on the video display in front of me, then . . .

Crunch!

A flat tire? In the middle of the crowded Lexington Avenue? From the quick stop and words from the cabbie, words that were directed to an SUV driver and not fit for Maddie’s journal, I guessed No, not a flat, but a fender bender. At a rate lower than the speedometer could register, I’d hardly felt the jolt, which was less violent than what I remembered from operating the bumper cars on the boardwalk at Coney Island.

“You okay back there?” my driver asked, opening the door to exit and examine the damage. He sounded more like a man who hoped to avoid the inconvenience of an injured passenger than one who was concerned for my well being.

“I’m fine,” I said, as he slammed the door. A light changed somewhere and traffic started to flow, but without us.

Thanks again, Margaret/Camille for stopping by!

** Readers - be sure to comment about what you like about the series and share your favorite part for a chance to win a PDF or print copy (Print-US shipping only.) Be sure to leave a way to contact you. -- ENDS Fri. 5/15/15---