Where The Heart Is - a short excerpt

Sharing some dialogue between my two main characters in Where The Heart Is.

    “You need to think more before you do things,” he remarked.

     She frowned.  “I don’t need a lecture from you.”

     Looking at her, he replied, “I think you do.”

     With hands on her hips, she glared at him.  “I don’t care what you think,” she announced.

     He stood and moved towards her, and she felt her heart race.  She stepped back and then realised she was cornered.  Antonio put a hand on either side of her, gripping the bench, and stared into her eyes.  She blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump in her throat.  “Don’t you?” he asked.

     Unable to get her voice to work, she stared back at him, her eyes drawn to the cleft in his chin.  “No,” she finally managed, and then noticing his heart-shaped lips, added, “Yes.”

    Antonio cocked an eyebrow.

    “You’re...con...confusing me,” she stammered, her skin hot under his sultry gaze.

    With a smile on his lips he stepped away from her.  She stared at him wide-eyed.  ‘I’ve never seen this side of him before,’ she decided, watching him return to his chair and drinking his coffee as if nothing had happened.

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http://www.jeanettehornby.com.au/

Excerpt from 'Where The Heart Is'

I'm sharing an excerpt from my novel - Where The Heart Is.  It is based on a true story and my character, Navid, is based on my friend, Robert, who passed away much too soon.

   Looking at him, she knew she should mind her own business, but could not help from asking, “Is your father still in Iran?”

   He was silent for a moment. “My parents are dead,” he replied.

   “Navid, I’m sorry,” she said, guiltily. ‘I should have kept quiet,’ she realised.

   “It is not your fault. Khomeini brought in oppressive laws and many of our freedoms were outlawed. Even popular music was banned.”

   “Really?” she asked in astonishment.

   He nodded and continued, “Curfews were put in place and those of our faith were persecuted or killed. My father realised we were in danger and arranged for me to leave the country,” he answered.

   “How did you get out?” Dani asked, hoping she had not overstepped the mark.

   Navid sighed and pulled out a chair. “I need to sit,” he remarked.

   Dani nodded and did the same, waiting for him to speak.

   “I was hidden in a basket and carried to the border by donkey,” he said. “There were others and when we climbed out of the baskets we had to run. There were people shooting at us and...,” he paused and looked down. “Some never made it. I ran as fast as I could and got over the border into Pakistan. There was a bus waiting for us and we were taken to the Australian Embassy.”

   “A bus?” Dani asked, and Navid nodded.

   “It took a lot of money to get us out,” he replied. “It was...the last thing my father did for me. Later, I heard both my parents and my sister were killed.”

   Dani felt a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and she thought of Antonio whose parents had also died. “It must be awful to lose your family,” she stated.

   “I was lucky to have an uncle in Australia and was allowed to come and live with him, and now I have a new family, here, at the restaurant,” he declared with a grin.

   Dani looked at him, wondering how he could smile. “Navid, I’m happy to be part of your family,” she told him, earnestly.

   Navid put a hand to his chest and nodded. “Now, I go to work,” he said, and Dani watched him leave the room.

                                                       http://www.jeanettehornby.com.au/

Imagine

Pictures:FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This simplistic photo took me back to my childhood.  When anything was possible.  When everything was a game.

We lived next door to our cousins, and our days were filled with play.  There were six of us at one stage, ranging in ages from two to ten.

Back then, Enid Blyton's children's books played a large part in our games.  But, being one short of the 'Secret Seven' and one too many for the 'Famous Five' - two series of the author's books, we became the 'Secret Six'.

Our meetings were held in the wood shed.  My cousin, the eldest of us all, would write notes which we would burn after the meeting.  It was a dirt floor so the fire hazard was minimal, and besides we had our own personal fire extinguisher if the need came about.  I'll leave that to your imagination.

Of course, not much happened in our small part of the world but we made our own adventures, created our own mysteries.

Those days when we planned and pondered were some of the happiest I can recall.  There's nothing quite like a child's imagination.

Pedigree of Hornby

Following on from my previous post regarding the Hornby Castle, I have found that it is so-called because it was  built in the "Village of Hornby" and not owned by anyone named Hornby.

However, I have found that the family of HORNBY, originally DE HORNEBY or DE HORNEBIE, traces is origins from the neighbourhood of HORNBY-IN-LONSDALE, North Lancashire.

It seems there were several families who resided in the area who used the name of Hornby.

In the early days, names were sometimes associated with the area in which one lived or by the work one was associated with.  For example, I have found an "Adam (the Tanner) of Hornby", whose son became known simply as "William of Hornby".  I can only guess that over time the 'of' was eradicated completely.

A few interesting facts did come to light so I have a little history to ponder over.  And it seems some land was granted to these early Hornbys by Margaret de Nevill(e) or Lady of Hornby who it is thought occupied the Hornby castle in the 13th century.

All-in-all, an interesting history lesson.

Hornby Castle

A Sunday Poem

Castle Of Poets

© Mike

The castle is a place where poets dwell,
Where each can cast their wondrous spell.
From the turrets high to the dungeons deep
From each portcullis to the central keep.

Its powerful walls keep foes at bay.
They keep us safe from day to day.
The knights are brave and fight with zeal.
In armored suits and swords of steel...

The poets live as all men should.
Side by side in brotherhood.
The magic of rhyme is all they seek
From modern tongue to ancient Greek.

The castle echoes with the sound of joy,
And haunting words from man and boy.
The maidens fair who live within
Pen words of love and carnal sin.

For each one here there is a place
To release the soul from its inner space.
With words of mirth and sorrow both.
And witches spells of evil oath.

The castle grows from day to day
And people come from far away.
But once inside these walls of grey,
They know that they are here to stay.

Their words are all that leave this place,
Their souls the castle shall embrace.
So in our quest for perfect poem
We call this place our sonnets home.

Pictures:photobucket

Origins

Hornby Castle, Lancashire UK

Wow, it's awesome that there is a castle named after the Hornby’s.  I have been told though, by another Hornby, that no Hornby ever lived in this castle.  How intriguing!

So, why was it built and by whom?  My interest in genealogy can’t let this rest.  I have to know the story behind this castle.

And wouldn’t it make a great novel?

Being A Mother

Thoughts Of You

© Paula Stone

Memories of another time still come
To me and fill my mind, with thoughts
Of you when you were young. I lie awake
‘Till the morning sun comes creeping
Through my window shade, as I dwell upon
Mistakes I've made. What I would give to
Go back in time and feel you’re little
Hand in mine. To cherish each fast and
Fleeting day. To hold you close and kiss
Away, each pain that life will have in
Store and try to give you so much more.
You are part and will always be, imbedded in the soul of me. While I'm
Here, I want to say, that I've loved you
Each and every day and when my time on
Earth is gone.
The privilege was mine to have been your Mom.

Pictures:photobucket

Review 'Fat Chance' by Malla Duncan

4 and a half Stars. 

This is the second book I’ve read by Malla Duncan and it didn’t disappoint.

A story of suspense, intrigue and murder, the novel is also outrageously funny. 

Malla’s genius use of description and wit moves the story along effortlessly and compels the reader to turn the pages. 

An underlining message of food and body-image is depicted to perfection with mockery and humour.

Malla’s portrayal of characters, setting and events is outstanding.  I look forward to reading more work from this author. 

Traditions

As I was baking today, I did something that my mother used to do.  It had me thinking about the traditions we carry with us.

My parents are Italian and continue to practice a variety of traditions.  I guess it's their way of holding onto the things that were important to them when they were growing up.

With Italians it's mostly about food!  Probably because it was scarce and they had to improvise.  Food became the focus of their daily lives. They were either growing, cooking, or preserving it.  Sometimes, selling it.

Now, even though they lead more affluent lives, they have held onto the traditions that meant the most.

But I think too, that traditions somehow sneak into your subconscious and you're not even aware of them.  You practice them automatically because it has always been done that way.

Today, as I was baking, I used my mother's method of testing if the cake was cooked, not with a skewer but with a long piece of uncooked spaghetti!

Pictures:FreeDigitalPhotos.net