Ruminative Wordsby Fritzinie Lavoile (2022). Available on Amazon.com.
Fritzinie is a young Haitian poet whose poetry reflects wisdom beyond her years. Her verses are tender, insightful, beautiful, and filled with hope. Though young in years, she freely shares her thoughts, emotions, and experiences on various topics: love, heartache, disappointment, betrayal, survival, racism, and the deep and abiding love and support found within her own family and faith. Her poetry is a vehicle for helping others find their “safe space” and become their own “safety net.”
From the very first poem in the collection, I was hooked:
“May our love be like the branches on a tree . . .
which not even the strongest of winds could break.
May our love rise above obstacles . . .
that block its path towards the light.
May our love stretch its every inch
as it reaches for life.”
Surviving an earthquake, she writes:
“Sometimes I feel like I am still that six-year-old girl in
Haiti.
In the middle of an earthquake.
Stuck under that brick wall.
Everyone tramping on top of me
yearning to survive,
deafened to my cries.”
In spite of difficulties and pain, she perseveres:
“I press my eyes
begging for tomorrow to come.
The night insists on being a little longer
teaching me the importance of longing.
Of being patient.”
Although I do not know Fritzinie personally, I feel a connection to her after reading her lovely collection of poems. Her strength and resilience shine through her words, giving me hope that even the darkest days will still produce young poets with the energy to shine through the clouds and write to inspire and uplift those around them.
The Sheltering by Khaya Ronkainen (2022). Available on Amazon.com.
Khaya is a South African poet living in Finland. Her impressive collection of poems is written with thoughtful consideration, deep emotion, and keen observation of the world around her. Written during the COVID-19 pandemic, she addresses issues like depression, isolation, grief, friendship, and family. Her experience with the pandemic and lockdown reflects the experience of so many other people who suddenly found themselves suffering in silence and alienation: Why did this happen? Are we doing the right thing? Will it ever end? Will life return to normal? What is the end result of such a dystopian event? Finally, leaving the shelter of home prompted new concerns: Is the world a better place? Are we better people now? Did we learn anything new? Will it happen again?
“The world is already divided
No sooner have we all agreed
that this pandemic knows no colour
than we witness reality
Life is cheap for those who can afford
The common enemy encircles
gathering strength, widening the gap
between the haves and have-nots
Inertia and action, fraternal twins
whose distinction seems unimportant
yet change hangs in the balance”
Expressing herself through poetry helped Khaya get through the pandemic. Yet, while humans sheltered at home, nature continued its orderly routine. Flowers still bloomed. Birds still warbled. The earth still turned. And when that final autumn came before the restrictions were lifted, leaves still burned with color and hope:
“Nothing depicts autumn like October’s blazing
sun before it dips beneath the horizon. While
I toast marshmallows in the evenings and
drink apple cider sangria deep into the night, I
acknowledge you are a multifaceted season of
the soul. A season to dance with things I
cannot control and reclaim freedom. I’ll
indulge and celebrate on your good days.
Because I cannot stop leaves from falling.”
We could not stop the pandemic, but we endured. What we choose to do with that is up to us. The world is still a beautiful place:
Today, I want to shine the spotlight on Aparna Jagannath, a dear WordPress friend who lives in Chennai, India. Her passion for reading and writing is unsurpassed. She is a prolific reader with an M.A. in English Literature. She possesses impressive knowledge about writers from various cultures. She also writes wonderful poems and stories that will knock your socks off with their profound wisdom, wicked humor, and keen insight into the human condition. She does not mince words but gets right to the heart of the matter. Aparna is also a strong advocate for women’s rights in India and around the world. Right now, two of her books are available on Amazon.com:
This collection of stories offers valuable life lessons for children and teenagers alike. Aparna covers many topics: cheating on exams, rude behavior towards family, making healthy decisions, coping with harmful friends, bullying, indifference to school, kindness to animals, and others. My favorite story is “Trapped inside a Smartphone” because it is clever, well-written, and thought-provoking. If your child enjoys reading books about other countries and cultures, he or she will find this book highly enjoyable.
Excerpt:
“A maze of wires surrounded him from all the sides. He was lying beside a giant motherboard. The place was air-conditioned. He almost started shivering. He looked around for his family, but couldn’t spot anyone. ‘Can you hear me, mom? Where are you, daddy?’ he screamed his lungs out, panicking. . .”
Aparna writes from the heart in this fine collection of poems. With honesty and openness, she speaks about the loss of friends, her father, and honor and compassion in the world. She fiercely advocates for herself, her daughter, and all women around the world in their struggle for freedom, dignity, and respect. Her hopes and dreams form the foundation of her writing. In spite of the crushing injustices she sees around her, she conveys a spirit of hope that the world can be a better place.
“Is it my dream? Are you really visible to my eyes?
Thirty long years have passed since we met each other.
Now we are chatting over a video call.
What a wonderful surprise! . . .”
~
“Why should women observe silence?
Why shouldn’t they raise voice against domestic violence?
Why should they submit to male chauvinism?
Why shouldn’t they protect their feminism? . . .”
~
“I thank you, Mother Nature, for supporting all forms of life.
You tolerate our misdeeds with a smile while we are busy with the knife.
I thank you, Mother Earth, for enabling us to live.
We have hurt you in many ways; yet, you always forgive . . .”
~
“Let’s tread carefully on this dangerous path of life forever.
These roads are sometimes narrow and slippery.
Let’s try not to lose our balance to their treachery . . .”
Bartholomew is one of the organizers of Living Poetry in North Carolina. Since he is also a food and wine aficionado, it is not surprising that he wrote a poetry book about food. What surprised me is what a great little book it is! His poems are witty, analytical, and chock full of delightful morsels about dining and the things we consume. You will not find any anorexic rejection of edibles here. Bartholomew is absolutely shameless in his love of food. And that’s what makes this book such a wonderful read and a delicious gift for other food-a-holics.
“Cold long nights
are best spent cuddled
with macaroni and cheese.”
Who can argue with that?
“Tomatoes
Firm as your breasts
Red as your lips
On a night out
Drenched in Merlot.”
Believe me, I will never look at tomatoes in the same way again! And finally –
“I want to die fat and happy
I want to meet my chiligod
With a milkshake in my hand.”
I know a lot of chili lovers who would agree with that!
The Salty River Bleeds by Stephen Page (2019). Available on Amazon.com.
Stephen Page is an award-winning author whose work has appeared in numerous publications. In this unique collection, he uses poetry and poetic prose to create a realistic portrait of life on an Argentinian ranch. The ranch, its owners, and caretakers, are all fictitious; but Stephen writes with authenticity and conviction. For him, the story is real, from the ambivalent feelings of the owner about leaving the city and isolating out in the countryside; to the lazy, conniving employees; to dealing with bad hombres like cattle rustlers and horse thieves; to birthing calves, riding horses, and watching the crops grow. He expresses concerns about rain and drought; the effects of pesticides on the land; the annoying insects; mechanical issues; and constant repairs on the ranch. The owner’s frustration comes through loud and clear. Life is difficult. But it’s the raw beauty of nature that keeps him going. He has his family to provide for and a loving wife to lean on. In the end, the struggles seem to be all worthwhile.
Monochrome: Poetry from the Ashes by Paula Light (2018). Available on Amazon.com.
Paula is a California poet whose poetry collection is a delight to read. She writes with a gentle hand. Her poems are like butterflies which attract us with rich colors, feather-weight movements, velvety textures, and delicate wings. She explores the nature of love, loss, sadness, and acceptance with profound understanding and peace. At the same time, she has a sharp wit and approaches life with humor and positivity. When you read her WordPress blog, you will experience both sides of this very talented woman.
Let’s Talk Bride: A Poetry Collection by Lamittan Minsah (2020). Available on Amazon.com.
Lamittan is a Kenyan poet who has written a collection of poems about a very special person in his life, Apostle Darlan Rukih, also known as the Bride of the Lamb, a minister in the Bride of the Lamb Ministries International.
This book has a fascinating backstory. Darlan Rukih was born a hermaphrodite (someone who is born with both male and female genitalia and characteristics, also known as an intersex person). Since this condition is not accepted in Kenyan culture, Rukih grew up isolated, alienated, and rejected by others. But faith in God and the Lord Jesus Christ helped Rukih to overcome this disability and to serve by helping others. Rukih first married a woman and was blessed with a son. After that relationship failed, Rukih dated a man and got pregnant. Blessed with two children, Rukih is devoted to helping children in need in Kenya. Reference: Mpasho website.
Lamittan’s admiration for the Bride of the Lamb knows no bounds in this fine collection of poems which praise Rukih, God, and His son, Jesus Christ. Lamittan expresses both his joy and his sorrow in these poems:
“There’s beauty walking in Africa,
Traversing a lonely desert –
A damsel formed by the maker
Out of the ribs of Adam, long ago.
There is beauty
Such as one that never was before.”
~
“They nailed our Lord by force.
The heavens roared,
His pain had reached God,
And for a moment,
Darkness covered the firmament
And hid God’s gaze from his son . . .”
Follow Lamittan Minsah on WordPress to read more of his poetry and stories and to learn more about Kenyan culture. His business site, Laminsa Indies, encourages and aids “budding writers, musicians, actors/actresses, self-publishers, photographers, drawing artists, dancers and many other talents from the creative industry.” Check it out!
Woman: Splendor and Sorrowby Gabriela Marie Milton (2021). Available on Amazon.com.
I met Gabriela a year ago, when she was editor for MasticadoresUSA. Impressed by the quality of the poems and prose I read there, I began to submit poems – both old and new – for her consideration. Well, she published them! And I have been following her ever since. It was her kindness and encouragement which prompted me to start writing poetry again after a long hiatus. She inspires me to reach farther and try harder than ever before.
A Pushcart nominee. A #1 Best-Selling Author on Amazon. The 2019 Author of the Year at Spillwords Press. Gabriela has published two books of high caliber poetry, co-authored anthologies, and edited the recent Amazon Best-Seller, Wounds I Healed:The Poetry of Strong Women, which she published with Ingrid Wilson of Experiments in Fiction. She resides in a higher realm of imagination, pulling ideas and images out of the clouds that Wow! the reader and transport him/her to another world. She employs language that is lush, exotic, sensual, and stimulating to all five senses. She is her poetry. Her poetry is her. She pushes the boundaries of creativity and encourages others to do the same. She is poet, teacher, mother, friend, divine goddess of the poetic art form. Many of her themes revolve around the strength, resilience, and beauty of women. She adores children, the magic of childhood, and the blessings of motherhood. And then, there’s Love! — and the perpetual tango between two lovers.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow is a testament to the hypnotic power of love and its ability to elevate us to the heights of ecstasy or fling us into the burning depths of Hell. Every word is exquisitely crafted:
“each word I write cries on the tunes of spring,
a spring that ends in graveyards and in dreams
the night I abandoned you on that bench and left
snows in my mind the syllable of hell
I wanted to return
I wanted to love you . . .”
Poetry and love are the divine twins that rule Gabriela’s heart:
“Poetry?
Oh, poetry was too good to be read.
We tasted it and ate it with silver spoons.”
Gabriela runs her own publishing house now, Literary Revelations Publishing, which seeks to publish high-quality poetry and fiction that grab the reader unawares and trample down the boundaries of creativity.
Barbara is a retired English teacher (ESL) whose award-winning work has appeared on Spillwords, MasticadoresUSA, and other poetry sites and magazines. Most recently, her poetry appeared in Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (2022), edited by Gabriela Marie Milton, and a #1 Amazon Bestseller. She currently serves as the editor of MasticadoresUSA.
Penned with heart-felt love, devotion, and pain, this memoir is an honest family portrait that mirrors both the mother and the daughter. The bond between mother and daughter is complex, but Barbara beautifully describes both the comfortable and uncomfortable sides of this relationship. Anybody who has cared for a parent suffering from Alzheimer’s, will relate to Barbara’s experience. Anybody who has missed out on motherhood and lost a child, will find Barbara’s story deeply moving. But there is no self-pity here. She has written about her life with honesty and compassion. She has experienced trauma and heartbreak. But she accepts what life brings and looks hopefully to the future instead of staying shackled to the past. She presents herself as strong, determined, and willing to learn from life’s lessons. She has written a remarkable collection of poems that are powerful in their very simplicity. Whatever trauma and pain you have endured, her poems will edify and uplift you in a positive way. YOU ARE NOT ALONE!
In writing about her miscarried child, she says:
“You left my broken womb
as the bloody remains of what
was never to come. I still feel you
in the waves, the flow
of my sacral river – your tears?
Your fears I’ve abandoned you?
No, Honey. No! I’ll never forget you.”
Finally, her experiences with encephalitis and her mother’s Alzheimer’s:
“Not enough that I am
the spitting image of Mom
and her namesake.
We both experienced
a brain injury. The encephalitis
burned away my young memories;
Alzheimer’s, her short-term ones.”
Barbara has been nominated for a Pushcart award for her poem, Mom and I Play Lassos with Our HysterectomyScars, a deeply provocative and sensitive poem which is included in this collection.
Lost in the Hours: A Poetry Collection by River Dixon (2020). Available on Amazon.com.
River is a multi-talented poet, fiction writer, and publisher at Potter’s Grove Press. His fiction leans toward the dark side. But his poetry is honest, raw, straight-shooting, and direct. The first thing you come to realize when you read his poems is that River is a realist, not an idealist. There are few hearts and flowers here. He writes with power, intelligence, profound understanding, and articulate expression. He shares a healthy cynicism about life and the world in general. I like his poetry because he says what many of us are only thinking. He’s not afraid to criticize the status quo:
“While you drown in a shallow pool
Of only three inches of self-worth
They taught you well
How to hold your own head under
And convince you of rainbows
While they blot out the stars
One by one . . .”
His works are also available from Potter’s Grove Press, along with other avant-garde authors.
I’ve known Kym for about a year now and regularly follow her blog on WordPress. Although we don’t always agree, I’ve always found her to be intelligent, funny, well-educated, and articulate. And, she’s fierce! Whatever causes she embraces, she puts her whole heart and soul into them.
In her latest book, Kym provides a general overview of poetry and her vision for the future of poetry as an art form, a therapeutic tool, and an educational medium. She views poetry as a living, breathing thing that can transform the poet, the community, the country, and even the world. Poetry should be as rich, colorful, and diverse as life itself.
Her book is almost a textbook on creating poetry and would be a useful tool in the classroom. She introduces the concept of ArchiPoetry, which employs architectural ideas to design and perfect poetic creations. As she writes: “By combining the use of language, imagery, metaphors, and specific patterns, the design elements in ArchiPoetry have different disciplines and poetic variations.”
While journaling has been an accepted therapeutic tool for a while in mental health, Kym developed the concept of TheraPoetry, a process through which people can find emotional relief by expressing themselves with poetry. Kym speaks from experience. After the death of her mother, it was poetry – and writing poetry – which helped her through the grieving process.
Illiteracy is an issue about which Kym is very passionate; and she wants to use poetry as a medium to teach our children how to read and improve their reading comprehension skills. We all remember rhymes that we learned as children. Those rhymes stick in our heads as rhythmical pieces of our childhood, bring back fond memories, and encourage us to pass them on to the next generation.
Poetry is creativity, mental gymnastics, lyrical composition, and inner fantasy. Poetry is emotional release, mental growth, and spiritual expression. This is why Kym championed the cause of poetry in 2014 when she persuaded mayors all across North Carolina to submit proclamations officially recognizing April asNational Poetry Month. Kym also endorses and supports the Academy of American Poets as a valuable resource for educators and poets everywhere. As she says, “Poetry is a revival and reminder of our aspirations, possibilities, and achievements for all people.”
Finally, I close with Kym’s own summation of poetry:
“Poetry paints emotion
art is imagination and passion
poetry inspires art
expressionism through creativity is art and poetry
-transformation-
poetry and art is creativity through expressionism
Christmas Haiku by Patricia Furstenberg (2018). Available on Amazon.com.
Patricia is a Romanian poet living in South Africa. Her poetry appears regularly on MasticadoresRomania, Spillwords Press, and other poetry sites and literary magazines. With Christmas right around the corner, I was drawn to read her book of Christmas haiku. Charmed by the simplicity of her verses and photos, I sincerely recommend this little chapbook as the perfect way to get into the candy-gingerbread-tinsel-lights holiday mood! Patricia has written numerous books for adults and children, which are all available on Amazon. So, grab a steaming cup of hot chocolate and enjoy!
Today, I’m continuing with more Poetry Book Reviews.
Nature Speaks of Love and Sorrow by Jeff Flesch (2022). Available on Amazon.com.
In his newly-published collection of poems, Jeff teaches us how the human heart, mind, and soul are intimately connected with the natural order. All the pain, sorrow, and happiness which are part of the human experience can be offset and complemented by the awe-inspiring beauty and wonder of nature. WE ARE ONE with the natural world, and Jeff expresses this beautifully through his poetic vision:
“pausing to breathe
fireflies come in a whisper, a wide grin
cascades over the clouds, revealing
the stars’ hearts.”
Jeff is a regular contributor to MasticadoresIndia, MasticadoresUSA, and Spillwords Press.
40 Poems at 40 by Ingrid Wilson (2022). Available on Amazon.com.
In this collection of poems commemorating Ingrid’s fortieth birthday, we are given a glimpse into the mind, heart, and soul of an incredibly talented and articulate poet. Ingrid contemplates the misgivings and successes of her own life in astounding verses that speak to the minds, hearts, and souls of her readers. Her honest examination of herself and her world can be summed up here:
“As my own treasure house is my own soul
I have fought long, I have fought hard to keep it
and in self-keeping, still my dreams are whole.
I have fought long, I have fought hard to keep it
you cannot have it now, e’en if you would:
it’s my reward, and only I shall reap it.”
Ingrid has her own publishing business now, the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.
I recently embarked on a Poetry Book Reading Marathon since so many of my WordPress friends have created and published poetry collections. Since they’ve been supportive of me, I want to support them! I will be posting a series of reviews of their books.
The Muse’s Bad Touch by Bogdan Dragos (2021). Available on Amazon.com.
Bogdan is a Romanian poet who appears regularly on MasticadoresIndia, MasticadoresRomania, and Gobblers & Masticadores. His poetry is dark and rich, like strong expresso, and leaves you questioning your own reality. He explores the darker side of life with characters that can only be described as eccentric, exotic, and deeply disturbing. His ability to test acceptable social boundaries and express a point of view that would shock most people, is what defines his work. In this collection, he writes about his dark muse:
My Inspired Life: A Poetic Journey by Michele Lee Sefton (2020). Available on Amazon.com.
When I met Michele on WordPress, I sensed right away that she is a woman who possesses a beautiful soul. I regularly follow her blog, which truly is inspiring; so, it was only natural that I would read her book. Michele’s inner music resonates as a lovely song, a joyous dance, a raucous cheer for the strength and beauty of women everywhere. She shares her inspiring journey with positivity and hope, reinforcing those qualities in others. Her uplifting thoughts, words, and emotions make the daily struggle worthwhile. She approaches the world with quiet dignity, joyful pride, and a sincere expression of faith in herself and the people around her. She embraces life for all it is worth:
“Before the brush and palette are put away a final time
Varney the Vampire; Or, the Feast of Blood, was published in serial form as a penny dreadful in 109 episodes between 1845 and 1847. These episodes were subsequently collected into a three-volume work. Both Thomas Peckett Prest (1810-1859) and James Malcolm Rymer (1814-1884) have been credited with authorship, with most scholars leaning towards Rymer. The series was published by E. Lloyd, located at 12 Salisbury Square, Fleet Street, London, England. Varney is a fine example of Victorian Gothic horror literature that may have inspired such great writers as Bram Stoker and Edgar Allan Poe. Barnabas Collins, the daytime soap opera vampire created by producer Dan Curtis for Dark Shadows, may have been modeled after Varney the Vampire.
The solemn tones of an old cathedral clock have announced midnight—the air is thick and heavy—a strange, death like stillness pervades all nature. Like the ominous calm which precedes some more than usually terrific outbreak of the elements, they seem to have paused even in their ordinary fluctuations, to gather a terrific strength for the great effort. A faint peal of thunder now comes from far off. Like a signal gun for the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring hurricane swept over a whole city, producing more devastation in the four or five minutes it lasted, than would a half century of ordinary phenomena.
It was as if some giant had blown upon some toy town, and scattered many of the buildings before the hot blast of his terrific breath; for as suddenly as that blast of wind had come did it cease, and all was as still and calm as before.
Sleepers awakened, and thought that what they had heard must be the confused chimera of a dream. They trembled and turned to sleep again.
All is still—still as the very grave. Not a sound breaks the magic of repose. What is that—a strange, pattering noise, as of a million of fairy feet? It is hail—yes, a hail-storm has burst over the city. Leaves are dashed from the trees, mingled with small boughs; windows that lie most opposed to the direct fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise which, in its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which here and there arose from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm.
Now and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind that in its strength, as it blew laterally, would, for a moment, hold millions of the hailstones suspended in mid air, but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some new direction, where more mischief was to be done.
Oh, how the storm raged! Hail—rain—wind. It was, in very truth, an awful night.
There is an antique chamber in an ancient house. Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimney-piece is a curiosity of itself. The ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. The window is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the apartment. There is but one portrait in that room, although the walls seem panelled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures. That portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice.
There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works of art which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners—covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to the room. The floor is of polished oak.
God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist it—their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain.
The bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed in all fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch—a girl young and beautiful as a spring morning. Her long hair has escaped from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed is in much confusion. One arm is over her head, the other hangs nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies. A neck and bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever Providence gave genius to, were half disclosed. She moaned slightly in her sleep, and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer—at least one might judge so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once faintly from them.
She has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken her; but it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy entirely. The turmoil of the elements wakes the senses, although it cannot entirely break the repose they have lapsed into.
Oh, what a world of witchery was in that mouth, slightly parted, and exhibiting within the pearly teeth that glistened even in the faint light that came from that bay window. How sweetly the long silken eyelashes lay upon the cheek. Now she moves, and one shoulder is entirely visible—whiter, fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed on which she lies, is the smooth skin of that fair creature, just budding into womanhood, and in that transition state which presents to us all the charms of the girl—almost of the child, with the more matured beauty and gentleness of advancing years.
Was that lightning? Yes—an awful, vivid, terrifying flash—then a roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue vault of Heaven! Who sleeps now in that ancient city? Not one living soul. The dread trumpet of eternity could not more effectually have awakened any one.
The hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the elements seems at its height. Now she awakens—that beautiful girl on the antique bed; she opens those eyes of celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm bursts from her lips. At least it is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil without, sounds but faint and weak. She sits upon the bed and presses her hands upon her eyes. Heavens! what a wild torrent of wind, and rain, and hail! The thunder likewise seems intent upon awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightning should again produce the wild concussion of the air. She murmurs a prayer—a prayer for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle heart come from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God of Heaven she prays for all living things. Another flash—a wild, blue, bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an instant bringing out every colour in it with terrible distinctness. A shriek bursts from the lips of the young girl, and then, with eyes fixed upon that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and with such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never before known, she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear stood upon her brow.
“What—what was it?” she gasped; “real, or a delusion? Oh, God, what was it? A figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring from the outside to unclasp the window. I saw it. That flash of lightning revealed it to me. It stood the whole length of the window.”
There was a lull of the wind. The hail was not falling so thickly—moreover, it now fell, what there was of it, straight, and yet a strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window. It could not be a delusion—she is awake, and she hears it. What can produce it? Another flash of lightning—another shriek—there could be now no delusion.
A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window. It is its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so like the hail, now that the hail has ceased. Intense fear paralysed the limbs of that beautiful girl. That one shriek is all she can utter—with hands clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in her bosom, that each moment it seems as if it would break its confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, she waits, froze with horror. The pattering and clattering of the nails continue. No word is spoken, and now she fancies she can trace the darker form of that figure against the window, and she can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for some mode of entrance. What strange light is that which now gradually creeps up into the air? red and terrible—brighter and brighter it grows. The lightning has set fire to a mill, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window. There can be no mistake. The figure is there, still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glass with its long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched. She tries to scream again but a choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot. It is too dreadful—she tries to move—each limb seems weighed down by tons of lead—she can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry,—
“Help—help—help—help!”
And that one word she repeats like a person in a dream. The red glare of the fire continues. It throws up the tall gaunt figure in hideous relief against the long window. It shows, too, upon the one portrait that is in the chamber, and that portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the attempting intruder, while the flickering light from the fire makes it look fearfully lifelike. A small pane of glass is broken, and the form from without introduces a long gaunt hand, which seems utterly destitute of flesh. The fastening is removed, and one-half of the window, which opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its hinges.
And yet now she could not scream—she could not move. “Help!—help!—help!” was all she could say. But, oh, that look of terror that sat upon her face, it was dreadful—a look to haunt the memory for a lifetime—a look to obtrude itself upon the happiest moments, and turn them to bitterness.
The figure turns half round, and the light falls upon the face. It is perfectly white—perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back, and the principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the teeth—the fearful looking teeth—projecting like those of some wild animal, hideously, glaringly white, and fang-like. It approaches the bed with a strange, gliding movement. It clashes together the long nails that literally appear to hang from the finger ends. No sound comes from its lips. Is she going mad—that young and beautiful girl exposed to so much terror? she has drawn up all her limbs; she cannot even now say help. The power of articulation is gone, but the power of movement has returned to her; she can draw herself slowly along to the other side of the bed from that towards which the hideous appearance is coming.
But her eyes are fascinated. The glance of a serpent could not have produced a greater effect upon her than did the fixed gaze of those awful, metallic-looking eyes that were bent on her face. Crouching down so that the gigantic height was lost, and the horrible, protruding, white face was the most prominent object, came on the figure. What was it?—what did it want there?—what made it look so hideous—so unlike an inhabitant of the earth, and yet to be on it?
Now she has got to the verge of the bed, and the figure pauses. It seemed as if when it paused she lost the power to proceed. The clothing of the bed was now clutched in her hands with unconscious power. She drew her breath short and thick. Her bosom heaves, and her limbs tremble, yet she cannot withdraw her eyes from that marble-looking face. He holds her with his glittering eye.
The storm has ceased—all is still. The winds are hushed; the church clock proclaims the hour of one: a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being, and he raises his long, gaunt arms—the lips move. He advances. The girl places one small foot from the bed on to the floor. She is unconsciously dragging the clothing with her. The door of the room is in that direction—can she reach it? Has she power to walk?—can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the intruder, and so break the hideous charm? God of Heaven! is it real, or some dream so like reality as to nearly overturn the judgment for ever?
The figure has paused again, and half on the bed and half out of it that young girl lies trembling. Her long hair streams across the entire width of the bed. As she has slowly moved along she has left it streaming across the pillows. The pause lasted about a minute—oh, what an age of agony. That minute was, indeed, enough for madness to do its full work in.
With a sudden rush that could not be foreseen—with a strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of her hair, and twining them round his bony hands he held her to the bed. Then she screamed—Heaven granted her then power to scream. Shriek followed shriek in rapid succession. The bed-clothes fell in a heap by the side of the bed—she was dragged by her long silken hair completely on to it again. Her beautifully rounded limbs quivered with the agony of her soul. The glassy, horrible eyes of the figure ran over that angelic form with a hideous satisfaction—horrible profanation. He drags her head to the bed’s edge. He forces it back by the long hair still entwined in his grasp. With a plunge he seizes her neck in his fang-like teeth—a gush of blood, and a hideous sucking noise follows. The girl has swooned, and the vampyre is at his hideous repast!
CHAPTER II.
THE ALARM.—THE PISTOL SHOT.—THE PURSUIT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Lights flashed about the building, and various room doors opened; voices called one to the other. There was an universal stir and commotion among the inhabitants.
“Did you hear a scream, Harry?” asked a young man, half-dressed, as he walked into the chamber of another about his own age.
“I did—where was it?”
“God knows. I dressed myself directly.”
(To continue reading Varney the Vampire; Or, theFeast of Blood, the book can be purchased on Amazon or downloaded for free at Project Gutenberg.)
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