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I’m an international, multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in my head. As a singer, songwriter, independent filmmaker and improv teacher and performer, my life has always been about creating and sharing what I create with others. Now that my dream to write for a living is a reality, with over a hundred titles in happy publication and no end in sight, I live in beautiful Prince Edward Island, Canada, with my giant cats, pug overlord and overlady and my Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn. Début The world struggles around It, a back and forth seesaw of demand and denial. It flops inside its box as the world spins, turned upside down. One of the shining, pearl-topped pins jabs Its leg. The pain is a shock. But It is unable to do anything about the agony. Gravity lets go and It floats for what seems an eternity before crashing into something hard. The box remains intact, at least. Its home, Its safe haven. Still, It has no fear, only confusion and need. Where is the girl in whose image It was created? Silence. Darkness. Waiting. All the while, the pin. And the pain. On and on forever. Alice isn't popular. Alice isn't pretty. Alice isn't likable--at least, that's what she's been told most of her life. Moving to a new town hasn't helped any, not with her nasty brother torturing her almost daily and her too-cool, uber-popular cousin making her life miserable. When Alice finds an old doll in her grandmother's attic, she feels an unusual connection to it. She just can't bring herself to feel bad when horrible things start happening to the people who are cruel to her...
It comes to life in a rundown shack on a Louisiana dock. It owes the spark feeding its existence to the old woman hunched in shadow across the plain wooden box, her dark skin folded over in wrinkles, so many her chocolate eyes can barely see. Her fingers feel warm, kind. She settles It in the fragrant cedar, cushioned by fresh straw, long, slim pins placed lovingly inside. The lid closes.
It doesn't fear the darkness. It just came from the place of nothing. The box rocks as It is lifted. The squeal of an old, salt-eaten hinge echoes in the night. Fresh air seeps through the fine cracks in Its home. The sea, dead fish. Worse things.
It rests, unconcerned for the passing of time or distance. And yet, when the old woman's footsteps slow, It feels the pulse of life speed up. Soon It will be in the hands for which It was made.
A change of possession in whispered French, a new feeling, still loving, but tinted with fear.
More travel, swifter this time. Urgent.
And then, light. There is light. And soft voices, too soft for It to hear. Shocking, a single shout.
"No!"
The world struggles around It, a back and forth seesaw of demand and denial. It flops inside its box as the world spins, turned upside down. One of the shining, pearl- topped pins jabs Its leg. The pain is a shock. But It is unable to do anything about the agony. Gravity lets go and It floats for what seems an eternity before crashing into something hard.
The box remains intact, at least. Its home, Its safe haven.
Still, It has no fear, only confusion and need. Where is the girl in whose image It was created?
Silence. Darkness. Waiting.
All the while, the pin. And the pain. On and on forever.
***
