Sunday, April 5, 2026

Book Excerpt - The Ancestors' Secrets #historical #fiction #magicalrealism

 A healer’s gift, a clan’s curse, and a destiny written across centuries

Ancient secrets. Forbidden powers. A destiny that spans centuries. Ilona’s quiet life as a village doctor unravels when visions and enemies awaken her hidden lineage. From medieval castles to modern battles, she must embrace her clan’s mystical legacy—or risk losing everything.

https://books2read.com/u/bM7GZ8

Dear Diary. What a day! My birthday, especially the afternoon, was all about secrets. Secrets are conducted with or marked by hidden aims or methods. The Snapdragon is a great symbol of secrets; it resembles an open mouth yet doesn’t reveal anything.

I sat on the patio and heard Elza moving about in the kitchen. Ema had locked herself in her studio and Rua wouldn’t come back to the house until dinner time, so I knew I could safely enter my little secret place without being disturbed. I hadn’t visited it for over a decade. I tiptoed into the living room, listening to the sounds, and pulled the corner of the tapestry aside that was covering the wall by the fireplace. I turned the small flower design on the mantel, and when the secret door slowly opened. As soon as I entered the narrow space, the door closed behind me in an instant.

I inched my way through the confining space into a tiny room. Elza always complained about the broom closet being too small, but I knew why. Someone, long ago, divided the closet and turned half of it into a hiding place, or rather, a spy room. I touched the small ottoman that occupied most of the space, then sat down and peeked through the slit hidden in the frame of the huge painting hanging in the living room. I had a complete view of the entire room.

As a child, I had spied on countless meetings and gatherings that Mom had forbidden me to join. I sat there for a while, remembering, but then recalled Mom’s words. I looked around and searched every inch of the room, but found nothing. I was greatly disappointed. Mom said to look, so there must have been something, perhaps a guide or instructions that she left for me to find. I searched, touched the walls, pushed the ottoman aside, and looked under it. I had found nothing, besides dust and my old teddy bear.

As I sat down, I recalled a meeting I saw when I was around the age of six. My parents had asked me to stay in my room, but of course, I didn’t obey. At first, I saw people sitting around, chatting about family and everyday things that didn’t interest me, so I must have dozed off. Suddenly, the rhythmical sound of drums woke me up. I was excited to see the adults sitting in a circle on the carpet. They were holding hands, singing. Later, they started talking about things that didn’t make much sense to me. They said the future was still uncertain, and they were discussing something about a person named Mora. They were infuriated with her, and they said she and Joland could destroy the entire nation with their meddlesome and vengeful ways if they succeed changing the past.

“We have to be very careful with her,” one said, “she’s a conniving and evil person.”

Someone else spoke, “The legend says that her lover was exiled to another timeline, in the past, but he is still alive. They can communicate somehow, and they plan to change the past in order to rule in the future.”

“Does anybody know what she looks like or how we can stop her?” a short, stocky man asked loudly.

“We only know her son, Ond, and I know that he’s trying to worm his way into the higher circles.” My father said his name with such hatred that it scared me. I couldn’t even imagine that my loving and gentle Daddy was capable of hating someone.

“We must be careful with him because he is strong, and he has powerful allies,” a man’s voice echoed.

“Yes, we have to stay on alert, and we have to be careful. We don’t know how much power Mora still has and what kind of abilities Ond possesses.”

I was a child, and I didn’t understand what they were talking about, so it didn’t interest me. Now, I wish I had paid more attention. Deep in thought, I picked up my old teddy bear and absent-mindedly started stroking his soft artificial fur. He was my favorite childhood toy, stuffed to perfect softness.

I fingered my Turul pendant and the soft horsetail string, remembering Midnight. She was a beautiful, black mare with a white, crescent-shaped patch on her forehead. I closed my eyes and imagined her soft lips caressing my face as she neighed softly.

Suddenly, I heard a soft click and saw my pendant open and then felt something running up my chest and sharp pain in my neck. The pain made me jump, and I let out a muted cry. As I touched the skin, I felt warm wetness. Alarmed, I looked at my hand and saw smeared blood glistening on my fingertip. I almost fainted when I noticed that my fingers began to glow as if a bright red light had turned on from the inside. At the same time, I felt something scurrying from the side of my neck toward my chest and heard the soft click again. My pendant was closed. It must have been a bug or a spider. The damned thing bit me! I looked down at my chest and swept my clothes madly, looking for the bug.

A sudden swirling sensation took me by surprise. I grabbed the side of the ottoman to steady myself while everything began to fade around me. Trying to find a focal point to decrease the sudden vertigo, I fixed my eyes on my teddy bear, which I was still holding. I noticed with escalating alarm that the toy’s button eyes took on a strange red glow. The plastic eyes seemed alive, and the intense luminescence kept me frozen. I’m hallucinating, this is not real. I tried to turn away, but I couldn’t move my muscles. I couldn’t even blink. I was scared, never having felt such primal fear before. My heart raced, and my breath came in little puffs as I felt cold beads of sweat on my forehead. Adrenaline flooded my body, triggered by a sudden fright, but I was afraid it might have been some poison from the bite, as well.

The strange sensation and hallucination stopped as quickly as it started. My hands felt and looked normal, and I became rational in an instant. I just sat there, feeling obtuse, wondering what had just happened. The entire sensation lasted only seconds, but it frightened me a great deal, not knowing what caused it.

I came in here hoping to find answers and only found more questions. It made me angry that I didn’t find anything. The only insight I got was being scared out of my mind. I couldn’t sit there anymore. I felt suffocated and had to get out in the open. Just as I lay Teddy on the ottoman, eased the door open, and peered out, a vague feeling pulled me back. I fingered the Turul bird pendant absent-mindedly, feeling its smoothness and warmth.

Then I realized I had searched everywhere but inside the ottoman. I grabbed the seat and tried to pull it up. There was a soft metallic click, and the top opened. Under the seat was a compartment filled with photographs and my old drawings. I smiled when I spotted the bead necklace I had made for Mom when I was six or seven. She saved it. Tears threatened to flood my eyes. I sat there touching the photos of my strong father and my beautiful mother. They were so happy, yet they had to leave me so early.

Suddenly sobs erupted from my chest. Since their abrupt departure, I had never let myself deeply feel the survivor’s guilt and truly mourn. I refused counseling and even refused to talk about how I felt. Everyone tried to get me to open up, but I wouldn’t budge. I knew it was a big mistake, yet I couldn’t bring myself to discuss it, even with Bela. For years, everyone was worried, but I fooled them by pretending to be super-strong. If only they had known... I still wasn’t ready. As usual, I got control over my emotions and diverted my attention to something physical and regained my frail emotional balance.

While I was gathering the items, I found an old VCR tape under the photos. I grabbed everything and rushed out. It just might be the message! I ran upstairs to my room with the treasures and frantically searched for the VCR in the closet I’d saved to watch old tapes. Although most of the tapes had been converted to digital files, I never threw out the old player. I hooked it up and popped the tape in, eagerly waiting for the video to start.

My heart skipped when I saw my mother’s face coming into view. She leaned forward as if she were adjusting the camera. “Hi, sunshine,” she said. The sight of her and the sound of her voice made my stomach queasy and brought tears to my eyes. “You’re watching this tape, so it’s your twenty-ninth birthday, and I’m gone. Don’t cry. It’s okay. I’m not there with you, and I know it’s unfair, but it must be this way. I love you so much. I knew about your hiding place and knew you would find Teddy and this tape. Listen carefully. I will tell you about your birthright...”

The picture turned snowy, and my mother’s face disappeared. The image clicked back, but there was a cartoon playing. “No, please, no!” I shouted, grabbing the remote. I forwarded the tape, but there was only the stupid cartoon. I fast-forwarded to the end of the tape, and Mom came back.

“Your Destiny Box contains all you have to know about our people and your future. Only you have the power to open it. Your father had to hide the box, but your instincts will guide you where to find it when it's time for you to open it. You have a great future ahead of you. Use your powers well and make sure to use them to do good. Never give in to greed or revenge, and remember that those are very powerful temptations. Your father and I are so proud of you. We will love you forever.” She smiled, blew me a kiss, and then she was gone.

Bile rose in my throat, making me nauseous. I had only one chance to find out what this Hunor mystery was about, and I destroyed it. I must have taped that stupid cartoon over my mother’s most important message before she had a chance to put the tape in the ottoman’s compartment. I’ve tried rewinding and forwarding the tape slowly, but I couldn’t see more than what I saw and heard the first time. My anger and disappointment were choking me, but I had to accept that there was nothing I could do.

I noticed that the spot where I felt the bite on my neck was itchy. I went to the bathroom to check. There was a small spot of smeared blood on my skin, and when I wiped it away, I saw a tiny puncture mark. I looked at it closely with a handheld mirror, but I didn’t see a blister; there was no redness, and I didn’t feel any burning sensation.

I reasoned that if it was a bug or spider and the poison had caused that dizziness, it would not have gone away so soon. I would be sick, or there would be some redness or burning. I feel perfectly fine, but what the hell is going on? Where is that “Destiny Box” and why is it important? I may never find out.

I had to get out of the house and do something physical to balance my emotional turmoil and frustration. Gypsy happily joined me as soon as he saw me tying my hiking boots. “Let’s take a walk in the woods, okay, old boy?” Gypsy was wagging his tail, and as always, he was a willing partner for a nice walk.

My beloved waterfall is about half a mile from the house, deep in the woods. I took my cell phone and enough drinking water for both of us in my backpack. The woods in September are beautiful. The leaves had started to change color, and wildflowers were everywhere. Birds chirped happily, bunnies hopped timidly, and chipmunks and squirrels scurried along the ground and up in the trees.

Gypsy walked by my side, his long fur flowing with every step. Occasionally, he mock-chased a rabbit or squirrel for a couple of steps, but it was just a show. He would never hurt another animal. He was a gentle giant, much like Bela, and enjoyed showing that he could if he really wanted to.

“Just a little hike up this path and we’ll be there,” I told Gypsy. He acknowledged it with a sweep of his long tail, and the look in those deep, chocolate eyes told me clearly that he would always be there for me. I patted his head and projected my thoughts to him. I know Gypsy. Somehow it made me feel calmer. Whether it was his influence or I just needed a cool head to think things over, I didn’t know.

Soon, we were there at the foot of the hundred-foot waterfall. It was a breathtaking sight as the sunshine created a misty rainbow over the falling water drops that collected in a small pool. I sat there for an hour or so, just soaking in beauty and serenity, and daydreamed while Gypsy, who wasn’t fascinated by nature’s beauty, took a doggy nap by my side.

I recalled Bela’s kiss, reliving every delicious detail of it. It played repeatedly in my mind, pouring the passionate feeling deep into my heart. What a pity that’s all I had. One second of passion, occasionally, as if I didn’t deserve more. I know I could love him as no other if he would just let me. If he could just love me back. However, he didn’t, and that was that. I had to accept it because I had no choice.

Suddenly, the man I’d seen earlier across the gallery popped into my mind. He could capture my heart. In fact, he had captured my heart... a little, no - a lot. The thought startled me. It wasn’t only his looks, but it had to be some kind of magnetic pull that radiated from him. It was as if he were a comet rushing toward me from the deepest part of the universe. For that one second, when we locked eyes, nothing else mattered. I would have followed him anywhere. Two halves met and made a whole.

Gypsy looked up when I started talking angrily. “Oh, stop it, you fool... Stop this nonsensical daydreaming. You don’t have a chance. Even if, by any minuscule possibility, he was attracted to you, what would you do? Who is he? What is he? You don’t know anything. Yeah, he’s beautiful on the outside, but what is he like on the inside? Anyway, he’s not for you - it doesn’t matter.” I scolded myself and diverted my thoughts onto a different path, so I wouldn’t fall into a deep pit of wondering and wallowing in self-pity.

To get the sensitive issue out of my mind, I recalled the feeling I had that morning, that powerful yearning to heal with my hands. “It’s an unbelievable and far-fetched idea, nothing but a wishful dream,” I chided myself.

However, I recalled Mom doing some strange things when I was a small child. She always shooed me out of the room when strangers came to see her, but I’d seen her touching those people from my hiding place. I remembered her eyes. She was far, far away as if she were in a trance, and after a few minutes, the stranger would stand up, smiling and thanking my mother. I didn’t dare ask what she was doing, because she didn’t know I was watching. Or did she? She told me to look in my hiding place and find the answers I needed. Well, I didn’t find answers, only more questions.

I knew there were some mysterious abilities in my family. I saw what my father did to scare Rua away from the liquor, and I was able to slow time around me. I suspected my mother did something to those people when she touched them. Elza was a witch, in my opinion, but I didn’t have enough facts to be sure.

Since there were no answers, I decided to head in a different direction on the way home and go across the meadow. Nature bloomed rainbow colors in the clearing, and I felt as if I was swimming in the fresh grass and flowers rather than walking. I gathered an armful of flowers before stopping at the monument erected over my parents’ ashes. I’d commissioned the life-sized, dark gray granite statue made of my mother and father embracing, one year after they died. The little clearing in the woods had always been their favorite part of the property.

I sat next to the monument, talking to them for a long time in a strange one-way conversation, “I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but I can feel your presence. I’m all right, but I miss you both so much. I have so many questions... but you can’t answer them - nobody can. I’m going to have to find out on my own, and I will, I promise.”

Gypsy must have wondered why I laughed one second and sobbed the next. He put his huge head on my lap and looked up at me with his brown, gentle eyes. The big dog gave me comfort, and I knew we were connected somehow, on a deep, emotional level. When he got up and rubbed his shoulder on the granite statue, I heard low grumbles from his chest as if he knew my parents’ burial place. He knew, I was sure of it. I stroked his back absent-mindedly.

Suddenly, I felt hot, and beads of sweat started glistening on my skin, all over my exposed body. I pulled up my T-shirt and wiped my forehead that felt as hot as burning coal. I’d never been sick in my entire life. I’d never even had a fever, rash, or tummy aches like other kids. It was just natural for me to be healthy all the time. Now I felt nauseous; my vision blurred as the pounding in my head increased, and I was hot, burning up hot. I stood up and careened a little. I said goodbye to my parents, and as I started walking, Gypsy leaned into me, trying to support me. His eyes were filled with worry as if he knew I felt sick and wanted to help me.

One step at a time, holding onto Gypsy’s back, I staggered. My muscles ached, and my entire body felt as if it contained lead. My vision became blurry, and I felt weak and dizzy. Finally, with the house in view, I stumbled toward it. Gypsy helped me as I struggled up the stairs and made it to the living room, and dropped on the sofa, exhausted, gasping for air. Gypsy gave out a low rumble, and Elza appeared in an instant from the kitchen. She took one look at me, smiled, and rushed back out. Why is she smiling? Can’t she see I’m not well? Anger and hurt welled up inside me. I wondered where the thermometer was, so I could check my temperature. I had no idea because I’d never needed it before. I sat there in a stupor, thinking about getting up and going to bed, but I didn’t have the energy to move.

Elza came back, smiling again. “Let’s get you to bed.” She got a good grip on me, helping me up. It took what seemed like forever to get upstairs, but we made it to my bedroom. Elza helped me out of my boots and clothes and then covered me with a blanket.

“Elza, I have a fever. Would you get a thermometer and some Tylenol? I think a spider bit me and I’m having a delayed reaction to the poison,” I whispered, pondering whether or not to go to the hospital, but I was too tired to think.

“Nonsense! You don’t need any of that. It is all natural,” she said, rushing out of my room. She was back within a few minutes with a steaming cup in her hand, “All you have to do is drink this tea and sleep. That’s all.” Elza held the cup to my lips.

I wanted to argue with her, but I didn’t have the energy. I was very thirsty, and my mouth felt like chalk, so I drank the tea offered and was surprised to find it delicious and soothing. I settled back on my pillow as Elza placed a cool, wet towel on my forehead. It felt wonderful. I closed my eyes, feeling Elza’s soothing hands on my shoulders.

“Will you stay with me?” I asked. My voice was weak and shaky.

“Of course, dear. Now go to sleep,” she whispered.

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

Hidden-Gem Destinations: Wild, Quiet, and Wonderfully Strange

 Places Where the World Still Whispers

Travel isn’t just about seeing new places

Travel is about remembering that the world is still full of wonder. Hidden‑gem destinations invite you to slow down, listen, and let the landscape speak first.

Most travelers chase the well‑lit paths, the cities with glossy brochures, the beaches with perfect angles, the landmarks everyone has already photographed a thousand times. But there are still places where the map feels soft around the edges, where the air holds a story, and where you can step into a landscape that hasn’t been flattened by crowds.

Here are a few hidden‑gem destinations where the world still remembers how to be wild, quiet, and wonderfully strange.

The Painted Hills of Oregon, USA

These layered hills look like they were brushed by an artist experimenting with color — gold, rust, sage, and deep red. They’re part of the John Day Fossil Beds, but most travelers skip them entirely.
Why it’s a gem: It’s one of the few places where geology feels like storytelling.

Gásadalur Village, Faroe Islands

Tucked between cliffs and sea, this tiny village was once accessible only by footpath. Today, a tunnel connects it to the rest of the islands, but it still feels untouched. The waterfall that spills directly into the ocean looks like something carved into the world by hand.
Why it’s a gem: It’s remote enough to feel sacred, yet reachable enough to explore without hardship.

Aoraki Mackenzie, New Zealand

Picture credit

Far from city lights, this region offers some of the clearest night skies on Earth. The Milky Way doesn’t just appear, it unfurls.
Why it’s a gem: It reminds you how enormous the universe is, and how small your worries are.

Mini statues in Budapest

Budapest is full of tiny bronze or stone statues. These mini-hidden sculptures appear in unexpected places and times. For example, wandering in Budapest close to Elizabeth Square, you can spot Mr. Bean's teddy bear, adorning the wall of the building once used as the British Embassy. Or if you look carefully at the details of the fence of Liberty Square (Szabadság tér), you might find a small bronze sculpture of Kermit the Frog from the Muppet Show.

Mihaly Kolodko, the artist behind the imaginative statues comes from Ukraine. He was born in 1978 in Uzhgorod and he graduated from Lviv Academy of Arts in 2002 as a sculptor.

Sunday, March 29, 2026

Do Not read this Book. Seriously!

 If you start reading

you won't be able to stop

 

“Centuries of vengeance awaken—and one woman’s secret power is the only defense.”

Long ago, in a faraway land, the ancestors shaped her destiny. The secretive world of the ancient clan she was born into is filled with mysteries and obscure traditions. Their beliefs are unbeknownst to her, and Ilona resigns to live the simple life of a small-town doctor. But her life goes into a tailspin on her twenty-ninth birthday.

She starts to develop unusual powers, which she finds exciting as well as frightening. She struggles to find answers, but those who try to reveal the clan secrets are severely punished.

A menacing man is following her and wants to kill her. Who is he?

Punished by the ancestors long ago, Mora has waited centuries for the chance to reunite with her beloved Joland and to gain power over the Hunor clan. Revenge has kept her alive for over 1600 years.

Ilona must search for the mysterious Destiny Box that holds a message from her Ancestors while she attempts to sort out her feelings for the men in her life.

She must activate her Chameleon ability and obtain unimaginable powers. The clan Leaders and Elders are worried, knowing that she can use her growing powers for absolute good or absolute evil. But they have no choice, they’re powerless against Mora and must place their trust in Ilona.

With the help of the clan’s Time Bender, her journey will take her back in time to when her people lived as nomads, to the castles of the 14th century, as they struggle to overcome the obstacles in their path due to the evils of Mora.

She must ensure the birth of the Child in the 4th century to save the future of the Hunor Clan.

Saturday, March 21, 2026

The First Red Egg and Easter Traditions

 A short fiction story by Erika M Szabo

The First Red Egg

The world was still young when the first red egg appeared. Before calendars, before religion and Easter traditions, when people still listened to messages whispered by nature.

In a quiet village at the edge of a forest, a girl named Milena raised a lame hen in her hut. The bird had deformed legs and couldn’t keep up with the flock. It was an ordinary bird, pale and softfeathered, except for its eyes, which glimmered like embers in the sunlight.

One spring morning, after a long winter that had taken more than it gave, Milena found an egg in the straw, a smooth, warm, and impossibly red egg. Not painted. Not stained. Red as fresh clay, red as fresh blood on a pricked finger.

The elders whispered that such a color belonged only to omens.

The children said it must be magic.

Milena simply held it in her hands and felt its warmth as if something was alive inside the shell.

That night, a storm rolled over the village. Lightning split the sky, and the great stone that sealed the old burial mound on the hill cracked open. People feared what might rise from it.

But at dawn, when the storm passed, Milena climbed the hill with the red egg pressed to her chest. She placed it gently in the broken mound.

The moment it touched the stone, the egg cracked. Not with a shatter, but with a sigh. A warm light spilled out, soft and gold, washing over the hill and the village below. The cracked stone settled, and the air was still. Whatever had stirred in the night sank back into peace.

When the light faded, the egg was empty. Only its red shell remained, glowing faintly in the morning sun.

From that day on, people dyed eggs red each spring. Not for fear, but for remembrance, as a symbol of life stronger than destruction. A promise that even the darkest storm can be stopped and a reminder that sometimes the smallest things carry the ability to make things right.

Easter Egg Traditions


Decorated eggs long predate Easter:
60,000‑year‑old, engraved ostrich eggs have been found in Africa.

In ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, and Crete, eggs were placed in graves as symbols of rebirth and kingship.

Easter egg traditions weave together ancient symbolism, Christian ritual, and regional folk art, creating one of the most cross‑cultural springtime practices in the world. They carry themes you already love—rebirth, thresholds, hidden meaning, and ritual color—making them a perfect playground for mythic storytelling.

Why Eggs?

Across cultures, eggs symbolize fertility, rebirth, and the return of life. Christianity layered new meaning onto this older symbolism:

The egg became a symbol of the empty tomb of Jesus, its shell representing the sealed tomb and the cracking symbolizing resurrection. 

Early Christians in Mesopotamia dyed eggs red to represent the blood of Christ. This is the earliest known Christian egg tradition. 

Dyeing & Decorating Traditions
Red Eggs (Orthodox & Middle Eastern)
The oldest Christian practice: eggs dyed a single, vivid red.

Symbolizes sacrifice, resurrection, and the breaking of death’s hold.

Still central in Orthodox Easter rituals today. 

Pysanky (Ukraine & Eastern Europe)
Intricate, symbolic designs created with a wax‑resist method.

Patterns often represent protection, prosperity, or cosmic cycles.

This tradition is ancient and deeply tied to regional folklore. 

Natural Dyeing (Global Revival)
Using onion skins, beets, turmeric, red cabbage, and other plants.

A return to pre‑industrial methods that highlight earth‑based symbolism. 

Fabergé‑Inspired Eggs (Russia)
Luxurious, jeweled eggs created for the Russian imperial family.

Modern versions use paint, glitter, or metalwork to echo that opulence. 

Rituals & Games
Egg Hunts
A modern Western tradition where decorated eggs are hidden for children.

Symbolically echoes the “seeking” of revelation or new life.

Some regions use real eggs; others use chocolate or plastic filled with treats. 

Egg Rolling
Popular in Britain and the U.S.

Rolling eggs down a hill symbolizes the stone rolling away from Christ’s tomb.

Historically tied to early Christian symbolism. 

Locsolkodás (Hungary)
Boys sprinkle girls with water or perfume on Easter Monday for luck and fertility.

Girls gift hímestojás, beautifully decorated eggs, in return. 

Ticselés (Hungary)
A traditional children’s gambling game using decorated eggs.

Shows how eggs became woven into everyday folk play. 

Modern Variations
Chocolate Eggs
Now widespread in Europe and North America.

A sweet evolution of the symbolic egg, often wrapped in bright foil. 

Plastic Eggs Filled With Candy
Popular in U.S. egg hunts.

A playful, commercial twist on the older ritual of gifting eggs. 

Wednesday, March 11, 2026

Why Botoxed Faces Feel Uncomfortable

 We depend on micro‑expressions to understand people

I always feel uneasy looking at a Botox‑frozen face because our brains rely heavily on micro‑expressions to read emotion, and Botox reduces or removes those cues. When you can’t “read” someone, your social brain flags the interaction as uncertain or harder to interpret.

Why Botoxed Faces Can Feel Uncomfortable

1. We depend on micro‑expressions to understand people
Botox reduces the movement of key facial muscles, especially in the forehead and around the eyes.
These areas carry the most emotionally informative signals: tension, surprise, concern, and empathy.
When those signals are muted, your brain gets less data to work with, which can feel like trying to read a book with half the words missing.

2. Your brain uses mimicry to understand others
Humans unconsciously mimic each other’s expressions — a tiny frown, a soft smile — and that mimicry helps us feel what the other person is feeling.
Botox disrupts this loop because the person can’t make the expression for you to mirror.
Without that mimicry, empathy becomes harder, and interactions can feel “off” or emotionally flat.

3. The facial feedback loop breaks
There’s a well‑studied phenomenon called the facial feedback hypothesis:
Your facial muscles don’t just express emotion — they help generate it.
When someone’s face can’t move, their emotional expressions are dampened.
That can make them seem less responsive, less warm, or harder to connect with.

4. Ambiguity makes the social brain anxious
Humans evolved to read faces quickly for safety and connection.
When a face is harder to interpret:
Your brain has to work harder.
Ambiguity triggers mild social vigilance.
The interaction can feel subtly uncanny or distant.
This is similar to why people feel uneasy around mannequins or CGI faces that are almost human but not fully expressive.

How do you feel about this?


Saturday, March 7, 2026

Kirkus has been considered a barometer of literary quality since 1933

 A prestigious award


I'm so happy for my fellow author and friend, David James, who received a glowing review and the award that Kirkus doesn't give out easily.

A Kirkus review functions as a high‑credibility signal inside the publishing ecosystem, especially for discoverability, industry attention, and marketing power. Its influence comes from its long history, its reputation for being blunt and independent, and the fact that librarians, booksellers, agents, and reviewers actively monitor it. A positive Kirkus review is treated as a mark of prestige. 

Escala's Wish - the Kirkus review to be proud of


A classic quest narrative that lovers of fairy tales are likely to enjoy.

"In James’ fantasy novel, the disastrous consequences of a single kiss cause a faerie to lose almost everything.

Escala Winter wants to understand what it is to fall in love. She decides to kiss a mortal man, but when a wolf kills both that man and Escala’s best friend, Rihanna, the blame falls on Escala herself. She’s broken fey law, and her father, the ruler of the Court of Dreams, must judge her and decide her fate. Lord Rowan is torn between duty and love, while his wife, Morvena, plots the destruction of the stepdaughter who stands in the way of her own daughter Audrey’s ascendance. Rowan manages to save Escala’s life, but she’s banished from the court and forced to take on the body of an elf. She’s also condemned to live on the material plane unless she’s able to “remove the boulders from the True Cycle”—but what these boulders actually are remains a mystery: “It’s part of my sentence…I don’t know what it means.” Meanwhile, Morvena still wants the crown for herself and her daughter. She forms an alliance with Victor Graves and plans to kill both Escala and Rowan; Victor’s son, Jonathan, was the man Escala kissed, and Escala’s mother, Teresa, rejected Victor long ago. Escala, meanwhile, forges ahead on her quest and soon meets Harper and Roedyn, who initially believe her to be an elf but agree to assist her. They soon face direwolves and dragons alongside newfound friends Sticky and the Bard Wigfrith, who narrates the story. Later, it becomes clear that only Escala stands a chance of saving the Court of Dreams.

James’ novel is a high fantasy fable that draws from epic-quest myths and fairy tales to tell a story of redemption, duty, and love. Escala proves to be a compelling protagonist—the child of the ruler of the Court of Dreams and a mortal woman who left the Court, for fear that her daughter would never be accepted if she remained. The story’s dramatic stakes are established quite early on, as is the theme of Escala’s quest to understand the nature of love. The framing of the story, in which the Bard Wigfrith retells the tale for patrons at a tavern, adds a layer of narrative complexity that ameliorates some of the storytelling’s more didactic elements. It would have been intriguing if Wigfrith’s character development had a bit more depth, which might have made readers question the reliability of his narration. As it stands, however, the narrative is well paced throughout and evocative of many classic fantasy tales. The threat that Escala faces is also typical of a great many myths, and although a bit more could have been done to add nuance to the villains’ motives and to the lessons that Escala learns, the narrative arc is satisfying overall. Escala’s true quest is to learn to love and, by doing so, to aid the people who are most important to her.

A classic quest narrative that lovers of fairy tales are likely to enjoy."

January 7, 2026

https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/david-james-2/escalas-wish/

The author

David James (DJ) is an attorney and lives in Northborough, Massachusetts, with his wife, Tonya, who has somehow endured thirty years of his endless parade of ridiculous character voices echoing through the house. Together, they’ve raised three wonderful children, now off conquering the world through college, law school, and Boston courtrooms.

When he’s not writing fantasy novels, designing campaigns, or crafting multi-page backstories, DJ records and publishes Christian hip-hop under the stage name “DJ the Not So Ordinary.” His music is available on all major streaming platforms.

DJ is the creator of his homebrew fantasy world VallaHe is already hard at work on his second novel set in Valla, because, apparently, sleep is optional when your imagination won’t shut up.

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Thursday, March 5, 2026

The Veil as Mystery and Hidden Truth

Veils symbolize the unknown, the parts of life that are not yet revealed

Veils sit at the crossroads of mystery, protection, identity, and the boundary between worlds. Across cultures, they’re never just fabric; they’re thresholds. They hide, reveal, shield, transform, and mark the moments when a person steps from one state of being into another.

The Veil as a Boundary Between Worlds

Many traditions treat the veil as a membrane between the seen and unseen, a soft barrier that separates ordinary life from the sacred or the supernatural.

Veils often mark the line between physical and spiritual realms, symbolizing mystery, hidden truth, and the unknown. 

In religious symbolism, veils can represent the divide between humanity and the divine, like the temple veil separating the Holy of Holies in Judaism and Christianity

This is why lifting a veil in ritual, myth, or story often signals revelation, enlightenment, or crossing into forbidden knowledge.

The Veil as Protection

In many cultures, veils are worn not just to hide but to shield.

They’re believed to guard against negative energies, creating a sacred space around the wearer. 

Ritual veils can protect the soul during moments of spiritual vulnerability — initiations, funerals, weddings, trance states.

In folklore, a veiled figure is often someone who is between identities, and therefore in need of protection from wandering spirits or ill intention.

The Veil as Mystery and Hidden Truth

Veils obscure the face or form, inviting curiosity and caution.

They symbolize the unknown, the parts of life or self that are not yet revealed. 

In mythic storytelling, veils often hide gods, ghosts, brides, witches, or oracles, emphasizing their liminal nature.

To “lift the veil” becomes a metaphor for uncovering truth — or unleashing something powerful.

The Veil as Transformation

Across cultures, veils mark transitions, thresholds where identity shifts.

In Western weddings, the bridal veil symbolizes modesty, mystery, and the passage into a new life stage. 

In Hindu ceremonies, veils like the ghoonghat or dupatta signify respect, tradition, and familial bonds. 

In many rituals, veils are worn during initiations, representing the moment before rebirth or revelation.

A veiled figure is someone on the cusp of becoming.

The Veil as Identity, Modesty, and Power

Veils can signal belonging, status, or devotion.

In Islam, veils like the hijab symbolize faith, identity, and modesty, chosen as expressions of belief. 

In ancient Mesopotamia and Assyria, veils marked class and respectability, with strict rules about who could wear them. 

In modern contexts, veils can be reclaimed as statements of cultural pride and personal expression. 

The veil becomes a paradox: it hides, yet it declares.

The Veil in Folklore: Archetypes and Echoes

Across mythic traditions, veils appear in recurring motifs:

The veiled bride: innocence, danger, or a hidden identity.

The veiled oracle: truth too powerful to look at directly.

The veiled ghost: a soul not fully gone, still shrouded in the world.

The veiled goddess: mystery, fertility, or cosmic knowledge.

The veiled witch: protection from the gaze, or concealment of power.

In folklore, a veil is rarely just fabric. It’s a story device, a symbol of the liminal, the forbidden, the sacred, or the transformative.


Saturday, February 28, 2026

Why do Bad Things come in Threes?

 When three becomes ominous instead of sacred

Many cultures fear the number three because it sits at a crossroads: a number loaded with sacred power, balance, and cosmic completeness — which paradoxically makes it feel dangerous when that balance breaks. The fear isn’t universal, but the tension around three is.

Why three feels powerful, and therefore risky
Across civilizations, three is treated as a number of completion, divinity, and cosmic order.
That very power can make it feel volatile when invoked in the wrong context.

In many traditions, three represents a divine triad
The Christian Trinity, the Hindu Trimurti, the Egyptian Osiris–Isis–Horus triad. These structures frame three as a complete cycle of creation, preservation, and destruction. 

The Pythagoreans called three the first true number, symbolizing harmony and stability. 

Because it symbolizes wholeness, breaking or misusing the triad can feel like courting imbalance — a subtle root of superstition.

This duality, sacred and precarious, is the soil where fear grows.

The superstition that misfortune arrives in threes is widespread, even in modern Western culture.
It persists for three major reasons:

Humans are wired to find patterns, especially in chaos. When two bad events happen, the mind expects a third to complete the pattern. 

Stories across cultures rely on triads — three trials, three wishes, three warnings.
This narrative rhythm conditions people to expect events in sets of three. 

3. Historical superstition
One theory traces a specific fear — “three on a match” — to wartime, where lighting three cigarettes from one match supposedly gave snipers enough time to aim.   
Even if apocryphal, it reinforced the idea that the third action is the dangerous one.

When three becomes ominous instead of sacred
In many cultures, three is revered, but reverence can flip into taboo when:

A triad is broken (two without the third feels incomplete or unlucky).

Three marks a threshold: the third knock, the third omen, the third death.

Three symbolizes cycles, and cycles can include endings, not just beginnings.

This is why some traditions treat the third repetition of an action as magically charged, either protective or perilous.

Three often marks the moment when something shifts:

The first event is coincidence.

The second is pattern.

The third is fate.

That sense of fate, of crossing from randomness into meaning, is what many cultures fear.
Three is the moment the universe seems to speak.
Author of fiction and children's books

Sunday, February 22, 2026

Life Moves in Circles

 Why Spirals Appear in Every Culture


Spirals are one of humanity’s oldest symbols. 

Long before writing, people carved them into stone, painted them on pottery, wove them into clothing, and traced them into the earth. They show up in Hopi, Celtic, Māori, Norse, African, Greek, and Hungarian traditions, cultures separated by oceans, mountains, and centuries.

So why this shape? Why everywhere?

Because the Universe Is Built from Spirals. Ancient people didn’t need telescopes to notice the pattern. Snail shells, fern leaves unfurling, tornadoes, water swirling down a drain, the Milky Way. The spiral is nature’s signature, a quiet reminder that the small and the cosmic mirror each other.

Life Moves in Circles, Not Lines.

Many cultures saw the spiral as the map of a human life: Inward means memory, ancestry, the self. Outward means growth, destiny, transformation. It’s the shape of becoming, always returning, always expanding. Spirals appear in every culture because humans kept noticing the same thing: The universe is always turning, and we are turning with it.


Wednesday, February 18, 2026

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star-the story behind the rhyme

Where the rhyme actually comes from 

The famous opening lines began not as a nursery rhyme at all, but as a poem titled “The Star” written by English poet Jane Taylor and published in Rhymes for the Nursery in 1806. 

Taylor’s poem originally had five stanzas, though only the first became universally known. It wasn’t written for children specifically, more a gentle, reflective meditation on light, night, and wonder.

The melody is even older
The tune we all know wasn’t created for the poem. It comes from a French melody called “Ah! vous dirai‑je, maman”, first published in 1761. 

This melody became wildly popular across Europe. Mozart later wrote a set of piano variations on it in the early 1780s, which is why many people mistakenly think he composed the tune. In reality, the composer of the original melody is unknown. 

How the poem and melody merged
The earliest known publication pairing Taylor’s poem with the French tune appeared in 1838, decades after the poem was written. 

Once the two were combined, the song spread quickly through English‑speaking households and became a bedtime staple.

Cultural echoes and adaptations
The opening lines have been referenced and parodied for over two centuries. For example:

Lewis Carroll twisted the rhyme in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland through the Mad Hatter.

Other writers and composers have created their own playful or poetic variations. 

Its simplicity and cosmic imagery made it a natural fit for both lullabies and literary reinterpretations.

Why it endures
“Twinkle, Twinkle” survives because it sits at the crossroads of:

Childlike wonder

Celestial imagery

A hauntingly simple melody

A poetic structure that feels timeless

It’s one of those rare pieces where poem and tune fuse so perfectly that it feels like they were always meant to belong together.

Author Erika M Szabo


Saturday, February 14, 2026

Love Is

 Valentine Snowdrop

On the morning of February 14th, the first hint of spring crept into the little town of Briar Hollow. Icicles dripped from slate-gray eaves, and the snow blanketing the Victorian rooftops had thinned to lacy patches. The air carried that peculiar softness, a mingling of melting frost and earthy smell of the soil that whispered of crocuses and the renewing of life.

Mara, the town's librarian with her copper-red hair twisted into a loose bun, locked the heavy oak door of the century-old library. A crimson envelope lay on the welcome mat. No postmark, no name. When she broke the seal, a pressed snowdrop fluttered into her palm.

The note inside, written in a slanted hand she recognized instantly, read: "Meet me where the river bends. ~A friend who remembers."

Mara drew a sharp breath. The river bend, that secluded crescent where the Briar Creek widened and slowed, where a crooked birch tree with bark like peeling parchment had been her teenage sanctuary. It was where she'd shared thermoses of cocoa laced with cinnamon with Rowan Blackwood, before he'd vanished from her life. She hadn't allowed herself to dwell on that boy with the dark eyes and ink-stained fingers in years, or rather, she had, but only in those twilight moments between wakefulness and dreams.

She hesitated by the door for a heartbeat, then began walking with quickened steps, the envelope clutched against her woolen.

When she rounded the final bend in the path, she saw him. A tall figure beneath the same crooked birch, whose branches were now etched with delicate frost. A man with shoulders broader than she remembered, but with the same familiar tilt to his head that had once made her sixteen-year-old heart stutter. In his gloved hands, he held a small bouquet of fresh snowdrops, their stems wrapped in twine.

"Rowan?" The name escaped her lips in a cloud of visible breath.

He nodded, suddenly boyish despite the faint lines around his eyes. "I moved back last month," he said, his voice deeper than in her memories. "I kept trying to find the right moment to see you. Then I remembered this place, how it was always ours somehow."

Mara stepped closer, her boots crunching on the half-frozen ground. The river whispered beside them, dark water sliding beneath a thin crust of melting ice. "You remembered the snowdrops," she said, touching the velvety petals. "You once told me they were the color of hope."

And as they walked back toward town, side by side but not quite touching, the February snow retreated in earnest beneath the strengthening sun, revealing small patches of determined green as if the world itself, after the longest winter, was finally ready to bloom again.

Author Erika M Szabo


"Love is" quotes by author friends:

A bond, unbreakable
A strength that holds together
Even when you're falling apart
A knot that binds the heart
Sometimes it hurts
But it doesn't dissolve
It's containment
Without a container"

"Love is not an accident or a passing spell—it is a choice, remade each day, in every moment, no matter the form or the relationship that says, 'I am giving part of myself to you because I can’t NOT"

Sunday, February 8, 2026

The story behind Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

 Bloody Mary

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockleshells

And pretty maids all in a row.

The darkness is very real, though also wrapped in centuries of folklore and political propaganda.

According to one widely circulated interpretation, the rhyme is a veiled commentary on the violent reign of Queen Mary I of England, better known as Bloody Mary. The rhyme ties each innocent‑sounding garden image to tools of torture or execution used during her persecution of Protestants.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

“Contrary” refers to Mary’s refusal to accept the Protestant reforms established by her father, Henry VIII. When she took the throne, she violently attempted to reverse the English Reformation and restore Catholicism.

How does your garden grow?

The “garden” is interpreted as a graveyard, filled with the bodies of Protestant martyrs executed under her rule. During her five‑year reign, hundreds were burned at the stake.

With silver bells and cockleshells

Silver bells are believed to refer to thumbscrews, a torture device used to crush fingers.

Cockleshells are thought to be genital torture clamps used on male prisoners.

These interpretations come from sources that frame the rhyme as a catalogue of torture instruments associated with Mary’s regime.

And pretty maids all in a row

Two major theories circulate:

Execution victims lined up for hanging or burning.

Or, more symbolically, the “maids” may refer to the Maiden, an early form of guillotine used in Scotland and sometimes associated with English executions.

Are these interpretations historically proven?

Not definitively.

Nursery rhymes often accumulate folklore explanations long after their creation, and scholars debate how literal these connections are. But the association with Bloody Mary is one of the most persistent and widely repeated.

What’s undeniable is that the rhyme’s imagery—bells, shells, maids—maps neatly onto the tools and consequences of Mary’s brutal campaign against Protestants. Whether intentional or retrofitted, the symbolism resonates.

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