Our Guest Today is Joanne Van Leerdam #OurAuthorGang

Welcome, Joanne! 

Joanne Van Leerdam is a poet, blogger, writer, thinker, puzzler, teacher, traveler, photographer, and generally nice person. Despite having lived all her life in Australia, she has, thus far, avoided being killed or consumed by any of the deadly wildlife, which is probably a good thing. Other than Australia, Canada is her favourite place in the world. 

In addition to writing powerful, thought-provoking poetry and short-but-incredibly meaningful stories, she keeps teens enthralled in her senior high school English, History and Drama/Performance classes. She is an active member and performer in her local theatre company and has directed high school musicals for ten years.  

Her poetry is contemporary, sensual, moody and easy to read - and it will get you in the feelings. Her horror fiction is deliciously creepy and macabre and should not be read in a graveyard unless you're incredibly brave. Joanne has also written two "reimagined" fairy tales, published in a fabulous collection with stories by five other writers. 

You may reach Joanne at:

Twitter:  http://www.twitter.com/jvlpoet

Instagram:  http://www.instagram.com/jvlpoet

Tumblr:  http://www.tumblr.com/blog/jvlpoet

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/jvlpoet.books

Website:  http://www.jvlpoet.com

http://a.co/7aa8Zd5

A hauntingly macabre tale.

When Phil loses the girl he loves, life as he knows it comes to a screeching halt. 
Little does he realise that there is so much more yet to be lost. 

"The author deftly uses a talisman to spin a story incorporating gruesome horror as forces representing good and evil beyond the grave confront each other." - Reviewer

This eerie tale will please all lovers of horror and dark fiction.

COMMENTS

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Eva Pasco via Google+

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

Joanne Van Leerdam Author & Poet originally shared this

 

Thank you for featuring me!

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Ruth de Jauregui

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

 

Welcome to our blog!

 

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Ruth de Jauregui via Google+

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

 

Welcome poet and horror writer Joanne Van Leerdam to #OurAuthorGang!

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Joanne Jaytanie

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

 

Nice to meet you, Joanne. Thanks for being here today.

 

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Eva Pasco

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

 

Besides enjoying your poetry, I've become a diehard fan of your stories in the genre of horror.

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Toi Thomas via Google+

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

 

Today, we welcome author and Jill of many trades, Joanne Van Leerdam, as she shares The Silver Feather. #OurAuthorGang

 

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Joanne Van Leerdam Author & Poet

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

 

Thank you for featuring me!

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Jennifer S. Alderson

6 months ago

 

 

Excellent!

Grace Au

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

 

Thanks for being with us today!

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Erika M Szabo

6 months ago  -  Shared publicly

 

Nice to see you on our blog Joanne :)

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Inspiration - part two - Nature #OurAuthorGang

When I struggle to find something to write about, my inspiration often comes from the visual side of life. As a photographer, I suppose that is only natural. Nature has always inspired me. I live in the Suffolk countryside and am surrounded by fields and wildlife. I only need to look out of a window to see or hear something fascinating and beautiful.

One of my short stories, Scarecrow, from the anthology, Glimmer, was based on a rundown smallholding I went to look at when searching for a new house. The dilapidated interior, weathered outbuildings, and surrounding fields gave me an idea for what became a tale of a runaway girl and a lonely old man.

“Stumbling and falling, she headed towards a low privet hedge at the end of an overgrown meadow. When she reached it, she stopped and peered over the picket fence. The girl saw a house half hidden behind two large fir trees. The garden was overgrown, and the lawn strewn with rusty barrels, ripped tarpaulins, and dented oil drums. She climbed over the fence and looked around. There was a dilapidated outbuilding a few feet away with a large stack of wood propped up against it. The girl ran towards the building and ducked down behind a water butt attached to a cracked drainpipe.
When her breathing slowed and the pounding in her chest eased, she tilted her head to one side and listened. A strange shuffling noise like someone brushing up dead leaves made the girl hold her breath. It was not leaves, though, but footsteps heading her way.”

Once, I found a complete skeleton of a bird. I took a picture of it and the skull became the cover for my second anthology of short stories - Crow Bones. It didn’t inspire a poem or a piece of prose, but it did give me an eye-catching book cover.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M6CT8PZ

The moon has been a favourite with writers for years. Whether in poetry or prose, it has a special meaning and been the subject of folklore, superstitions, and female empowerment. Apparently, it can even drive you mad or turn you into a werewolf. Not surprising it is used frequently in literature. Indeed, our beautiful celestial orb has given  authors something to write about for thousands of years.  One of my favourite moon quotes is by the 17th Century Japanese poet, Matsuo Basho: 

"The moon lives in the lining of your skin."   

It has a strange face that seems to stare at us in wonder at what the heck we humans will do next. Does she judge us from afar? Or merely condemn us with her round-mouthed, wide-eyed look?

In my Dystopian novel, A Silence Heard, the moon is a source of inspiration for the heroine, guiding her with its light, and giving her hope that she will win the battle ahead:

“The moon shone bright. A shock-faced ball in the black sky that looked down on the three of us as if to shout, “Prevail. Stand steady.” The wind whipped around our feet and legs and a swirl of ash and dry earth spiralled up before us. I coughed and spat out the filthy soil that bore the taste of Agro boot.”

But it’s not just the moon that inspires me. Recently, a herd of red deer stumbled into the field opposite my house. They stayed there for about an hour just staring at the cars that went past. They didn’t move until the alpha stag raised his head and let out a hoarse-like moo sound, and as quick as a blink, they were gone leaving heart-shaped indents in the churned up earth. Now, there has to be a story in that.

To end this post on Inspiration, a photograph of my cat Storm, because his beauty, grace, and quirky face will always give me pause for thought.

If you want to know more about my work, please visit my Amazon page:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Nicola-McDonagh/e/B00D4NAH0S/

All photographs are by Nicola McDonagh.

I'll Meet You at the Footbridge #OurAuthorGang

This story was inspired by a real life journey. I've changed the names and added a bit of imagination. Remember, February--the month of love, is only a few days away!

Photo courtesy of Pinterest

I'LL MEET YOU AT THE FOOTBRIDGE

By Author Grace Augustine

Caitlyn sat down on my lap and snaked her little arms around my neck.  It made me smile to know my great-grandchildren loved spending time with us.

“Tell me again, how you and great grandpa met,” she pleaded.

I pulled her little nine-year-old body closer to me for a hug and kissed her temple.  She knew this story frontwards and backwards, but always had to have me retell it whenever she visited.

“Well, Catie, I wasn’t very good at picking out boys to date. After four years of high school and four years of college, I’d had countless boys that were just terrible.”

Catie nodded her head.

“That’s when you asked great great grandma to fix you up, right?”

I snickered silently at that sentence.  Yes, that is when I had to be fixed up with a date.

“Yes, Catie. My mom and I sat at the kitchen table discussing boys and how most of my friends were married and having children. Then there was me…”

“Yeah, but, you were beautiful, Oma Marie. You still are.”

“Oh, child, thank you. Now, do you want me to finish this story, or are you going to tell it to me?”

“I’ll shut up, Oma Marie,” the little poppet affirmed.

“My mom worked at a factory with a lot of other people. There were some young men there, one in particular, who wasn’t having any luck with dating. So, my mom asked him if he would like to come to dinner. I was mortified! But, I’m the one who told her to find me someone to marry.”

Catie laughed at that. She opened her mouth, but shut it quickly.

“Your Opa Mark knocked on the door of our home and, of course, my mom made me answer the door. There he stood, all six-foot-six of him, dressed to the nines. No words came out of my mouth. I just stared at him. He probably thought I was the biggest loser he’d ever met.  My mom yelled at me to invite him to come in, so I did.

“The dining room table was filled with food, and my two sisters and mom and dad. After dinner, mom suggested that Mark and I go in the living room and get to know each other. We spent the next three hours talking and laughing. When it was time for him to leave, I walked with him to the door. He kissed my cheek and asked when he could see me again.”

I tear up every time I tell this story to sweet Caitlyn. I hugged her closer to me as I thought of my darling, Mark. He is the best thing that ever happened to me. I constantly thank my mother in Heaven for introducing us.

“This is where Opa Mark asks you to meet him at the bridge, right?” Caitlyn’s head bobbed, as did her blonde curls.

“Yes, honey, this is where Opa Mark and I met at the bridge. Every time we met, we met at the bridge before we went out on our dates. Three months into our relationship, Opa Mark asked me to marry him,right there, standing in the middle of the bridge... and I said yes. Each year on our anniversary, we walk the length of that bridge, always stopping for a kiss in the very spot he proposed  and remember that special night. Tomorrow, we will be married fifty-five years.”

“Oma Marie! That’s a very long time! I wonder if my Momma will pick my husband.”

“Oh, Catie, you have years before you have to worry about that. Enjoy your time growing up. When it’s time for that special boy in your life, I’m sure you will have many knocking on your door.”

“But, I don’t want many. I just want one. I want one that is as special as Opa Mark,” Catie stated. “You love Opa Mark a whole lot, don’t you?”

“I love Opa Mark with all of who I am, honey.”

“Are you going to the bridge tomorrow? Can I come?”

I smiled down at my oldest great grandchild. She was so much like her grandmother and her mother with a bit of me mixed in there for good measure.

“Yes, Opa Mark and I will walk down that bridge tomorrow. We must do that. It’s tradition. And, Catie, no, you can’t go with us tomorrow. But, whatcha say to us doing it another day? We’ll get ice cream.”

Catie’s eyes grew large at the thought of ice cream. Again, her arms were around my neck and she kissed my cheek.

“I love you Oma Marie, and Opa Mark, and I love that bridge, too.”