Elaine Faber

Readers seem to visit my posts about "cats' more than any other, so  I'll post a few short stories I've written about cats. Feel free to comment about your cat if you wish or send my story to a friend who might enjoy reading it.

DEAD BUSH POKER

Elaine Faber

I live in Dead Bush, a small town in Texas. I’m a fine figure of a feline, though some would say, somewhat on the portly side. It must be true, as there is a tomcat that returns to town every spring with a glint in his eye. I haven’t given him a tumble yet, but next spring might be a fine time to consider the offer. I’ve heard that a bit of romance can be revitalizing to one’s health.

Dead Bush sports three saloons, a general store, the bank, a church, a blacksmith shop and a hotel such as nice folks don’t mention in front of the kids. Modern slat sidewalks were added this spring at the suggestion of those specific ladies who live in the aforementioned establishment.

Today, being Founder’s Day, farmer’s wives prepare pies and BBQ sides of beef for a giant banquet and sponsor a square dance out behind the blacksmith’s shop. Bright and early, neighboring farmers trickled into town with planks and sawhorses for the long tables needed to feed the attendees.

Long about 10:00 AM this morning, several raggedy ex-Civil War soldiers rode into Dead Bush on horses that looked like they was rode hard and put away wet. They congregated at the Dry Spell Saloon where they acquired liquid libation and a commenced a serious poker game.

The regulars at the Dry Spell saloon have considered me their personal mascot, ever since the town sheriff found me, the lone survivor of a wagon train massacred by a tribe of renegade Indians. Shorty, the barkeep saves me left-overs from the day’s leavings. This, added to my hunting prowess, leads to my aforementioned portliness.

I’ve heard that cats are almighty scarce and considerable valuable these days. In fact, a number of local farmers have offered Shorty big bucks for me, beings as cats don’t eat much and can keep a barnyard free of rodents and such vermin.

Well, seems these aforementioned soldiers what came to town with their long rifles and powder horns sat and drank well past noon. It caused quite a stir amongst the gamblers when I chanced to wander through the saloon. There commenced talk of some cowpoke that had hauled a cat in burlap sack to a farm in the middle of nowhere, and sold it for a $20 gold piece. One of the soldiers reported big money being paid for cats further out west, and he sudden-like, took a notion to buy me. Shorty declined, saying I couldn’t be bought since I didn’t belong to nobody.

As the drinking commenced, the soldier cajoled Shorty into a poker game with me as the stakes! I sat near the potbelly stove, preening my whiskers, somewhat amused by the stupidity of those soldiers what thought they could buy and sell another living creature. Didn’t the Civil War, just fought, disprove the nation of that opinion?

The scent of barbequed chicken wafting through the open door caught my attention, and I left the fools to their folly. I ambled down the sidewalk, past the wooden cigar Indian in front of the general store, and rounded the nearest banquet table laden with food. The oldest six of Mrs. Barnwhistle’s nine children cornered me straight away and near strangled the life out of me with their stroking and clutching, chucking under my chin, and shifting me from child to child. I’ve learned to put up with such nonsense as long as they don’t pull my tail. It puts their mothers in a fair mood when you allow such nonsense and they get such a kick out of seeing their child all jollified, they’ll offer me a pinch of chicken or a slice of bread and butter. If things get too rowdy after such juvenile mauling, I can easily get away and lick off the sticky jam or mud clinging to my furs.

Raucous laughter from inside the saloon caught my attention. I felt it prudent to check on the doings, as my future as mascot at the Dry Spell Saloon seemed dependent on the turn of their cards.

Empty glasses were lined up in front of the four players hunched over the poker table, and splashes of liquor pooled on the table. Shorty’s chips were considerably fewer than the other three players. My whiskers drooped as chances of remaining the Dry Spell Saloon mascot began to wane.

Shorty’s chips rose and fell as the afternoon wore on. I sat on a nearby table, commiserating with Mr. Casper, a grey-haired old codger who operated a small gold claim in a nearby river. Whenever he came to town, he usually exchanged most of his gold for Shorty’s liquor. The old man was a fool, but he didn’t smell quite as bad as most miners, as being tipsy, Mr. Casper fell in the river more often than most, washing away some of his natural man-stink.

In the late afternoon, the ladies announced that supper was served for any who cared to partake. The saloon emptied except for the four poker players, who found it harder and harder to sit upright in their chairs. Heads lolled and cards tumbled from their hands. More whiskey ended up on the floor than in their glasses. Never in the history of Dead Bush had such a game been played or the stakes so coveted.

Eventually, Smitty Rosenblatt passed out. George Waddlebaker went broke. Shorty hung in there, though blurry-eyed and slump-shouldered, as he continued to fight for his meezer. Poor Shorty looked ready to throw in the towel. Seeing the inevitable handwriting on the wall, I slipped through the front door and headed out onto the prairie, intending on a stay of four or five days, considering how revitalizing was an extended trip also to one’s health.

Besides, there was no sense watching Shorty go broke and the winner attempting to claim his prize. Mostly, I had no intention of being strung to the back of a saddle in a burlap sack until the old soldier found a farmer with a rat-filled barn and a $20 gold piece.

Someday, when folks sit around spinning yarns, they’ll tell the tale of a Founder’s Day when a cat was the prize in the highest stakes ever passed hands in a poker game in Dead Bush. As for me, I’ll continuing as the Dry Spell Saloon mascot, and when I retire to the back room on my burlap sack, I’ll think about next spring when old Tom comes ’acallin.’

Readers love to read a novel full of dialogue. Often they have no idea that, as writers, we have rules we must follow to keep the dialogue interesting. Every sentence in a novel must move the story forward. This keeps reader's interest whether it is a fiction story, a devotional, or an article about keeping aphids off rose bushes.

Let’s pull back the curtain on an author as she creates her compelling story.

Don’t repeat the question or person’s name when giving an answer. Example:

George: "Lucy? Do you want to go to the movies with me?"

Lucy "Yes, George, I’d love to go to the movies with you." (Sounds like the utterances of a robot.)

Readers may not even notice when a skilled writer gives an oblique reply.

George: "Do you want to go to the movies with me?"

Lucy: "It depends. What’s playing and when did you have in mind? I have a very busy social life, you know. (Aha! We’ve moved the goalpost on the story. Lucy may have another suitor.)

We don’t use conversation to impart information. (Example)

George: “So? You’ll go with me if you aren’t too busy?”

Lucy: I have a date with Tom next Saturday night. You know, Tom–my mother’s second cousin’s nephew by marriage? He’s a troubled guy, votes Democrat, but he has a charming personality.”

We don't use meaningless chit-chat in dialogue. Every conversation should have a purpose, give a clue to something yet to come in the story, or suggest a potential conflict. Example:

George: "You’re going out with Tom? I thought he was in jail for murder."

Lucy: "He’s out now. He was falsely accused. Now he’s receiving death threats against him or anyone associated with him.”

George: “Really, Lucy?” George raises his eyebrow. “Is it wise to date a guy like that?”

Don’t use conversation to impart lengthy bits of back story. Example:

George: "You should be dating me, not Tom. Don’t you realize that I was the one who saved your mother from a burning building that she had purposely set that night when she was despondent over her divorce, and then she learned that she was my father’s long-lost twin sister, separated at birth by their evil stepmother?"

Lucy: Gasp! “I’ve been away at college way too long. Good grief. Does that make us cousins?”

George: “Maybe kissing-cousins. So is it a date?”

Lucy: "As long as they haven’t arrested me yet for killing my college roommate, who recently died under questionable circumstances when she was smothered in her sleep.”

Review: Each sentence delivers new information.

Give oblique answers to a question.

Don’t use the person’s name in your response.

Don’t use conversation to impart lengthy back story.

Don’t repeat the question just asked. The goal is to keep the reader turning pages!

Wow! Writing a book isn’t as easy as you thought, right? I had to keep all these things straight while writing a compelling event that hooks the reader on page one, an exciting middle, and a satisfying and thrilling conclusion. But, it was easy for Mrs. Odboddy to be the prime suspect in a burglary, involved with a counterfeit ring, lose the war bond money, meet a tiger and still win at the end. Mrs. Odboddy – And Then There was a Tiger will keep the reader turning pages and looking backward to the previous Mrs. O books, or forward to Mrs. Odboddy's Desperate Doings. Join Mrs. Odboddy on this rollicking adventure as she tackles adversity in this hysterical romp at the Newbury Harvest Fair, even as she fights the war from the home front during WWII.

As though carved in ivory, she stood ankle deep in the pool, peering into the murky pond. She tipped her head gracefully, the back of her long neck pale and white beneath the afternoon sun.

He stared, entranced by her beauty. He came often to the park to rest in the shade beneath the trees, to bask in the sun or visit with friends, but, never had he seen such a lovely creature as he beheld that late autumn day. Afraid to move for fear she might disappear, he stood, immobile, his gaze roaming across her soft, supple body. He gasped, realizing that he had ceased to breathe.

Each day for a week, he returned to the pond, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Each time, his heart surged when he found her standing motionless and lovely, ankle deep in the pool. She filled his thoughts by day and his dreams at night.

Compelled to declare his love to anyone who would listen, he spoke often of her to his friends and to his mother. She tried to dissuade him from his purpose. “Forget this foolishness, my dear son. Such a union between you is not possible. The differences are too great.”

He turned a deaf ear to her wisdom, believing that one day his love might conquer their differences and that she might return his love.

Winter turned to spring. Cherry blossoms bloomed pink and white. Children laughed and robins sang. Little boys ran through the grass. The red and green triangles of kites filled the pale blue sky.

Each day he paced beside the pond, watching his beloved, but never finding the courage to speak. He felt unworthy. What had he to offer?

He sat on the grassy shore, adoring her from a distance, fearing any declaration of love might frighten her away. The afternoon sun warmed his back and its rays reflected off her snow-white head as she gazed into the pond, seemingly intent only on the unimagined thing she sought beneath the water. What so held her attention and captivated her mind?

Each day, he tried to gather his courage, determined to speak to her. Each day, he tried to tell her how much he loved her–how beautiful she was. But each day, he returned home, having never spoken a word.

Spring became summer and for a time when he came to the park, he would wait in vain. His heart would nearly burst with concern. Was she ill? Had she found another love? Where had she gone?

One late afternoon as he waited, she limped toward the pond. She was hurt! What happened? Why had he not declared his love sooner? Perhaps he could have protected her.

She paused at the water’s edge. Each beat of his heart pounded in his head. He stepped forward. He must speak! The words seized in his throat.

She moved into the pond.

At last, with a gasp, he found the courage. “Wait! My love! I must tell you what is in my heart.” She stepped further into the water, as though she could hear or understand his message.

Didn’t she care even a little? She must have noticed him, day after day, hovering on the bank, even though he was unable to speak. Couldn’t she see how he felt? Was her heart so hardened that–?

He turned at the sound of laughter on the shore. Two boys threw stones that struck the water with a plop, each one coming nearer to the place his darling waded.

As she stepped deeper into the pool, a stone struck the back of her head. She stumbled.

How dare they strike his beloved? He rose up in a rage and flew at the boys. Again and again he struck their heads, their shoulders, and their legs. They fled screaming toward their nannies, sitting nattering in the sun beside their prams parked in neat rows beside the painted benches.

He stepped into the pond. The chilled water covered his feet.

His precious stumbled toward the shore, a step, and then two, and collapsed on the grass. He rushed to her side and stood helplessly as she lay slumped on the slippery embankment. Slowly, she arose. Not a word did she speak. Not a glance in his direction.

Perhaps she was blind. Perhaps she couldn’t see how much he wanted to help her.

Then, she stumbled a few steps… and lifted gracefully into the darkening sky, and disappeared into a cloud...

He knew she would never return. Her beautiful pale body would never again stand beside the pond; never again wade into the pool and lean gracefully into the water. He lowered his head and tears trickled from his tiny black eyes.

Children ceased to laugh. The robins ceased to sing and as if the sun had followed his beloved behind the gathering clouds, a shadow passed across the grass.

Again, his mother’s words echoed through his head. “Do not return to the pond, my son. Such a union is not possible. The difference between you is too great.”

He heard a sound and looked up. She was coming back? Perhaps she loved him after all.

She swooped down, down and circled in a graceful arch over his head. Then she spread her wings, turned and flew into the setting sun.

In his heart he heard her say. “It’s not as if I didn’t care. I knew you were always there, loving me, and helping me. But, can’t you see, my dear? We can never be together. Even though our hearts are one, I am an egret and you are a crow.”

This is an excerpt from my fictional novel, The Spirit Woman of Lockleer Mountain, available at. Amazon... ebook is $3.99. Enjoy an edited dance scene from Lou's visit to a Native American Pow Wow. 

Lou filled a thermos with coffee and grabbed her camera. If she’d judged her time correctly, she’d get to the Native American reservation in time to see the first Pow Wow dance.

Lou backed down the driveway, headed toward the reservation. Even with November’s chill, the warm sun melted the night’s dew 0ff shrubs and trees causing a mist to rise, almost as if it was raining upside down.

A chipmunk skittered across the road. She waved as she passed several cars. Everyone who lived on the mountain exchanged friendly waves and greetings.

Lou heard the thrum of drums and people cheering as she neared the reservation’s recreation hall. She followed the noise to where the visitors were seated in a circle and found a seat near the front.

Several dancers entered the makeshift arena wearing brightly colored circular-feathered headdresses. One of the men wore yellow face paint. His shirt was decorated with designs in brightly colored bead work. Bells on his ankles jangled as he gyrated and spun to the drumbeat, and his robes swirled behind his body. His boots were made of animal fur with tassels that twirled as he twisted.

One man left the circle and a woman entered. As she danced, she moved forward and then back from the yellow-faced dancer. Embroidered and beaded designs depicting spiritual beings covered her vivid red shawl and fringed skirt. Her hair was plaited with a headband decorated with a beadwork design. The couple moved closer together, but never touched. Each dancer spun faster as the drum beat quickened, their ankle bells keeping time to the rhythm.

As the dance quickened, Lou felt the sexual tension well up in her body. At last, the woman approached her partner, whipped off her shawl and held it at arm’s length. The man grabbed the shawl and flung it around her shoulders, pulling her close to his body, as if in an embrace. The drum beat stopped.

I now pronounce you man and wife? Was that the meaning of the dance? Lou turned at a touch on her sleeve. Emmy stood behind her, smiling. “It was beautiful. I could feel the intensity of it. Was it a marriage dance?”

“Yes. A ritual dance from long ago,” Emmy said. “When a young woman was ready to marry and selected a mate, as they danced, she offered him her shawl, signifying her interest in marriage. If he agreed, he wrapped it around her body and pulled them together. This dance is only symbolic, commemorating customs from our ancestors’ days.”

“It reminds me of a Bible story.” Lou said. “A young widow named Ruth went to the winnowing harvest and caught Boaz’s eye. Ruth’s mother-in-law sent her to a winnowing festival. That night, Ruth crept in and lay at Boaz’s feet, a sign she was willing to be his wife. Come morning, finding her there, he came to an understanding with another kinsman who had first right of refusal for Ruth’s hand. Never underestimate the power of a woman when she sets her sights on a mate.”

I just finished the last chapter of my latest Mrs. Odboddy mystery/adventure, Mrs. Odboddy and the Conniving Candidate. In this novel, Agnes Odboddy is running for a seat on the Newbury City Council, vacated by the removal of a previous member, described in Mrs. Odboddy’s Desperate Doings.

The open city council seat attracts the attention of Horace Faggenbacher, owner of the Flying Red Horse gas station, a character the readers met in previous novels. Who knew that he was such a conniving, despicable person that would engage in under-handed tactics? In addition, Katherine’s old boyfriend, determined to win her back, returns with questionable tactics to rival those of Faggenbacher’s.

So what must be done before Mrs. Odboddy and the Conniving Candidate is published? At the moment, I’m involved in a deep editing process intended to catch typos, punctuation issues, story line snags, expanding certain scenes, and generally looking for anything that needs changes.

My mentor is currently reviewing the manuscript with suggestions or needed corrections. The manuscript will then go to 3-4 beta readers looking for plot issues, punctuation, or point out any suggestion they feel needs addressing.

Other types of editors are often hired at this point who make changes and offer suggestions.

As a self-published author, the necessary steps toward publication all become my responsibility. I’ll envision a general cover concept and as I prefer photographs, I'll search Shutterstock, Fotolia and other online photo sites for one or two photos to be added to Mrs. Odboddy’s image. Once I’ve selected and purchased the rights to the images, they are sent to my mentor/editor/cover design genius who plays around with the photos until I’m satisfied with a finished cover design.

Acknowledgments, back cover blurb, character description, and dedications are assembled. The manuscript is sent to my genius who puts it in the correct format for publication. She returns a printed copy to me for a final edit where I often have her make 40-50 corrections or changes before it is sent to my publisher who uploads everything to Lightening Source. They return a Final printed version for my approval and a chance to correct any printing errors. Upon approval, the paperback books are printed and delivered to my publisher. I pick up my books and they are now available for in-person sales or for interested bookstores or libraries to purchase.

A correctly formatted e-book version is sent to Amazon where, if the moon and stars are in the correct alignment, they upload it correctly so folks can purchase the e-book novel from Amazon. (My Amazon experiences with my last two novels were less than encouraging.)

So, there is no wonder that a paperback novel costs $12-16. After many thousands of hours writing the novel, you now know what a self-published author must do to complete the process and provide you with a wonderful reading experience. I hope you'll enjoy all my books and look forward to presenting this latest novel, perhaps next year.

This is my most popular blog post so I'm sharing it again. Happy New Year. May 2023 be the best one yet.

I love my cat, Truffie. She’s part of the joy in my life. Every day, she brings a smile to my face and makes me laugh. She loves me unconditionally, even when I’m not wearing lipstick or my hair is a mess. She loves me when I’m grumpy or had a bad day. She even loves me when I accidentally step on her tail.

This spring, Truffie stopped eating. She lost weight. She’d been to the vet twice. After $600 in medical charges the vet had no answer. “All the lab tests and x-rays are normal. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. Maybe we could−”

“No, I can’t spend any more money. Not if we don’t even know what’s wrong or how to fix it.”

It had already been five days since she became ill. If something didn’t change soon, Truffie would die. I took her home. She still wouldn’t eat. She had a fever. So far, none of the medicine had helped.

I wondered. Does God care if Truffie is sick?

Sure, we know He cares about our health and our finances and foreign affairs and the troops fighting in far-away places. But does God really care if my cat is sick? Would He take time from His busy schedule of healing folks and finding work for the unemployed, and protecting our loved ones and trying to make our politicians get along? You see, I’ve prayed about all those things for a while now, but Truffie’s fever? Does He really care? Do I dare pray and expect God to heal her?

I asked my pastor, “Do you think God answers prayer when our animals are sick? Would it help to pray for Truffie?” He told me that on a certain day, people bring their animals to the Catholic church to be blessed, but he couldn’t think of a verse that specifically says God heals cats.

I tried to find something in the Bible that would prove God cared about the animals and would answer our prayers when they’re sick. Matthew reminds us…Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. (Matthew 10:20 NIV) Sparrows. Cats. Not quite the same, but if He loves birds, He must love cats.

We’re all familiar with God’s blessings and promises. We know He gives us everything we need. Our home. Our loved ones. A job–well most of us have a job, or we had one, before they downsized the company, and now some of us have unemployment. But not many of us are going to bed hungry, so even in our adversity, God supplies our needs. But that didn’t answer my question. Could I really ask Him to heal my cat?

I moved on, reading more about prayer and faith. Ask and it will be given to you. (Matthew 7:7 NIV). Was that the key? And the faith the size of the mustard seed could even move mountains. For truly I say to you. If you have faith like a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’ and it will move and nothing will be impossible. (Matthew 17:20NIV) That sounded promising. And lastly…how much more will the Father in Heaven give good gifts to those (his children) who ask Him. (Matthew 7:11NIV) Now we were getting somewhere. It was a matter of prayer with faith, not the specifics of what we pray for.

What have I got to lose? So I prayed for Truffie. “Lord, you know how much I love her. You know how much joy she brings me and you know how it would grieve me to lose her. I’m calling on Your promise, Ask and it will be given…. I place this little cat in Your loving hands, Lord, and ask You to heal her and raise her up again. I’m asking because You’ve promised if I have faith…”

Now, I’m not going to tell you that a bright light surrounded the house or that Heaven opened and God’s voice rang out, “Truffie. Rise up and walk,” but the next day, Truffie started to eat. Her mood brightened. She purred. She was on her way. She would recover.

I know that God cares for our cats and dogs and rabbits and horses and all our pets. Not because there’s a specific verse in the Bible that says so, but because we love them and He loves us enough to want our joy to be complete. He promises that if we ask and have faith, we can move mulberry trees into the sea, or move mountains from here to there, or maybe it’s all about teaching us to take all our cares to the Lord, no matter how big or small.

Truffie is living proof. God gave me the victory. God answered my prayer, and yes, I’m convinced. God loves cats.

***

Elaine Faber’s short stories, often featuring animals, have been published in anthologies, national magazines and in full length novels, all available at Amazon.

The Black Cat Mystery Series and Mrs. Odboddy WWII historical fiction series–all books for Christian readers who love mysteries without questionable content.

The days grew shorter, the nights longer, and the whisper of leaves on the attic roof awakened each Christmas tree bird wrapped in tissue paper. Something called to them, until they wiggled with joy, crinkling their crepe paper walls. Soon, each Christmas bird ornament would be lifted from his crinkly paper bed where he had slept all year.

The Christmas birds felt a thrill from their springy wire clips and gold porcelain bodies to their bright feather tails. The littlest Christmas bird lay warm and snug beneath Gold Bird. Soon he would be on the Christmas tree with his fragile glass friends and the others…the round ones with bright colored paint. They were not nearly as beautiful as his Christmas bird friends with their springy wires, delicate glass and pinchy clips that clasped them firmly to each branch. All his friends were lovely, but in his heart, he felt he was the most beautiful Christmas tree bird.

He closed his little red eyes and dreamed of Christmas Eve. He would feel truly alive looking down at the family on Christmas Eve. “I’ve been thinking,” he whispered to Gold Bird in a trembling voice. “You are lovely, but you know, I’m the most beautiful one.

Gold Bird’s tail feathers quivered. “Old blue glass bird was hand-blown in Germany and has a Peacock feather tail. Antique bird is missing tail feathers, but you can see right through him. We are all unique and just as beautiful as you.” His tail feathers shook as he scolded the young bird.

“That may be true,” said the saucy little bird. “But, the tree wouldn’t be perfect if I’m not right near the top.”

Older and wiser Gold Bird, turned away. “You’re missing the true meaning of Christmas. It would serve you right to be left behind.”

The Christmas bird trembled. “It’s not that you’re not handsome, but my tail feathers are fluffier, and…my…paint is─”

“Tut tut. Not…another…word.”

Gold Bird’s words haunted him. “It would serve you right …” Not to be on the Christmas tree? He could not bear the thought.

A soft sprinkle of snow blanketed the roof. The wind whistled past the attic. Early one morning, their box was carried down the stairs. “Soon we’ll be on the Christmas tree,” the little Christmas bird whispered to Gold Bird.

One by one, the Christmas birds were lifted from the box. His friends squealed as they were hung on the tree. He heard music and children laughing. He even smelled cookies!

He whispered to Gold Bird. “It must nearly be my turn” … but Gold Bird’s fluffy tail no longer tickled his nose. The box was tossed into the corner. “What happened? I’m still here.” A tiny plastic tear formed in his little red eye. His tissue paper bed was now a prison, his beautiful body swaddled in crinkly paper. He heard muffled Christmas sounds. “I was conceited and proud, and I’ve been left behind.”

On Christmas Eve, the family gathered to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Alone in the box, the Christmas bird imagined his friends high in the tree branches. “The round ones are not as beautiful as me,” he cried,” but they are on the tree, and I’ve been left behind.”

After supper, the family gathered near the Christmas tree. The little girl read from the Bible. “They wrapped Him in swaddling clothes and lay Him in a manger.”

The little bird imagined the tiny baby sung and warm, lying in a manger, warmed by the breath of the animals. “I’m wrapped in swaddling clothes, like baby Jesus.” Daddy told how Jesus came as a tiny baby, and if we loved and trusted Him, we would never be left behind. The Christmas bird thought, “I was left behind. How much worse, to be left behind from Heaven.”

Suddenly, the crinkling tissue paper in his box lifted and the  warmth from the fireplace warmed his delicate glass body.

“Look, Mommy! It’s another Christmas birdie. He has a red tear in his eye. Can we hang him on the Christmas tree?”

Daddy lifted her up to hang the little bird near Gold Bird. The joyous Christmas bird watched the family open gifts. The spicy aroma of gingerbread was in the air. Christmas bird wiggled with joy as the family sang carols. At last, he was exactly where he wanted to be. Gold Bird swung around from a nearby branch. “Welcome to Christmas, little one. Did you learn anything?”

The red tear in his eye shimmered in the light from the fireplace. “I understand,” he whispered. “Christmas is not about who is most beautiful, who has the brightest springy clip or feather tail. It’s not even about carols or turkey dinner, or who gives the most expensive gifts. The true meaning of Christmas is the greatest gift of all, God’s gift to us, the birth of Jesus. When we accept His love and sacrifice, and believe in Him, we will never be left behind.”

And with the lesson learned, for years, the brightly colored Christmas bird with his springy clip and feather tail was never left behind again.

Until my father’s death, my family lived on a profitable little farm in Killarney, Ireland. Mother would never discuss the nature of his demise or the enchanted manner in which a magic spell had changed me from a boy into a small cat. Even as a cat, she loved me as a son. As time passed, Mother grew frail and I grew into a fine fluffy black cat and a fine reputation as a hunter…

One day Mother called me to her bedside. “Tabkins, Tonite is Halloween, and I can no longer provide our bread and cheese. You must restore our good fortune tonite, or surely we will both perish.” And, so, she recounted the Halloween tale of trickery and enchantment, deviltry and a magic spell.

Some years ago, our farm possessed six orange trees, three cows and a potato patch. A wicked green leprechaun from a nearby mountain-top, coveted, our land, but father repeatedly rebuffed his guiles. So, with trickery and  a magic spell, the evil creature caused him to fall into the river. Then, with a magic wand, he changed me from a comely youth into a black cat. Though the world profited by the addition of an exceedingly good-looking cat, my father drowned. The leprechaun then cast a spell that prevented our six cows from giving milk. The orange trees ceased to bear fruit and the potato patch gave only scant potatoes.

“You must find the leprechaun,” Mother said, “and retrieve the magic wand. Perhaps it will restore you to a human lad and our land into a profitable farm.” The tears in her eyes wrenched my heart, and yet I trembled in horror at the thought of facing the evil creature.

She lifted her frail hand. “Make your way to yonder mountain. High on the top beside a river, you’ll find a cave where the wicked leprechaun dwells,” she said. “Perhaps you can trick him into revealing where he hides his magic wand and can retrieve it. Go, now, Tabkins. Our future lies in your paws.”

Knowing that setting a leprechaun against a small cat, no matter how exceedingly good-looking, my feline cunning would be sorely tested if I was to fool the evil leprechaun and live to tell the tale. With every step toward the leprechaun’s cave, I considered how I might dupe the leprechaun into stealing his magic wand.

“Halt. Who goes there?” The wicked leprechaun called from beneath the log that spanned the river. “Answer, Cat, or I’ll turn you to stone.”

Panic seized my heart. An idea popped into my furry head. “I’m just a harmless pussy-cat out for a stroll. My, what a lovely river you have here, Sir Leprechaun.” (I’ve been told a little honey-talk is always good to sooth a malevolent spirit.) I sashayed across the log, humming, Katie From Killarney, and bowed low. “My name is Tabkins. Pray tell, what might your name be, kind sir?”

The leprechaun’s eyes narrowed. “My name is Merichandrick. What do you seek?”

“Perhaps a spot of tea? I’m weary from my travels.” With a twitch of my whiskers, I looked wistfully toward the cave, conveying abject vulnerability and friendship.

“Come on in, then, and I’ll light the fire,” said he, his green mouth atwitch. I feared he had an ulterior motive.

I followed him, wary of any plan he might have to toss me into his stew pot. I scanned the cave, keeping one eye on my host.

The imp pointed toward his fire. “Sit over there.”

“Oh, what a lovely bird,” I posited, sidling closer to a green and red parrot, hanging from a golden hook. Where was he hiding that blasted magic wand? In a chair near the back of the cave, lay a pot of gold and something long and thin poked from beneath a red blanket. Aha!

The little man turned. “Will you be after spending the night?” A wicked glint gleamed in his eye.

“If I’m so invited,” says I with a yawn, patting my paw against my mouth, “Let us drink our tea and I’ll curl up for the night just yonder on your lovely red blanket.”

He shook his mop of green curls. “Not there,” he shrieked. “Best you should sleep closer to the fire. where it's warmer.”

“As you wish, and I thank you kindly for the hospitality,” says I. Oho! Once the little man sleeps, I’ll snatch the magic wand from beneath the blanket and skedaddle, thinks I.

My host poured two mugs of tea and shoved one toward me. Expecting a trick, I sneezed, and as he reached for a handkerchief, I switched the mugs. Indeed, the mug he intended for me was drugged. Soon after the evil goblin drank, he fell into a stupor. Without further ado, I grabbed the magic wand, printed with the magic words on its side, and raced back down the mountain.

Back at the farm, Mother waved the wand and spoke the magic words. I was instantly changed back to a young man, even more exceedingly handsome than before. Soon, the cows gave milk, the orange trees bore fruit, and this spring, we had a bumper crop of potatoes.

We hear that the leprechaun still lives on the mountain with his parrot, but now that he has lost his magic wand, and his complexion has turned a sallow yellow, he is embarrassed, and rarely leaves his cave.

If our future fortune should fail, the cows dry up again, or the potato crop falters, the wicked yellow leprechaun still has a pot full of gold, and.... I know where he lives.

Elaine’s latest cozy mystery novel, Mrs. Odboddy’s Desperate Doings takes place in No. CA during WWII as Agnes Odboddy faces rationing, fear of enemy invasion, and food shortages. In addition, she is discouraged about her inability to locate a zoo to take Shere Khan, the displaced carnival tiger she rescued from her last adventure, Mrs. Odboddy And Then There was a Tiger.

When she falls from a tree and suffers a head injury, her usual eccentric notions increase. But when she adamantly accuses the local doctor of stealing a well-known War Artist’s painting, and The Lord’s Shepherd lithograph from the church, folks wonder if her head injury is responsible for increasingly irrational behavior, or is it dementia? For a raucous adventure with an absurdly funny elderly sleuth, you can’t miss with Mrs. Odboddy’s Desperate Doings.

Selected situations in Mrs. Odboddy’s Desperate Doings are based on true events and circumstances. Agnes and I have somewhat altered dates and certain locations for the purpose of her involvement in these events. The characters, Bernard Plockhorst and Edward Reep, are real.

The following events, circumstances, and characters are found in the storyline as Agnes deals with the unnerving events following her fall from the apple tree.

ZOO EUTHANAZIA   During WWII, many USA zoos closed due to personnel shortages but mostly due to the lack of an adequate food supply needed to sustain the animals. Poor nutrition led to the death of many large animals and many more were euthanized due to the inability to properly care for and feed them. In no circumstance would an existing zoo take on a displaced carnival tiger. In such a case, the animal would likely have been euthanized. Shere Khan’s plight in this novel, is therefore, based in fact.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD PAINTING   Bernhard Plockhorst is most famous for the painting of The Good Shepherd shown with a staff in one hand and a lamb in the other. He also painted the famous picture of the guardian angel watching over two children as they traversed along a dangerous cliff. His image of the face of Christ is the most accepted rendering of Christ’s likeness in the Christian Church. Plockhorst was from Germany, famous during the latter part of the 1800. Copies of his paintings are in practically every Christian church and many USA homes.

EDWARD REEP, a California resident and water-color artist, became a photographer and combat artist for the United States Army during WWII. Widely publicized in newspapers and magazines, Reep’s poignant war-time depictions made him popular with the public before and after the war. He was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship to help finance his pursuit of art due to his outstanding contributions to war art

JAPANESE SUBMARINES  In 1942, Japanese submarines were occasionally sighted along the western coastline from Oregon to the Aleutians. Along with several other incidents, they successfully shelled a lighthouse near Vancouver Island, WA, and torpedoed and shelled a freighter off Cape Flattery, WA. The freighter was towed to safety with no loss of life. Though a factual event, the date and location of this event was altered somewhat in our story for purposes of involving Agnes and fictionalizing the event.

For a raucous adventure with an absurdly funny elderly sleuth, you can’t miss with Mrs. Odboddy’s Desperate Doings.

Available at Amazon: E-book. Mrs. Odboddy’s Desperate Doings is just $3.99. https://tinyurl.com/5xah4cnt   For an autographed and discounted paperback, contact Elaine directly at Elaine.Faber@mindcandymysteries.com

The four-book series is listed below with url to Amazon.

http://tinyurl.com/hdbvzsv    Mrs. Odboddy–Hometown Patriot

http://tinyurl.com/jn5bzwb    Mrs. Odboddy Undercover Courier

http://tinyurl.com/yx72fcpx   Mrs. Odboddy And Then There was a Tiger

https://tinyurl.com/5xah4cnt     Mrs. Odboddy’s Desperate Doings

This is a scene from my cozy cat mystery novel, Black Cat and the Secret in Dewey’s Diary, where Kimberlee goes to Austria in search of a lost treasure in gold coins.  I visited Austria in 1987 and experienced some unusual occurrences. In this story, I was able to have Kimberlee experience these and other unusual events in this otherwise fictional story. The experiences described in this scene in Salzburg are from my own experience. The watercolor described is in my hallway still, a reminder of this wonderful day.

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As Kimberlee passed through the countryside and the forests, the terrain varied and the road rose and fell. Around every corner, another picture post card vista appeared. With no particular agenda, she stopped frequently to take a photograph.

In some green meadows, the only sound was the tinkling of shiny brass bells, hanging from the collars of a flock of sheep or a small group of black and white cows. In other places, the gentle terrain rose up into a fine mist clinging to the hillside. Hidden in the distant mist, tinkling bells confirmed grazing animals, unaware that their bells could produce such a stirring in the heart of an unseen tourist passing on a nearby road.

The vineyards on the hills and meadows became fewer as Kimberlee approached Salzburg, an ancient city where Mozart first played his harpsicord and wrote melodies. Hundreds of years later, people still know his name and enjoy his music.

Near the center of town, she parked the car and began to walk. Ancient ivy-covered buildings with sagging tile roofs covered the courtyards along the sidewalk. Church spires peaked out above red tile rooftops of nearby houses. She passed a church with dates carved into the walls reading 1200-1400. How incredible! One church was said to be 1000 years old!

Violin music drew her toward the town square where a street musician stood on the steps of an ancient church, playing Ave Maria. Pigeons flew overhead from rooftop to rooftop, appearing to be as mesmerized by the music as the cluster of tourists gathered on the steps.

Kimberlee paused to listen as the haunting melody echoed around the square. It touched her heart as it carried her away from this world and back into another time. It was easy to imagine the cobbled streets filled with horse-drawn carts carrying a princess and her ladies in waiting, or a knight in shining armor, after a joust with a dragon.

The musician drew his bow across the strings and as he lowered his hand, the final note hung in the air. The tourists stood spellbound and silent. And then the spell was broken and the more generous visitors tossed money into the violin case at his feet.

Kimberlee opened her purse. “That was absolutely lovely! Thank you.” She put money into his case and wandered on.

She ran to catch a tram climbing to the top of the hill where a medieval castle overlooked the city, a cold and barren place with steps everywhere. The rooms were filled with armor, ancient guns, javelins, chains and torture devices. From the balconies, looking down on the valley was like peeking into the pages of a storybook. Rainy mists on the distant mountains beckoned hikers upward into the cold crisp air. Off to the left, rivers, towers, cathedrals, graveyards, and church spires. Off to the right, cobble-stone streets with horse-drawn carriages, sidewalk cafes, musicians, and archways, where street vendors hawked their wares on the street corners.

Returning to the city below, Kimberlee came upon a street artist sitting with his back against the wall, his easel and backpack by his side. The picture drying on his easel was a watercolor of the nearby ancient church steps where the musician had just played his stirring aria. Unable to resist the desire to memorialize the moment, she purchased the picture. She planned to have it framed and hang it near her bedroom, a constant reminder of the musician and his poignant melody.

What a magical city! After a good meal and a very strong cup of coffee, Kimberlee returned to her car. She must locate a pension where she might spend the night. Tomorrow, she would continue to follow the clues from the WWII soldier’s diary, in hopes that they might lead to the gold coins, still hidden so many years later.

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Black Cat and the Secret in Dewey's Diary is available at Amazon (e-book) for $3.99.  Contact me directly for an autographed paperback version. ($15.00 - Free shipping within in USA)