Tag Archives: Virginia Carraway Stark

Scarecrow Contributor Interview: Virginia Carraway Stark

Scarecrow Blog Tour

Over the coming weeks I’d like to share interviews that I (and Magnus) conducted with the contributors to Corvidae and Scarecrow. This week we’ll talk with Virginia Carraway Stark. A writer so dedicated that even being hit by a car barely slows her productivity!

Interview with Virginia Carraway Stark

Please share a short excerpt from your story/stories:

“Edith watched them and fed them her scraps.  She no longer had the eyes of a young mother.  She had aged along with the year and she watched the pigs with the same canny appraisal that the magpies and crows had watched us plant our seeds that spring.  She was the crone now and barren. We must prepare for the maiden of spring together, we must make the path rich and clear for her young, bare feet when she awoke in the growing light of spring.

The next day she brought the kitchen knife with her.  It was long and sharp.  The blade curved inward from being repeatedly being sharpened year after year.  It was the same one she had cut the gourd’s free from their vines with.”

There’s a Japanese God who is represented as a scarecrow. It is all-knowing but cannot move. If you could know any one thing, what would it be? This is a difficult question for me because I don’t know who I would be getting the answer from and I don’t really believe that many questions have definitive, finite answers, so a lot of this would be down to the source. I guess I don’t really believe in answers being just handed to you. Answers are found by searching and otherwise you risk the answers of oracles that could make sense in a thousand different ways. If I can’t find an answer for myself I question whether or not I would be able to understand the answer. Knowledge does not bestow wisdom.

Would it be worth learning the answer if you were forever stuck in one place afterward? And from this, perhaps you can see why I am so cautious to choose a question to have answered. ‘Free’ knowledge so often comes with a price. I wouldn’t want to sacrifice my freedom of movement and I can’t think of any question or answer worth getting for such knowledge.

If you were a scarecrow, what would you look like? What would you be stuffed with? If I were a scarecrow I would like to a dressed in my grandmother’s gardening clothes and wearing her sunhat. I would be smiling, but sadly and somberly because fundamentally I have been reduced to the role of being a passive observer and I would be stranded from helping or changing the course of things. I would want to be smiling so that the people who saw me would smile back and know that someone cares about them. I would likely be stuffed with corn husks, or I would hope I would be. They smell lovely and are soft but firm.

Do you think you’d make a good scarecrow? Why? I think I would be alright as a scarecrow but I think a lot of things would make me sad, in particular frost and winter and not being able to run or swim. I would enjoy watching the trees and the garden and unfortunately for the crops, I would love watching the birds. That would be big failing in a scarecrow and it pushes me more into the direction of: No, not scarecrow material.

What is it about scarecrows that inspired you to write about them? Scarecrows fall into a similar category to dolls, they look like us but they don’t have souls or life of their own. This makes them eerie and because they are stationary, they also see no end of things. They are witnesses to more of our lives than we might be comfortable with and at the same time they have nothing to do but sit and ponder what they have seen. Who know what conclusions or attachments they might make. In Edith and I the scarecrow is drawn to Edith because she is his goddess. She comes and goes as she pleases and she decrees when it is time for the harvest and time for the sacrifices to nature. Like many ‘goddesses’ she doesn’t realize the sort of attention and devotion that she has created and she is left vulnerable to being courted or stalked.

As you may know, one of Edmonton’s local Twitter personalities is Magnus E. Magpie who haunts Twitter as @YEGMagpie. I invited him to read an advance copy of Corvidae and Scarecrow and offer a short cawmentary on each story from a magpie’s point of view, which he did. When he was finished I asked if there was anything he’d like to ask the contributors. The italicized portions are mine because Magnus didn’t ask straight-forward questions on account of he’s a magpie 🙂

Mr. Yegpie: It would be cool to know where all these stories came from, I mean geographically – like I think I could tell who was from Edmonton and who was from Vancouver! (Where do you live, and did that affect your story/poem at all?) I live in Northern British Columbia and I feel that the connection to the weather and the intensity of the seasons makes autumn a poignant time of year. I think that if you were a scarecrow it would be a frightening and intense time, all the more so for how long and deep the freezes are.

Mr. Yegpie: I also would sure love to know where they got their ideas from! I caught several familiar references from existing books and mythology and fairy tales; I like seeing people riff off stuff. (What inspired your story/poem?) My grandmother inspired my poem. She loved the garden and I learned so much from helping her in the garden when I was little. She always treated her scarecrow with such dignity and respect that I wanted to show the story from her scarecrow’s perspective as I imagined it. I always thought that he would be in love with her. After all, she was his mother and would be the only woman who dressed him and cared for him when he was injured. If he was damaged or knocked over she would mend or repair him or put him back up on his post. That’s a strange but romantic relationship.

Mr. Yegpie: I think I would like to know what people’s favourite corvid is though; and if it isn’t a magpie, WHYEVER NOT?!? (If they come back with some guff about crows using tools, PLEASE LET ME KNOW AND I WILL SEND THEM A COPY OF MY ROGERS BILL. Pffft, crows.) (What is your favourite corvid?) My favorite corvid is the blue jay. I had a stellar jay land on my hand and eat from it and I’ve been enchanted by them ever since. I’ve also had a lot of interactions with magpies and crows and ravens. I like the crows the best because they will often have voices and speak to me. Maybe if more magpies were willing to have a conversation they would be my favorite.

 

Virginia

Virginia Carraway Stark started her writing career with three successful screenplays and went on to write speculative fiction as well as writing plays and for various blogs. She has written for several anthologies and three novels as well. Her novel, ‘Dalton’s Daughter’ is available now through Amazon and Starklight Press. ‘Detachment’s Daughter’ and ‘Carnival Fun’ are coming later this year. You can find her on Twitter @tweetsbyvc, on Facebook https://Facebook.com/virginiacarrawaystark and on the web: www.virginiastark.com

 

Scarecrow edited by Rhonda Parrish

Amazon: (CA) (UK) (US)
Kobo: (CA) (US)
Direct From the Publisher: World Weaver Press

Christmas From Scratch

giftmas_rectangle

All month long I’m going to be hosting the posts of other people as part of my 2015 Giftmas Blog Tour. All the guest bloggers are welcome to write about anything they’d like so long as their post touched on a December holiday in some way, no matter how tangentially. The blog tour extends beyond my blog as well, and I will do my best to link to each external post from the here and share them on social media using the hashtag #GiftmasTour.

But wait! There’s more!

We’re also giving away a whole whack of prizes (check out the list here) which you can enter to win using the Rafflecoper code below. Whatever December holiday you celebrate (or don’t) winning a stack of books will make it better!

Christmas from Scratch

By Virginia Carraway Stark

My Mom loved Christmas. She loved the music, she loved the lights, she loved the tree, she loved the baking and most of all, she loved decorating. She adored making arts and crafts and she funneled all her extra creativity into making her family an entire Christmas from scratch. She didn’t do it alone though, the whole family was conscripted to pitch in.

We had a few ‘store bought’ glass globes that were ancient works of art from the fifties and forties. If one of those glass globes was to break my mother would mourn it as though it were a lost child and cradle the bits of broken glass in her hands. They were hand-painted and had carefully portrayed scenes of children mid-way through a snowball fight or a couple snuggling on a sleigh ride. Each one was unique and a little miracle master-piece. Little fake feathered birds with wires coming out of their feet perched on the branches inquisitively.

dough artMost of the ornaments were made fresh every year. My mother was a play dough wizard.

Many of the ornaments were two dimensional cookie cutter pieces of art but some of them, mostly the ones my mom made were honestly pieces of gorgeous folk art.

She would start by making a batch of dough, she would boil the water and mix in the salt so that it wasn’t grainy and lumpy and after that add more and more flour until we had an enormous batch of pale white dough for the whole family to begin creating with.

Nobody was immune from making Christmas decorations, and the dough-art was only the start. Even my smallest brother who was only a toddler at the time was shown how to carefully roll out the dough and push in the cookie cutter. A metal paper clip was pushed into the top of the decorations so that later on we could tie ribbons to them to attach them to the tree and then they were ready to be baked. After they were cooked in the oven at a low temperature they would be removed and allowed to cool while we went on making more trays of artwork.dough art 2

Once the cooked Christmas trees, sleighs, reindeer, Santa, stars and a plethora of other designs were cooled the painting would begin.

The painting was a miracle all in its own to me. A few drops of food coloring would be added to a little bit of evaporated milk and voila: paint! We were allowed to mix our own colors and had fun learning how the different colors combined to form new ones. Dozens of different colored little paper cups of evaporated milk would cover the kitchen as the whole family would sit down and create. For the larger, coarser sections we would use q-tips and for the delicate parts of faces or trim we had little paint brushes that we would pass between us.

My mother was the master at the art of dough. She rarely used the cookie cutters, she was the queen of three dimensional dough art. I swear she could make anything out of dough, In her hands little balls of dough would transform into dolls with angel’s wings. Turtle doves would spring out of her fingertips. She would use a garlic press to make materials to build nests for her birds or hair for her dolls. She made so many works of art.

dough art miceShe would use little bits of this and that to make the little incarnations as realistic as possible and draw on little smiling faces.

Whether it was one of my mother’s works of art or one of my tentative and slightly lopsided attempts to make an angel doll or even one of my baby brother’s barely recognizable Christmas trees they would be sprayed with lacquer to shine them up and keep the color vibrant and bright. A lot of my Mom’s decorations ended up being given away as gifts and we only saved the best of our efforts for the next year so that we could do the process all over again the coming year.

Dough-art wasn’t the only thing to go on our tree either. We would make huge bowls of popcorn and thread needles, put on A Christmas Story or some other movie on and make popcorn garlands with dried cranberries interspersed for color. Threading the popcorn on a needle was harder than it looked but since most of the popcorn ended up getting eaten anyway, it wasn’t the most strenuous of chores.

We would also take construction paper and cut it into short strips. Some of these would be decorated with glitter or markers and others would be plain, but whatever the case they would be looped together in long chains that would be wrapped around the tree along with the popcorn.play dough popcorn garland

It wasn’t a fancy looking tree in the end. It wasn’t in matching colors, it wasn’t a designer tree but we had a lot of fun decorating it and every year it was different. We had little lights that looked like candles and it looked like a tree that was loved. Every year the same angel sat on top of the tree, overlooking our hard work with a pleasant little smile on her face.

Under her benevolent gaze we made gingerbread cookies and houses. We played Christmas music on the piano and sang loudly and enthusiastically while we waited for our sweets to come out of the oven. Sometimes we couldn’t wait for them to cool and with evil indulgence we would dip them into the bowls of multicolored icing and make sweet, warm goopy messes.

We didn’t spend a lot of money on presents but that wasn’t the point of those Christmas’. Not then, the gifts were often handmade and when they weren’t they were rarely expensive. That wasn’t the point. My Dad would often say, ‘If you need something we’ll buy it for you and if I want to buy you a present, I’ll do it anytime of the year that I want.’

Things changed over the years and those sorts of Christmas’ broke apart with my parent’s divorce. My Mom stopped making dough-art and my stepmother decorated the Christmas tree in matching designer decorations that I wasn’t allowed to touch. Christmas presents became more expensive and less important and we didn’t make paper or popcorn garlands for the tree. Nobody sang anymore as a deep self-consciousness crept into the divided family, the piano was long since gone.

My mother is gone now and I don’t have any of her dough-art creations anymore, but I certainly have the memories. We were far from a perfect family, but in the dark of winter with the warmth of the wood stove and knowledge that in the darkness we formed a circle of light kept us together.

Enter the Giftmas Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Scarecrow!

Scarecrow edited by Rhonda Parrish
Stuffed full of surprises!

“Rhonda Parrish has assembled a stellar collection that runs the gamut of Urban Fantasy to Weird Fiction. Easily the most consistently satisfying anthology I’ve read in years.”
— K.L. Young, Executive Editor, Strange Aeons Magazine

Hay-men, mommets, tattie bogles, kakashi, tao-tao—whether formed of straw or other materials, the tradition of scarecrows is pervasive in farming cultures around the world. The scarecrow serves as decoy, proxy, and effigy—human but not human. We create them in our image and ask them to protect our crops and by extension our very survival, but we refrain from giving them the things a creation might crave—souls, brains, free-will, love. In Scarecrow, fifteen authors of speculative fiction explore what such creatures might do to gain the things they need or, more dangerously, think they want.

Within these pages, ancient enemies join together to destroy a mad mommet, a scarecrow who is a crow protects solar fields and stores long-lost family secrets, a woman falls in love with a scarecrow, and another becomes one. Encounter scarecrows made of straw, imagination, memory, and robotics while being spirited to Oz, mythological Japan, other planets, and a neighbor’s back garden. After experiencing this book, you’ll never look at a hay-man the same.

Featuring all new work by Jane Yolen, Andrew Bud Adams, Laura Blackwood, Amanda Block, Scott Burtness, Amanda C. Davis, Megan Fennell, Kim Goldberg, Katherine Marzinsky, Craig Pay, Sara Puls, Holly Schofield, Virginia Carraway Stark, Laura VanArendonk Baugh, and Kristina Wojtaszek.

“With fifteen talented writers and a subject that is both evocative and memorable, Rhonda Parrish’s new anthology, Scarecrow, is no straw man. Like any good scarecrow, this anthology is truly outstanding in its field. Don’t be scared to pick this up and give it a read.”
— Steve Vernon, author of Tatterdemon

Available Now!

Amazon: (CA) (UK) (US)

Kobo: (CA) (US)

Direct From the Publisher: World Weaver Press

Scarecrow Table of Contents

Proposed Table of Contents for SCARECROW

Scarecrow Hangs by Jane Yolen
Kakashi and Crow by Megan Fennell
Only the Land Remembers by Amanda Block
Skin Map by Kim Goldberg
Waking from His Master’s Dream by Katherine Marzinsky
A Fist Full of Straw by Kristina Wojtaszek
Judge and Jury by Laura VanArendonk Baugh
The Straw Samurai by Andrew Bud Adams
Black Birds by Laura Blackwood
Edith and I by Virginia Carraway Stark
Scarecrow Progressions (Rubber Duck Remix) by Sara Puls
Truth About Crows by Craig Pay
The Roofnight by Amanda C. Davis
Two Steps Forward by Holly Schofield
If I Only Had an Autogenic Cognitive Decision Matrix by Scott Burtness

 

I love this lineup and I cannot wait to share it with the world 🙂

(Titles and such are subject to change right up until publication, of course)

A Very Virna Christmas

A Very Virna Christmas

By Virginia Carraway Stark

This short story is from my universe of Carnival Fun. Virna Grant is my alter ego, who I feel I would be if I gave into my every weakness and flaw. The Novel Carnival Fun has also been performed as a play and has received attention to be made into a movie as well.

It’s always hard to say what will happen in Virna’s world though and everything is seen through the twisted spectre of funhouse mirrors.

You can find out more about this and other worlds at www.starklightpress.com and www.gafmainframe.com as well as finding Starklight Press on Facebook and at www.ihavememory.wordpress.com

 

The cookies were definitely a little burned around the edges, especially the Christmas trees.

This was a consequence of trying to do things myself.

I had let the help off for Christmas this year. Well, Bruce had let them off. The truth wasn’t that he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart (although the bonus he gave them made up for his self-serving motives in my opinion), but that he wanted to have a party with Eric and their ‘alternative’ friends and didn’t want too much gossip to get around town after the brandy and eggnog started to flow and people forgot that they weren’t supposed to be couples.

I hadn’t thought twice about the idea when my husband had first brought up the idea and I was happy to brush off my dusty home maker skills to have a Christmas dinner and all the goodies made by myself. Eric had offered to help me with the baking but then he and Bruce had gone to decorate the sitting room and decorate the tree. The servants had brought the large Donner pine in before being dismissed for the holiday. They would return New Year’s Eve when they would orchestrate a more traditional and public party- and of course help us clean up from Christmas. By my calculations we should all be recovered from Bruce’s party but the house would doubtless still be a disaster.

Disaster wasn’t quite the word for my gingerbread cookies. They weren’t firm at the edges like how I thought they should be and they kind of trailed off in a vague way. The word ‘puddle’ stirred distressingly in my mind. The were Christmas tree puddles, and they looked like they had only barely survived a forest fire from the singes. Icing would cover it up and Bruce and Eric and their friends probably wouldn’t notice that they weren’t perfect if I brought them out later in the night…

Then it occurred to me.

I would be spending the entire party fetching trays, getting hot and sweaty and being utterly ignored by almost everyone. It was too much to bear and I felt my skin prickling with anger and my lips purse.

I stormed out of the kitchen and then remembered I didn’t have anything to drink and so I stormed back in and poured myself a small glass of cherry brandy and drank it. My skin prickling faded as the healthier flush of the booze took over. I steadied myself by pouring another glass. I searched through some drawers for some pills to take as a chaser.

I felt better as the warmth of the pills spread through me with the brandy and I stormed out of the kitchen with a clearer idea of how I would distribute my frustration at being so insultingly put into the role of servant to my husband and his gay lover. What was I thinking?

I hadn’t been thinking and neither had been Bruce and Eric. W were all just feeling frustrated by being so inhibited and wanted to be with some of the people who also hid their lifestyle choices to please their parents, get inheritances or just fit in with society. None of us had been thinking and now I was stuck with being the Martha of the Christmas party. I found Bruce and Eric adjusting a garland in the living room and I threw myself down on the divan with my drink, glowering at them while Bruce hopped down from the ladder and came over to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Whatever you’re doing in the kitchen, it smells delicious, my dear.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing in the kitchen, I haven’t done anything except heat up soup in the kitchen or make some toast for about a year.”

“Well, it must be a nice change then to have the place to yourself.”

I pouted but I wasn’t quite up to throwing a full tantrum yet. Eric finished what he was doing and took my glass from my hand, sniffed it and then refilled it with more cherry brandy and kissed my forehead as he gave it to me. His eyes were filled with the knowledge of why I was upset even though Bruce was still happily oblivious to my potential tantrum.

That was part of the problem. I liked Eric. In some ways I liked him even more than I liked Bruce. We had conversations that would last all night sometimes while Bruce would be more interested in going out for a jog or playing sports or doing his own researches. Bruce was happy being Bruce and I was not happy being me and only Eric seemed to see anything of how I was feeling in all this.

How wonderful it had seemed to be given so much freedom in a marriage, to be able to give my affections to anyone I wanted, so long as we kept the gossip down to a minimum of course, to not have a husband who was interested in me physically but only in my intellect and my company and my presence on his arm. It was hard not to have someone look at me the way Bruce and Eric looked at each other. This soiree of their was making me even more of the third wheel that I really and truly was in this ridiculous parody of a marriage.

“The servants already gossip, who cares what they say. Call them back and make them do this. I don’t want to.”

Bruce looked at me in bewilderment and Eric studiously adjusted some ornaments in a box.

“Virna, you aren’t making any sense. We can’t have this sort of gossip going around town. The firm would be sure to hear about it and they might even take it seriously.”

I folded my arms. “Well, then call the party off. I don’t want a party.”

“Well, I do want a party and the invitations have gone out and the R.S.V.P’s returned.”

His tenderness had turned off like a switch and he was irritated with me. His mouth was doing that pouting thing that some days made me feel like holding him like he was my own small child and other times made me feel like punishing him into a less self-indulgent man.

Today was the a case of the latter.

Eric turned back to us. He opened his mouth and closed it. I wished he would just talk. He was often so shy and I knew that he was in an even worse position in many ways than I was.

Eric was a lawyer with another firm and while Bruce was secure as a married man, Eric was still a bachelor and older than Bruce. With his gentle manners and quiet voice he had only his dignity to stave off the gossip that inevitably circulated about unmarried men who weren’t frequently seen with pretty young things dangling off of their arms. He maintained an apartment where he ‘lived’ separately but he only used the place when he was forced to entertain. Eric didn’t really have a life of his own, he was more like me in that way, just a satellite orbiting Bruce’s life. Wee both only influencing the tides while he held us in his gravity.

I drank my cherry brandy and wondered how much I was willing to fight with Bruce about the party.

“It’s not really fair to expect Virna to handle all of the catering, Bruce. There were a lot more RSVPs than any of us expected. Perhaps we could ask Brian and Jeffrey to help out. They are more than sympathetic and they both love to cook.”

Bruce was annoyed with me and I could see that he had a moment of sheer rejection of the idea and then Eric put a gently hand on Bruce’s shoulder, one finger gently tracing along his hairline. I watched the tension drain from Bruce and he smiled and nodded.

“Sure, sure, give them a call, there’s no reason not to,” Bruce kissed my cheek and went back to his garland. Eric gave me a wink and returned to helping Bruce.

I finished my brandy in a swig and decided that I could still feel up to decorating the cookies when they cooled. I thought it would be a long stretch to see that I felt included but at least I didn’t feel ostracized.

I would call Brian and see if he and Jeffrey could help out. They were nice and I got along with Brian’s wife who was in a similar position to me but had been doing it for much longer. Anna had a stream of seemingly younger and younger men on her arm every time I saw her. I thought I’d be up to making some eggnog too- my own Mother’s recipe- she had had her cross to bear in life as well although it was much different from my own. I could still recall her serenely drinking it with pale hands that trembled even though her lips smiled.

Bruce and Eric were my family and it was Christmas. My own pale fingers trembled withn the cherry brandy and its small yellow chasers and the pent up tears that I had no right to shed. There were beautiful presents for me under the tree and my husband loved me, even if he had never loved me. Really, I had nothing to complain about as I made my face serene and stirred the nutmeg into the eggnog.

 

**

Virginia Carraway Stark is a Canadian author and screenwriter who lives in British Columbia, Canada. Her scripts have been made into movies (BlindEYE and Truth and Wine) and online podcasts (Candid Shots of the VPD). Virginia has written several dozen well-researched blog articles about cutting edge biochemistry and health topics for wellness websites and pubmed.com. In addition, she promotes the remarkable turnaround of the African country Rwanda with My Rwandaful Blog, where she educates readers about everything from mountain gorillas to murderous lakes.

Currently, Virginia is editor in chief at StarkLight Press, a leading Canadian publishing house devoted to science and speculative fiction. She promoted her new novel, Dalton’s Daughter, as well as her short story anthology Tales from Space, at VCON (Vancouver Science Fiction Convention) this year to great acclaim. In addition to introducing VCON audiences to her alien race the Gendlers, Virginia also picked up her Aurora Award Nominee Pin.

Both aforementioned works center around the Galactic Armed Forces Science Fiction Universe, the immersive and open-ended worldscape loved by fans all over the world. Virginia Carraway Stark is co- creator of this universe, and co-editor of its online incarnation the GAF Mainframe.

Virginia has also written stories for StarkLight Volumes 1, 2 and 3. These fascinating anthologies compile the winners of StarkLight Press’ short story contests, which are open to first time, fresh authors from all over the world.

In between writing projects, Virginia finds time to record excerpts from StarkLight Press’ catalogue on YouTube and runs online writing and poetry workshops. She resides with her husband in the country, where they are surrounded by several dogs, waterfowl and a small herd of goats.

Websites:

www.starklightpress.com

www.ihavememory.wordpress.com

www.myrwandafulblog.wordpress.com

about.me/virginia_carraway

www.gafmainframe.com

Learning and Sharing Compassion

This year I invited people to share their Christmas traditions on my blog. Virginia is one of the contributors to this effort who went above and beyond in her sharing. What follows is an extremely personal story that may just touch your heart. I know it touched mine. Thank you for sharing it with us, Virginia!

My Christmas Tradition: Learning and Sharing Compassion

By Virginia Carraway Stark

Every holiday season I am very aware of the expectation of the holidays. Whether I am having a large Christmas or a small one, if I am on the road travelling, in a foreign country or in my own home, I am aware that it is the expectation that I have of compassion and sharing and togetherness that is of the prime import.

This is my own Christmas miracle that happened when I was a child. I try to pay it forward anytime I can to people I see struggling during the holidays. I’m not a saint but the belief in the kindness of our fellow humans is what we all really want to be at the heart of our holiday season.

I learned to have compassion for my mother’s failings during the events of one Christmas family dinner and I’ve tried my whole life to be aware that everyone has a story that explains their failings ever since. It’s become the heart of not only my holiday season but my approach to dealing with real life people and the people I write into reality as well. This is from my memoirs: ‘I Have Memory’ that is slowly being published on my blogspot: ihavememory.wordpress.com

There were a lot of things like that with my mother but the hard thing was the big incident that taught me how arms’ length I would have to be with her. It was only after I understood how she felt about her own abuse and her mother that I forgave her for that Incident. It’s easy to get confused with abuse and easier still to lash out at others and she didn’t have my ability to focus on the positive. She was the opposite of me in that way… to her the world was darkness and despair.

She had a good heart though, she had a wonderful openness to her and it was mischance and ill fortune that every choice she made with love in her heart went badly for her.

You see, she had wanted to get away from her dad more than anything else in life when she was a girl.

He wasn’t like my Dad- her father was unpredictable. My Dad had rules and if you obeyed the rules you wouldn’t be disciplined. There were a lot of rules but I took it as a challenge and I regarded it as a deep failure on my part if I was unable to remember them all or was physically unable to meet up with them. I would push myself to the point of unconsciousness rather than fail my dad while I had a drop of strength left in me.

Her dad, Dennis, was like a pot that’s on the back of the stove of life and is constantly boiling over. You could try to keep the burner set to low but the least little thing would set him off. I recall one family Christmas Eve going to his house, the table was set with margarine and butter. Dennis asked for the butter and someone (I think it was my brother) passed him the margarine instead.

I feel I should also mention at this point that both butter and margarine were unlabelled and were little squares of nearly identical yellow grease.

They were slightly different yellows and that was the only difference as they each sat on little cut crystal plates. Of course, for a normal person, getting the margarine instead of the butter would be the smallest of incidents, but not for my grandad.

He took the saucer, started to slice of a wafer of margarine and, muttering something that I think was, ‘that’s not butter’.

He picked up the outed margarine and threw it across the dining room and then threw the crystal plate behind him like a discus as he stood to his feet and hit the table with his rising lap and knocked over his chair behind him. He started to roar and rage. He ranted about ‘idiots’ who couldn’t tell the difference between margarine and butter while throwing plates and turkey around the dining room.

My Dad scooped me up in his arms and my mom grabbed my brother by the shoulders and they evacuated us as quickly as they could to the truck. My mom held onto my brother and my brother clutched me while our brave dad went back into the house amidst the sound of breaking china and incoherent ragings and extricated all of our presents.

The truck was full of presents and it was Christmas. We weren’t going to enjoy the tree, we weren’t going to have the rest of our dinner. Dad drove us to a motel and held my mom while she cried. I remember the two of them, sitting in the window of a cheap motel, him perched on the arm of the chair while my mom wept exhausted and ashamed tears. Dad helped her to the bed where she passed out and then he left without barely a word to my brother or me.

Leonard and I sat together in the window. He was kind to me that day, he was very impressionable and I noticed that he usually treated me as an exact replica of how he saw my dad treat my mom on a moment by moment basis. We talked a bit about what had happened but mostly we thought about all the presents in the back of the truck getting covered by snow. He held me the way he saw dad hold mom and we sat in the window watching the growing snowflakes until we fell asleep in the chair.

I’m not sure of when my dad returned, but when we woke up we saw a Christmas miracle.

There was a little scrawny Christmas tree on the coffee table in front of the window and the presents from the truck were mounded up around us to nearly fill the hotel room. Some of them were damp from snow but we didn’t mind. There was a little tinsel on the tree even though there weren’t any other decorations and there as the smell of fried chicken and cranberry sauce in the hotel room.

It wasn’t an ideal Christmas but it was the sort of magic that my dad could make happen when he wanted to. Sitting on the hotel bed as a family and eating take out food we all laughed at grandpa the way people always laugh at the monsters that scare them. Leonard had a bruise on his face where something grandpa had thrown had hit him and he imitated grandpa’s anger after seeing Dad do it. Mom and I laughed as the two of them mugged angry faces and stormed around the room, throwing the wrapping paper that we had left all over the room as though it were crystal plates.

We never went back to grandma and grandpa’s house for Christmas dinner ever again after that. It was a relief because you never knew what would happen.

Dad rescued us all from it by simply saying, ‘That’s not the sort of Christmas I want for my family’.

When I think about Mom and the fact that she grew up with that man and there was no escape for her, then I learned compassion.

You can find more of Virginia’s memoirs at www.ihavememory.wordpress.com

**

Virginia Carraway Stark is a Canadian author and screenwriter who lives in British Columbia, Canada. Her scripts have been made into movies (BlindEYE and Truth and Wine) and online podcasts (Candid Shots of the VPD). Virginia has written several dozen well-researched blog articles about cutting edge biochemistry and health topics for wellness websites and pubmed.com. In addition, she promotes the remarkable turnaround of the African country Rwanda with My Rwandaful Blog, where she educates readers about everything from mountain gorillas to murderous lakes.

Currently, Virginia is editor in chief at StarkLight Press, a leading Canadian publishing house devoted to science and speculative fiction. She promoted her new novel, Dalton’s Daughter, as well as her short story anthology Tales from Space, at VCON (Vancouver Science Fiction Convention) this year to great acclaim. In addition to introducing VCON audiences to her alien race the Gendlers, Virginia also picked up her Aurora Award Nominee Pin.

Both aforementioned works center around the Galactic Armed Forces Science Fiction Universe, the immersive and open-ended worldscape loved by fans all over the world. Virginia Carraway Stark is co- creator of this universe, and co-editor of its online incarnation the GAF Mainframe.

Virginia has also written stories for StarkLight Volumes 1, 2 and 3. These fascinating anthologies compile the winners of StarkLight Press’ short story contests, which are open to first time, fresh authors from all over the world.

In between writing projects, Virginia finds time to record excerpts from StarkLight Press’ catalogue on YouTube and runs online writing and poetry workshops. She resides with her husband in the country, where they are surrounded by several dogs, waterfowl and a small herd of goats.

Websites:

www.starklightpress.com

www.ihavememory.wordpress.com

www.myrwandafulblog.wordpress.com

about.me/virginia_carraway

www.gafmainframe.com

White Noise

White Noise -- Art and cover design by Jonathan Parrish

Just in time for zOctober (because, ya know, I didn’t have enough apocalyptic awesomeness to celebrate with A is for Apocalypse and Waste Not) I’ve released my zombie poetry collection:

White Noise

Poems of the Zombie Apocalypse

Yay!

I’ve been meaning to put this collection together for honest-to-gawd years but things never seemed to work out, until now. That’s why, though I’d normally wait, set a launch date and try to build up some excitement and publicity before officially launching a title, I’m not doing that with this one. It’s ready to go, and so I’m going to set it loose upon the world before something else goes wrong to delay its release LOL

White Noise contains 20 of my zombie apocalypse poems, some of them are reprints (including the one which was included in Imaginarium: Best Canadian Speculative Writing [2012] and the one which was nominated for a Dwarf Star award) and some are being published for the very first time.

Excerpt:

Obscured

Ghosts of the city
peer out of the gloom
around him
As a child he’d loved it
when the ‘clouds fell down’
and cloaked his world
in mysteries
Now, though,
it was just one more thing
to hide the shamblers.
One more obstacle to
his survival.
One more enemy.

Available At:

Amazon (paperback)
Amazon (kindle)
Smashwords

White Noise is $5.99 for physical copies and $0.99 for electronic ones.

Exceptions to this are if you buy a paperback copy (a great way to fill your cart when you need $5.99 more for free shipping, amirite?) you’ll get the Kindle version free and also, if you were subscribed to my newsletter yesterday you received an electronic copy for free.

White Noise on Goodreads

Praise for White Noise

“A collection of vivid scenes laid out in sharp and articulate verse, that when assembled, construct a grim narrative filled with tension, stark imagery, and unusual beauty. WHITE NOISE reaches in and evokes a visceral response— not always the one you’d expect.”

—Tim Deal, Shroud Quarterly

“In this collection of poems, Rhonda Parrish manages to capture all the emotions of life during an apocalypse: From fear and desperation to pain and sorrow. She even shows us love and hope. Some serious but most tinged with humor. This is a great collection of poems about the zombie apocalypse.”

—Carol Hightshoe – author of the Chaos Reigns Saga and Editor of Zombiefied I, II and III

“As soon as I read the first poem I was hooked! It was macabre but it wasn’t too far. Poetry puts our insides on our outsides and when it comes to zombies, well, that could get pretty gross in a hurry.

These poems were really good! They were passionate and made me think about zombies from new angles than I had thought about them in the past. There was a dash of the metaphysical put in and a lot of real living, non-zombie feelings as well. I’m going to go back for a second read, because they deserve it.”

—Virginia Carraway Stark, Starklight Press