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ON THE COVER January, 2008



Wedding For A Knight (Excerpt)
Truly Celtic romance
By  Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Order this book from Amazon!
"I must thank you, my lady."

Amicia's blood quickened at the softness beneath his simply spoken words. "But I did not find anything."

"Whether you did or not scarce matters." He walked a few steps away, stood looking at the stable door. "'Tis that you cared to come looking that I'm thanking you for."

Amicia blinked. Magnus MacKinnon was thanking her.

She wanted so much more.

But any emotion was better than indifference.

Digging her fingers deeper into the smooth silk of the saddle cloth, she looked at him, staring oh so hard at his bonnie young face, willing him to look her way.

She wanted to give him her favor.

The fine length of jewel-studded silk her father had given her, claiming the precious cloth held all the colors of the sun.

She wanted him to have it as a token of appreciation for helping her when she'd hurt her ankle at a similar gathering of the clans a year before.

A token, too, of her affection, for she'd given him her heart that same afternoon.  But telling him so could wait, or would have to.

She couldn't say anything if he wouldn't look at her.

Biting her lip, she lifted her arm and waved the silk above her head. Fine and light, it snapped and rippled in the wind and she was sure he'd notice.

Tears began blurring her vision, but she kept her arm in the air, holding up her favor until her shoulder burned and her arms and fingers began to tingle.

And still he didn't look.

So she kept brandishing her shimmering gold prize, praying he would see and come for it - for if he did, especially as a much-loved games champion, even her da wouldn't be able to keep her from presenting it to him.

To do so would be a breach of Highland etiquette.

So she hoped and waved and stared his way, silently calling his name as loudly as her heart would let her.

But he stood turned half away from her and so hemmed in by clamoring, clutching maidens, her hopes of catching his eye grew slimmer by the moment.

Crying inside, she drank in his golden beauty, branding him onto her memory so she could relive at will, each precious moment of looking at him. Each dimpled smile he flashed, every bonnie twinkle in his laughing blue eyes. Even if his smiles and laughter weren't meant for her.

In her dreams, she claimed them.

Saw again, her young Caledonian god, standing so proud in the sunshine of a fine Hebridean day, the wind tossing his gleaming bronze mane, his handsome face, shining.

His refusal to accept her favor as sad as the way her beautiful silk banner turned old and scratchy in her hands, its cool smoothness forever gone, the seed pearls and gemstones adorning its edges now only irritating bumps of itchiness on a tattered and smelly saddle cloth.

The saddle cloth!

Jerking, Amicia flung it from her, her heart still splitting with her memories. She swiped a hand across her cheeks, not surprised to find them wet as she peered about the stable, once again looking for Magnus.

Once more having to note that he'd gone.

Read IN's exclusive interview with Sue-Ellen Welfonder about writing.
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© Freelance Writing Organization - International 1999-2049

ON THE COVER
IN This Issue
Gory Glory
Undertaker's Moon (Excerpt)
Romantic Intrigue
No Safe Place (Excerpt)
From The Docks To The Commons
The Care Vortex (excerpt)
Irish Mists And Histories
Shadows Will Fall (Excerpt)
A Mind On The Move
The Rush To Here (Excerpt)

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Whose Books Are Turning Into Movies?
Bald Ego
Mouse Over To Pause

Writer’s Block
The path to inspiration starts
Upon the trails we’ve known;
Each writer’s block is not a rock,
But just a stepping stone.

Poetry Is Not
Penned to the page
Waiting for us to admire.
It is only a lonely thought
Caught by tears on fire.

Silent Echoes
A quiet rhyme upon a page
Is what a poet gives;
Some gentle words whispered in trust
To see if memory lives.

Bard From Deadlines
What makes a poem finally work
Is not the time it takes;
It’s how the poet used the muse
To prophet from mistakes.

Be Mused
The art and craft of poetry
Are not so far apart;
The craft comes from the cunning,
The rest comes from the heart.

Fine Vintage
Don’t plant your poem on the page
As though you’re hanging drapes;
It’s shape and flow should come and grow
Like wild summer grapes.

Getting It Write
Writers write what they know best,
Their passions, fears, and dreams;
Writers rarely write about
What other call their “themes.”

Double Vision
A writer’s life is paradox,
It’s more than what it seems;
We write of our reality,
The one inside our dreams.

Poetry
The echo of a promise,
The thunder of a sigh,
The music of a memory,
A child asking why.

Letter Perfect
Twenty six symbols arranged on a page
Can send a soul to heaven or torment it with rage,
Can free a fragile world or hold it in its net--
The power and the magic of the mighty alphabet.

The Write of Passage
The jump from writing just for fun
To getting paid for it
Begins when you first realize
You know you’ll never quit.

Pegasus
It is not the magic of his wings
That sets us free from our bond.
It is the muse within ourselves
That lets our words lift us beyond.

Photo Poet
Consider your mind the darkroom,
Consider your life the lens,
Consider your eye the camera
On whose focus the poem depends.

Rising Moon
A poem is a rising moon
Shining on the sea,
An afterglow of all we know,
Of all we hope to be.

Star Light
Writing a poem,
Reaching a star,
In making good art
We find who we are.

Spider Web
A poem is a spider web
Spun with words of wonder,
Woven lace held in place
By whispers made of thunder.

Re-Verse
The final draft upon the screen,
At last my poem’s through;
A verse of only four short lines--
I rewrote twenty-two!

Read All Of Charles Ghigna's Poetry at FatherGoose.com


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