Catherine & Henry

Oh Catherine, Duty commands, to England
Ye shall be a Queen
In this foreign land
Marry, she did, Arthur, a prince
A sad story, this
For he soon died, her a widow, unfortunate consequence.
Stranger in a foreign land
Young Henry looked upon her
Glorious! New King & Queen crowned
They had everything
Love, youth, with the Church they were bound.
Grief soon laid them low
They still had Mary though.
Over 20 years had gone by, yet England had no prince.
Catherine ignored the women, the talk
Henry’s heart had changed since.
The Lady Anne had come into his eyes
Separate from Rome!
I care not if my soul dies!
In isolation and poverty
Catherine separated from her love,
Writes ‘mine eyes long for thee,’
To the Church and for her daughter she was true
Heartbroken she died without Henry
For his love he did discontinue.

Leaves of the Fall prologue

Prologue

The Past

Rose first met Ethan during her sophomore year in Hudson high school. As she was walking to French class, an obnoxious, overtly tall guy veered too close to her, causing her to drop her books all over the floor. The jerk turned his rounded eyes on Rose, shrugged, and then proceeded to pass as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Rose scrambled to gather her belongings; she knew this would make her late to her first class.

As if on a rescue mission, a golden-haired, sunny faced young man approached her and stooped to help.

Rose looked down on the boy and felt a strange jerk in her stomach. He’s beautiful, she thought as she sucked in a huge breath, surprised at this thought. He gazed up at her with alluring brown eyes. He looked strong, like he worked out, but not body-builder muscular. Some softness, just right to round off the edges.

“Some people are so lame,” he said as he stacked her books in a neat pile, handing her the books before rising to stand next to her. He was tall and cute in a model sort of way.

Rose wanted to say something, but she was tongue-tied. Gathering courage, she murmured her thanks and offered him a hesitant smile. Rose wasn’t normally shy like this.

“I’m Ethan Hathaway. I just moved here from Coxsackie,” Ethan said, breaking into a dazzling grin. He looked down at her books and noticed she had a text on creative writing in the pile.

“Rose Boyne.”

“Hey, you write fiction?”

“Yes, I do,” Rose replied, frowning. She was still trying to get her brain to work.

“I write poetry. A lot, actually. Hey, maybe we could get together sometime, write together or something.”

From that point on, she and Ethan had become good friends. Soon, they were sharing lunch together and hanging out after school. Then they met Trevor Dunn, Rose’s future husband, an outgoing, light brownish blonde, stocky athletic type who chased after Rose like she was the last girl on earth. She found herself having to choose between the two, and Trevor’s magnetic charisma won her over. Ethan took it in stride, glad that they could all still be friends. The trio soon became inseparable; they never did anything without each other. If they had plans, and one of them couldn’t go, no one would. It was never discussed; rather, it was just an unspoken agreement between them.

Now, a decade later, they had all grown up; Rose had married Trevor, and Ethan had married a girl who’d come into the picture during their senior year in high school: the fiery-tempered, red-head Sherri Tate, a girl who was either one’s best friend or one’s worst enemy- there was no middle ground.

Three years had gone by since Rose had spoken with Ethan, even though she occasionally ran into him in town. Three years did a lot to a person, changed them in ways not easily defined. Rose and Trevor’s marriage was failing. Whenever she thought of peace, her thoughts turned to Ethan. So when Rose heard of the accident last month, events began to snowball. After that time, Rose’s life as it had been would cease to exist.

During the first nasty storm of the fall, the buzz was that Ethan had crashed his truck and wrapped it around a tree. That was the story Rose was able to piece together, anyway. Rumors of his death began to circulate two days later, starting with Missy Stotski, who had called to tell her the bad news.

The phone thrilled in the background, its shriek a violent assault on Rose’s ears. Rose had been washing dishes, and resented the intrusion.  She ran to pick it up.

“Rose, sit down. You’re not gonna believe this.”

Missy and Rose had known each other for years and become fast friends. They both worked at Point of View, a small fiction publishing company in Albany, New York. Their calls seemed to always start like this, with one of them dishing out juicy tidbits of gossip to the other. Only this time, Missy’s tone was one of sadness.

“What’s up, Missy?”

“Ethan Hathaway is dead, Rose.”

Trying to keep her voice steady, even though her belly was performing a series of gymnastic moves at that very moment, Rose bade Missy to continue.

“There was a bad accident the other night.”

Rose sat down on her couch with a thud. Dead? Ethan? NO. Darkness began to descend on her.

“Is this a joke? Cuz it’s not funny.”

“I’m not kidding. Rick just called from work and told me. Everyone’s talking about it. Isn’t it awful?” Missy whispered.

“Good Lord.” Rose fought the tears, although a few escaped. How could this be? She just saw him the other day, in the supermarket. He had been fine. Living, breathing, and alive. Broken, she told Missy she had to go. She fought off a wave of nausea.

“You okay? Do you want me to come over?” Missy asked, but Rose’s mind was elsewhere.

“What?” Rose shook her head to clear the cobwebs out. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

Rose pulled herself back from the slump she’d fallen into, thanked Missy and hung up the phone. Ethan couldn’t be dead. There was so much she had never told him.

Click here to purchase and read the rest of the story: http://www.amazon.com/Leaves-of-the-Fall-ebook/dp/B0052XQL7Q/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1310813197&sr=8-1

Review of Best Intentions by Emily Listfield

Review by Violet Yates

I loved this book. It has just the right mixture of suspense and thrills to carry one through to the end. Emily Listfield is a gifted writer; one can tell just by reading the book that she put her all into writing this book.

The story is about thirty nine year old Lisa Barkley, whose marriage is at a stand-still. She thinks her husband, Sam, is having an affair. She is a PR representative at a firm that was just sold to a cutthroat firm from Boston. Her best friend is acting distant. Surrounded by the upper crust of New York’s finest, genteel society, she feels her lack of money is a failing she wishes she could change.

Lisa confronts her husband on his guarded actions and is mollified by his explanations. He is a writer working on a difficult story. When his explanations no longer suffice, she turns to a new found friend, David, for comfort. A man with resources, he gives her information she didn’t really want to know, and things begin to spiral. Suddenly, her best friend, Deirdre, is dead of suspicious circumstances. A few people are suspect, including her own husband.

This book was a great read. I do recommend it to anyone who likes a thriller with a twist at the end. The characters are rich in flavor, as are the descriptions of the upper echelons of New York City and their quirks. I feel I know now what it must be like to live in a society such as this, to always feel as if one is not up to par. Thank you, Emily Listfield, for enriching my life for a short time.

In Trevor’s Words

This is written in Trevor’s words, my character from Leaves of the Fall. I found it while searching through my creative writing class folder from college. I hope you enjoy. 🙂

 

With a river of tears streaming down her face, she turned to me and said, “Forgive me… without him I am empty … I’m sorry!” Stooping, she gathered her suitcase and purse, gave me another regret-filled look, and left; walked right out my door.

It all begun earlier in the day … well, actually, it had begun many years ago, I think, but for the sake of time, and in order to alleviate the risk of confusion, let us just leave it at that.

We had been driving along, going for a Sunday drive, simply minding our own business, when suddenly, quite out of the blue, I saw someone whom I had thought dead not much more than a month before. It was as if a ghost entered the car. I uttered his name. Rose bolted straight up in her seat, as if she had been struck by lightning.

“What?”

“In the back of that car. It’s him; I know it.”

She studied the maroon car for several minutes as we drove in silence, chewing on her pinkie. The maroon car’s turn signal lit up, informing me they intended to make a left turn. I slowed our car down to a steady crawl, then a near complete stop, waiting with impatience for it to be over with.  Anger filled me at the thought that this would delay our drive, that the day would somehow be delayed due to this one person, holding us up. I began to tap my fingers on the steering wheel, and bade my time.

All the while, as I pretended to focus on the traffic around us, and waited for the car to turn off, I observed Rose, watching her facial expressions. She followed the maroon car with her eyes, until her line of vision ran parallel to our car. Beneath her veiled lashes, I glimpsed an emotion I had seen before, and it puzzled me. It also frightened me. So I glared at her. But I am not so sure she saw, and if she did, I am not quite certain she cared. It had not always been that way.

As I brought the car to a complete stop, I peered out of the corner of my eye at the maroon car, and at the eyes just above the back seat. He was staring in my general direction, but for the life of me, I didn’t feel he recognized me, not at all. I felt a mixture of remorse and irrational hatred. He didn’t even acknowledge me. But he was staring, and his eyes held such sadness, and a certain curiosity. This made me think, and wonder…

But I closed off all thoughts to that arena. It does one no good to ponder what is not a certainty, and it would serve my existence no purpose to make a stab at analyzing the way of things.

A few moments later, and we were again on our way. The sun was still shining, the birds were still floating beneath the clouds, and clock continued to move forward. But, I perceived a marked difference in the weight of things. She was quiet, true, but that was not a change. We have had many drives just like that one, and her silence had never perturbed me before. Perhaps the change was in her body language, her rhythm. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I just knew that from that moment on, I could not recapture the emotions we had shared, even just prior to the encounter.

An hour later, we returned home, and I don’t recall exactly what I did next. I may have gone into the garage to tinker with my latest project, or possibly to take a shower. Does it really make a difference now what I did?

She disappeared for a time. I do recollect an irrational fear that had overwhelmed me shortly after our return. It was this feeling that began at the heart of my chest, and traveled down until it settled like a chunk of lead deep within my stomach. It was then, before I even saw her, that I knew.

And because I knew, there weren’t any words to be said. What could I have said that would have made any difference at that point? Words, although often helpful in some instances, would not have changed the outcome of that day. Her mind had been made up.

I do admit, however, to feeling unjust shock at actually experiencing the preconceived moment. My jaw dropped as I drank in the setting: her, with her suitcase, neatly packed, and with her face set in an expression of determination. It made me wonder, just for a moment, if she had planned the whole thing in advance.

But no, that would have been impossible. I see that now, just as I saw it right when it happened. There is no way she could have set that plan in motion.

Fate, however difficult it is for me to accept, must have intervened in order to cause the events of that day to come into being.

So now as I lie in my empty room, with only a cigarette to keep myself company, I must digress. I brought this episode on my own conscience. I did this. In retrospect, I now realize it was my fault that the moment came into being. For if it weren’t for my own weaknesses and imperfections, those events would have never been set into motion. Rather, if I had been who I was supposed to be, then in all likelihood, she wouldn’t have gone.

Now, being forced to shed light on a waning day, I see. But does it really matter at this point? She is gone.

Words fail me. I have never been one to waste time on needless words. I extinguish my cigarette, close the book, and turn off my bedside lamp. It is done. I wish to sleep.

 

To read Leaves of the Fall, click here.