In the USA, April is National Poetry Month. I have taken this as a motivation to finally write a poem again. Here's the result.

Be like nature

Like a tree
That faces the sun and braces the wind, too
Bending and swaying without snapping in two
Be determined but not unrelenting in whatever you do
Like a flower that offers its scent voluntarily to all
Ever so delicate yet colourful and standing tall
Be generous, but don’t sacrifice yourself
Like the rain
That pours from the sky like a blessing in disguise
To cleanse, nurture virtue and wash away vice
Be wise in your dealings with the good and the bad
Like the moon
That lights up the night with a calming glow
To chase away nightmares and make dreams grow
Be self-contained, but contribute to the greater good
Like the lotus
That rises proudly above the filthy mud
And unfolds to glory a pure, sacred bud
Be aware of your surroundings but untainted by them
Like a mountain
That cares not for conquerors of its peak
And rises above the rest without crushing the weak
Be confident, but don’t have confidence in all
Like a bird
That sings with abandon and spreads its wings to explore
Knowing when to glide, to rest, to plummet and to soar
Be mindful of your goals and how to reach them
Like a cloud
That wanders the heavens in all shapes and sizes
To store water and bring shade when the heat rises
Be receptive and flexible to whatever life brings
Like a fish
That knows its rightful place is deep down
To rule evolution soundlessly, without a crown
Be true to your nature, but swim with the current
Like a stone
That some see as precious and some as dirt
Minding its own business and knowing its worth
Be who you are, whatever others may say

For today's Sneak Peek Sunday, I'm offering the first look ever into one of my current works in progress. This is from my upcoming paranormal romance novel 'Playing with Fire'.

Oh yes, she was missing him, and that was probably the strangest thing of all. It wasn’t something physical, although merely thinking about their kisses and fantasizing about the possibilities had her tingling and her inner flames soaring higher. There was some raw need inside her to be with him, not unlike how she felt whenever she was close to fire. She wished she knew why she was falling in love with this man. How much did she know about Joshua? His name, his age, his current address, his signature. Any of these could be faked. She didn’t even have his bloody phone number, and here she was acting all pathetic like a naïve girl in a lovey-dovey relationship. Neither of them had confessed their feelings and she had no idea whether his were anywhere close to hers. Heck, if truth be told, she had no idea what exactly she was feeling either. If you stripped away the top layers of attraction, of finally having somebody show interest in her and knowing her true nature, and of having found a sort of teacher and role model, what was left? When she pondered on it, her eyes seeing but not really processing the people crisscrossing the leisure area with all its benches and food stalls and street artists, she found reason after reason why she felt that magical pull toward him.

The quiet confidence he carried himself with that sometimes hid behind patronizing aloofness and annoyed her, but boiled down to something she wishes she possessed too. The way he’d half-smile and half-grin and look so roguishly handsome, younger and at the same time older than he was. The fact that he liked to read and was obviously cultured and well educated and full of interesting knowledge that he’d share if she showed some interest.

The most important factor? That he was different and special and a true match for her. Where she would have to hide a part of herself, turn things down, live with fear and conform to certain standards with any other man, Joshua would understand and accept and give as much of himself in return.

Exactly that was what had her frown and bite her lip. Was she loving what he stood for and not what or who he was? If somebody who could morph into a werewolf, belonged to vampire lore or was a wizard of some sort turned up tomorrow, would she feel the same and throw herself at the man and into a tempting relationship? Or was she really falling for him? Did she miss having him around and long to get to know him better because he was all she had? And, oh God, what did his view of the picture look like? Were the same motives spurring him along or was he in love with her for other reasons, understandable and good or not? Was he in love with her at all?

It's high time to share an excerpt from my debut romance novel(la) 'When I see your Face'. For the first glimpse of the story, I settled on not one but three short scenes that illustrate the conflict Cathy faces: to trust or not to trust Michael, who looks like the carbon copy of her abusive husband Mark.

Her love for things that were not normal had never gone well with her husband, who viewed perfection as the highest goal. She had never seen herself as perfect, as capable, as talented or as valuable. All throughout a childhood spent being different from the other children and throughout years of being the onlooker while others dated and climbed up the social as well as the career ladder, she had preferred her dream world to reality, books to movies, beautiful handcraft to luxuries, loneliness to falsehood. Then Mark had come and bewitched her like the knight in shining armor. Being with him, having him sweep her off her feet and lavish his attention—as well as a good deal of money—on her had been enough to doubt everything she had thought to be important and right. With a few words here and there, some decisive gestures, some subtle and not-so-subtle pushing and simply being himself, Mark had changed her to a person that would suit his needs. She hadn’t realized it, but she had lost herself somewhere along the way by trying to please somebody whom she had blindly entrusted with her life. Only now that she was away from his influence and dared to be herself did it dawn on her how much she had bent herself out of shape to fit a certain ideal.
Now, wearing what she wanted, eating what she wanted and living on her own, the possibilities seemed endless. It was terrifying. And it was gratifying. Take this moment, for example. How had she ended up spending her days alongside her husband’s carbon copy, and with garden work at that? What would this all lead to?

“You’re so beautiful,” his voice intruded on her self-inspection, rough and with a depth of feeling that made it sound like a caress. A thousand fingers barely touching her skin, running down from the nape of her neck over every bump and groove of her spine to the small of her back, sending a delicious shiver through her. His compliment sounded so sincere and awed that it made her blush. She steeled herself, though with what strength she didn’t know.
“What are you doing here?” she asked again.
He snapped back to his senses. Without taking offense at her hostile tone and stance, he approached, digging a hand into one of his pockets and holding something out to her, like a peace offering of sorts, a magical weapon that could penetrate her shield of cool rejection.
“I came to give you what you deserve. This morning, Mr. Thackeray paid me for the garden work. As you played an important part in it, I thought you should have this. It’s only a share of my meager earnings, but it’s a beginning.”
For a moment, she thought she couldn’t trust her ears any more.
“Are you telling me you brought me money?” she asked incredulously, her voice a near squeak on the last word.
Not only did he nod, but he was still holding out the envelope to her.
“You have the cheek to pay me? I am not some poor unemployed tramp girl that depends on your oh-so-meager payment. I helped you out because I thought I had something to make up for. I didn’t do it for the bloody money! I don’t want it! I don’t need it! I don’t need you to interfere in my life!”
She had shouted herself into a fit, trembling with the effort not to bodily throw him out of the room, full of righteous indignation and disappointment. So, to him she had been a hired helper, a means to finish his job faster, somebody to be paid and forgotten.
He looked wounded by her accusations but not willing to leave at all. In fact, he had the gall to carefully lay the envelope on the coffee table and sit down on the sofa opposite to where she was rooted to the spot shaking in anger.
“You misunderstand me,” he replied calmly.

He bent and plucked a dandelion, holding it in front of her face.
“Make a wish and blow on this. Folklore has it that such wishes come true when they are carried away on the wind and are heard by fairies.”
There was a faint grin on his lips, but his tone was more serious than the suggestion warranted it.
She had so many wishes crowding together in her head, jostling for a place at the front of the queue.
“Am I supposed to say it out loud or is it best kept secret?”
“Make your wish silently. I have always believed that thoughts are more potent in their magic than the spoken word.”
She blinked. What kind of man had beliefs like that? How much was there to him to discover and revel in? How much more to make him so appealing that she could never find it in herself to resist him?
Drawing close to his hand, she closed her eyes. Frowning with concentration, she tried and tried to decide which wish to make. Sucking in a long breath, she opened her eyes again and blew hard at the fluffy white dandelion. Its seeds flew apart and sailed away on the air, like so many tiny parachutes carrying her wish to God knew where.
Straightening up, she looked after them with an almost painful longing.
“Do you think I’ll be lucky? Will the fairies listen to me?” she asked, working hard at keeping her tone casual, and not succeeding.
He smiled his crooked, charming smile that got to her each and every time.
“I would if I were a fairy.”
She heard the flirting in it and it felt like a caress to her.
“Don’t you think it’s my part to be the fairy?” she joked.
His smile widened and his eyes darkened.
“You’d make a wonderful fairy. I can just about imagine you in gauzy, loose clothes and diaphanous wings with flowers in your hair and bare feet, dancing lithely through the fields and making lone wanderers fall head over heels in love with you.”
His voice was a sensual growl deep in his throat. His fingers brushed over the pulse hammering at her throat and strayed sideways, lifting a strand of her hair and twirling it round his index finger.
With her heart beating in her mouth, she made an effort at lightening the mood.
“If you had ever seen me dance, you wouldn’t describe me as a lithe and graceful fairy. I am a clumsy wooden donkey with two left feet.”
“Maybe you’ve had the wrong partner all along,” he said, his voice full of meaning.
She swallowed.
“Maybe,” she conceded.
They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time, frozen in place, their minds full to the brim with possibilities and dreams and obstacles.

Did you enjoy these snippets from my book? You can buy it at Amazon or Smashwords to read more.

Some time ago, a picture on Facebook caught my interest. So much so, that I decided to play a little game: I shared it on my wall and asked my friends to imagine a story surrounding a woman walking along the fog-covered path towards the half-hidden castle. They came up with all sorts of interesting ideas, ranging from Count Dracula over The Beast (as in ‘The Beauty and the Beast’) over a fallen Angel from Supernatural (the TV series) to the ghost of the father she had never known or a soul mate she had lost and found again, waiting there for her. Here’s a special thanks to everyone who participated. I love all of your ideas and it was great fun!

And here is the picture followed by the short story that grew in my mind when I looked at the writing prompt and let me pull it into its mysterious depths.

The Awakening

Regina shivered and drew her thin summer jacket closer around herself.
She should have listened to the people at the inn who had discouraged her from wandering out into the Forbidden Field. The village people believed that it was cursed. Apparently, several people had ventured out into the–at first so innocent-looking–area and never come back. One or two had made their way back and never been the same, staring in wide-eyed terror when asked about the matter or waking up screaming at night when bits and pieces of traumatizing memories attacked them.
The more the people at the inn had persuaded her not to go, the more certain had she been that she just had to give it a try. As a journalist, anything that smelled of a good story was worth some effort, even if it meant being touched by some ominous curse. She had decided on the spur of the moment, donned her jacket, padded her trouser pockets to make sure that she carried her digital camera, a small notepad and a pen with her, and set off on the longish walk to the outskirts of the village.
God knew how many hours later, she was a lot more inclined to believe that there was at least a kernel of truth to all the spooky stories they had told her.
Regina had started out after her lunch in bright sunshine, a slight breeze ruffling the grass along the well-trodden path that led from the border of the village through a field and into a forest. With all the pleasant nature around her and the possibility of a story beckoning, she had been full of determination to go through with her plan, sometimes grinning a little to herself when thinking about the village people’s behavior. How odd that they believed in magic, in curses, in forbidden areas and unsolved riddles.

How odd that now, her mind was filled with exactly such sentiments.

Soon after setting foot in the forest that was supposed to lead her into the Forbidden Field, things had changed. At first almost imperceptible, there was a change in the air. It grew cooler by the minute, the trees blocked out the afternoon sun and in the distance and she could see wispy white mist ahead, looking thoroughly out of place.
Now, with the forest behind her and the fog curling tightly around her shivering body, she felt as if in a different world. Where were the fragrant flowers, the friendly sunshine and the chirping birds? Where was her courage? She must have left it behind among the gnarled trees or lost it in the oppressive, heavy silence that was her only companion.
With each step, she felt lonelier. With each lifting and setting down of a foot, doubts crowded in her mind. Some voices whispered to turn around and go back before she would become another tragic tale in the village’s folklore. Others prodded her on, scoffed at her cowardice and persuaded her that she would indeed have a lot of material for a story if she went through with her plan.
Something told her that the mist with its deadly whiteness and its ghostly fingers brushing over her was holding a secret at its end. If she crossed this field of fog, what would wait for her? Who would wait for her?
Summoning every last ounce of determination, Regina walked onwards a little faster, head held high and eyes squeezed almost shut to make anything out in the misty soup around her. Sometimes it was so dense that she wouldn’t have been able to make out her own outstretched hand.
By the way her body and balance suddenly shifted automatically, she realized that she must be walking up some slope of sorts. Were there any hills or mountains in this part of the countryside? She had no idea.

There was another change in the atmosphere.
Where before it had seemed as though the fog were pushing her backwards and warning her off, she now felt propelled along by it. There was a cold, crude sense of satisfaction in the air around her, as if the mist had been hungry and she was sating it by walking on.
Shivering more than before, Regina slowed her pace again, then stood still and scanned the area in a slow, desperate circle.
There was nothing to be seen. Nothing to be heard. Nothing to be done.
A voice seemed to call to her from ahead. It cajoled her to carry on walking, seduced with the promise of a spectacular discovery just a few more steps ahead.
While she stood still with her arms tightly wrapped around her torso, her breath coming out too fast, in puffy white clouds of her own personal mist, a blanket of darkness covered her. In the middle of a seemingly endless void, she felt as claustrophobic as if caught in a stuffy elevator between two stories.
The strange feeling grew and grew. It was as though all the happiness she had ever possessed were being sucked right out of her. Something–somebody–wanted her to feel sadness, pain, anger, fear, despair… anything negative. A flood of bad moments in her life attacked her, so powerful that it brought her to her knees, rocking in anguish. The time in her early childhood when she had lost Granny to cancer. The exam that she had failed and retaken to get her degree in Journalism, hardly eating or sleeping for weeks. Her last boyfriend, promising love ever after, proposing on a drunk evening and buggering off the next day without another word and without leaving a trace.
Regina cringed and choked a sob back.
What was this evil magic? Why was she feeling all this?
The mist around her grew thicker and thicker, until it seemed to possess real arms that pressed in on her to suck out more of her negative emotions.
She gritted her teeth and balled her hands into fists. She had to fight this onslaught! An idea formed in her head, something she had read in one of J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter Books about the Dementors and how to hold them in check by happy memories.
All of a sudden, she knew what to do.
After digging her fingers so hard into her palms that she drew blood and that the tiny, sharp needles of pain gave her something to draw strength from, Regina got to her feet. She willed herself to think of all the moments of joy in her life.
Falling asleep on the couch with a sore throat and fever, only to wake up to her 20-pound dog climbing up to curl himself into a warming fur ball beside her and lick her icy hands.
Reading a really good book that left her thinking and smiling and re-reading passages for days afterwards.
Holding a tiny, purring kitten in her arms that looked like a ginger ball of fluff.
Going on a trip to the coast with her best friend who had travelled half the globe to meet her at last, both of them enjoying the companionable silence amidst stunning landscapes as much as the constant chattering during the train ride that had them saying the same things at the same time.
Her all-time favorite song that spoke of never giving up and finding true love.
The last thought seemed the most powerful one to her, though even the memories before had made her feel less cold and anxious. With her chin pointed defiantly upwards and her body hardly shivering anymore, Regina took one step and then another.
All around her, the mist receded, coiled in on itself like a venomous snake on the retreat. She continued on her upwards walk slowly, mentally singing that song and then another two songs. There was still a little fog in the air, but up ahead, the scene all but cleared. What she saw then almost made her stop again.
In front of her lay a path of stones leading up to the hill-top. Over it loomed a mist-wrapped, dark, ancient castle, towering impossibly high into the sky.
Regina gasped at the mysterious, magical sight. Was this her reward for having come so far?
She quickened her steps, full of determination again. When her feet hit the walkway to the castle, though, walking once again became difficult. This time, it wasn’t the mist holding her back. It was what she saw that made her wince and swallow and put foot after foot hesitantly.
To both sides of her, slumped against the stone railings of the path or huddled on the ground, there were grotesque stone statues. They looked like people. Crying, screaming, fighting people. With lifelike details, as if real people had frozen and turned into stone in the middle of their suffering.
Now shivering more than ever, the words to the songs failing her, Regina stopped several times to stare at the statues and wonder what they were leading to. Somehow, she didn’t want to give up, though. She had come this far. She could go even further.

After she didn’t know how long, she found herself walking through an immense gate that stood wide open, like a monster’s gaping mouth that would lead her right into its belly and never spit her out again.
The mist stayed behind on the outside, hissing quietly and making her wonder how on earth she would make it back if she ever came out of here alive.
Turning her back on the mist, Regina found herself in a huge atrium of sorts, a hall that soared high and wide and was echoing eerily with her footsteps. It was strewn with more of those grotesque statues of suffering people. She didn’t want to approach them, but what she saw from the distance gave her pause. Some of these statues out front had been dressed much the same as her and could have been any of the villagers and travelers mentioned to her. Here, in the hall with its dark, mossy stones and its few windows glassless high and narrow on the walls, some statues depicted people from earlier times with flowing gowns and curly manes, with tights and high boots and hunter’s cloaks.
For the umpteenth time, she wondered which artist would have had the courage and creativity to come out here and create these statues that mirrored what a traveler felt while battling the mist.
They looked so incredibly authentic, as though they might spring up at any moment, shake off the dust and cobwebs and break into gut-wrenching sobs or a piercing scream.
A shiver ran down Regina’s spine, as if the cool tendrils of mist had followed her. For a second, she considered taking her camera out and taking a photo, but somehow it seemed the wrong thing to do, almost a sacrilege. Besides, more than ever, she could feel that pull that urged her onwards. Something lay behind this hall that wanted to be discovered.
Singing her favorite song softly to herself without even realizing it, Regina walked on. She crossed the great hall, her steps ringing loudly in the still, neither cold nor warm air.
From behind her, the mist seemed to shout at her not to go on, to come back and let herself be embraced and caressed and comforted-or to walk on and be doomed forever. From ahead, a plea of help tore at her heart.
Regina chose somebody else’s comfort over her own comfort.
She broke into a run along the narrow, stone-walled, windowless, dark corridor, not even sparing the few openings leading to rooms to her left and right a glance. The person that needed her–it had to be a person or at least something living–was straight ahead, pulling at her heart and body with an invisible force that had her pulse racing.
The corridor ended abruptly. So abruptly that she all but crashed into the massive wooden door that faced her. The weight of her body half tumbling against it sent it partly opening into what lay beyond, the rusty iron hinges creaking and whining reluctantly.
Regina steadied herself against the slightly open wooden door that was twice as high and wide as her body and probably a foot thick. When she gave it an experimental shove to open wider, it didn’t budge an inch.
The pull was stronger than ever now, a desperate plea for help that resonated inside her body and made her palms sweat.
She held her breath, flattened herself against the wall and squeezed through the small opening the huge door had left.
Before her lay a room that must once have been some bed chamber. At the opposite wall was a round window and beneath it stood a wooden four-poster bed whose curtains were no more than moth-eaten, hole-riddled tatters hanging in a listless grey down to the floor with its chipped stones and weeds growing out of the cracks.
On the bed was a statue, looking like somebody lying against the pillows with one leg stretched out and one drawn up towards the body.
This statue was the most life-like of all. And the most beautiful of all.
Regina inched closer, actually walking on her tip-toes as though she might disturb the man’s rest if she made any noise or hectic movement.
She stopped a few feet away from the bed at his side and stared and stared at the handsome face of stone before her.
Every single detail, from the fine hairs of his eyebrows over the elegant slope of his nose and the indent of his upper lip to the hardly visible lines on his forehead, seemed taken right out of life itself. His was clothed the modern way, every fold and button sculpted with minute detail from stone the color of ashes.
How tragic that the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes upon had to be a statue in a haunted castle.
And then it struck her: This was the only statue to look peaceful, even bordering on happy. There was the slightest of smiles to his mouth and just the way he reclined on the bed spoke of a relaxed attitude. It was as if the artist had pictured somebody falling asleep during a visit.
Yet, the pleas for help were louder than ever. Nothing could drown them out.
With great effort, she tore her eyes from the statue and scanned the room. There was nobody else and nothing else inside that could be responsible for the screams inside her head.
She turned her eyes back to the figure on the bed, so solid and at the same time so close to something alive.
Two more steps brought her closer. She gingerly stretched out an arm, about to touch the face that was so hauntingly beautiful. Not even an inch away from it, her hand stilled. Regina bit her lip, her thoughts racing. Then, as if on some silent instruction that left no room for doubt, she drew her hand back and bent down.
Before she could question her own behavior, she had leaned in and laid her lips ever so softly against the statue’s mouth. It was a quick, chaste kiss. In her mind, she and the handsome stranger–no longer an immobile statue–were wrapped around each other in a passionate embrace, exploring, giving and taking, dreaming.
When she snapped out of her reverie and stepped back, what she beheld had her gasp and sway for a second as though she were about to faint.
Right in front of her eyes, the statue woke to life. The thin layer of stone cracked, a thousand fissures crisscrossing over the prone body. Within a second or two, the eyelids fluttered and opened, revealing a shining blue that would put a cloudless summer sky to shame.
The eyes looked straight at her, alight with some emotion she couldn’t place.
What was this? Some twisted version of the Sleeping Beauty fairytale? Her mind playing tricks on her? The mean mist’s last attempt at making her succumb?
While her hands flew to her mouth in shock and she watched unblinkingly, the statue turned into a living, breathing man. He propped himself up on his elbows, sat up and then shook himself all over like a wet dog. The stone crust that had held him captive flew off him like mere dust.
A fascinating caterpillar transforming into a butterfly so colorful and real and beautiful that her heart was close to bursting.
Regina was rooted to the spot. The man never took his eyes off her when he slowly flexed his muscles–of which he seemed to possess a lot in just the right places–and then he inched forward and got off the bed in one fluid, strong, masculine move. As sure of himself as if he had never been a statue frozen into stony sleep, he walked the few steps towards her and took her hand.
It felt right.
It felt perfect.
And it felt utterly confusing.
“Thank you.”
The stranger’s voice rang loud and clear, drowning out the frantic beating of her heart and the lament of disappointment of the fog on the other side of the castle walls.
“Thank you for saving me. You didn’t let the mist suck out your happiness and you answered my silent call for help. Now let us go and save all the others the way I should have, instead of letting the castle seduce me to this room and lull me to sleep.”
Regina could hardly think a straight thought.
The statue was a man. All of the statues she had seen were people. People who could be saved. Awakened as she had awakened him.
And what an angel he was, with his water blue eyes and his shock of sandy blonde hair and his fit body and his rough, deep voice.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him, and neither did he seem to be able to look away from her, although he was practically vibrating with energy and determination to jump into action.
After minutes or maybe hours like that, Regina finally managed a silent nod, her head full of possibilities and her heart filled with something akin to pride because she had not let herself be dragged down by the bad in her life and had chosen to focus on the good instead.
“Thank you,” the statue-come-alive said again.
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze that felt as human as the flesh and blood of his fingers entangling with hers and pulled her along to the sound of the mist howling in frustrating while it evaporated outside the castle.

Ahead of them lay a life filled with magic.

© Devika Fernando

P.S.: I love feedback! :-)