Haley Cork and the Blue Door
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Haley Cork and the Blue Door
When a war-ending blast incinerates Haley Cork’s father half a world away, she becomes the only one who can get justice for the billions of dead, and must use the powers of the mysterious Blue Door to find and imprison those responsible.
Science Fantasy: 110,000 words
Most of the world’s fighting men are gone and their widows left behind as prey to corrupt noblemen. The Blue Door called Haley to do more than avenge their deaths — it selected her to become the latest member of a race of immortals called Keepers. Her dark red hair and amber eyes already set her apart from her own community, but the Blue Door intends to take away her very humanity as it pursues its own hidden agenda. Every answer leads to more questions: Who detonated the bomb? What exactly is the Blue Door? Why has the Blue Door chosen a little girl to combat an Enemy who devours entire worlds? Who are these mysterious Keepers? Most adolescent girls are ill equipped to investigate the mystery behind the terrible bombing. Not many girls are like Haley Cork, who changes in unexpected ways on her path to destiny.
Haley Cork's World of Frija Five
If you like cats, dragons, and girls who can step between worlds then this book is for you. If you like weak, prissy girls then it isn’t. Haley is strong, determined, and full of a desire to bring justice straight into the enemy’s camp. She is fearless but not foolish. By the end of the book, Haley’s universe will have you begging for more. — Marsha Blaine
This a fantasy adventure you don’t want to miss. Haley Cork is tough! She’s the sort of person who can dish it out and then ask for more. Though she is just a little kid, that doesn’t stop her from setting right some humongous wrongs. The story of the Chithtuk alone is worth the read. — Piers Braxton
Sunrise in Pennsylvania
A leaf floats on still water,
as jeweled dew hangs suspended,
and the forest awakens with a yawn,
pantomimed by the mouth of a bear.
A hundred covert eyes watch,
while mouse, mole, and wise badger,
hold court in the tumbled leaves,
and the pink sky peals away the night.
A flutter in the twitter tree,
where starlings sit on leafless twigs,
discussing the night in shrill voices,
to swirl as a school into the sky.
The lowing of a milk cow,
beyond a split rail fence,
as a girl with her pail arrives,
rubbing her sleep-filled eyes.
The last hoot of an owl,
as her disheveled chicks jostle,
soon they will fly the night
silent killers of furry smallness.
The bear shambles off to hide
from guns, dogs and bigger bears
disturbing a dozen pair of raven
who take to the sky, mocking.
The life-giving orb appears triumphant
firing rays between damp branches
and lights the heart of a rooster
who crows in jubilation for this new day.
When Hope Becomes Death
Golden waves on an emerald bay
sunset over the starboard rail
they stand close on a final holiday
he can hear the banshee’s wail
Darkened prison of palsy insane
captive optimist bound in doom
shaking right hand clenched in pain
cloistered in a light veiled room
Witch in the west laughs at him
self righteously desires his death
whilst he forgives against ill whim
but for joy holds no breath
“Die already” some might scream
ordering him to give up the ghost
it was not a thing to ever dream
nor is the agony for which he’s host
Soon the knife will his flesh rend
cutting out the broken inner parts
his family’s only hope depends
on the surgeon stopping his heart.
A Fall’s End
Leaves tumble down
tumble down they do
thrown to the ground in slow motion
they go as fast as a train
through the eyes of an ant.
Lemon yellow leaves long and thin flutter
around and around in a pinwheel descent.
Red maple leaves hang on the still air
generations of tiny things could live there
before a final kiss of the ground.
The sycamore paves the forest in gold plates
a nest for snuggling chipmunks and squirrels.
A long needle twirls down from the lofty pine,
an amber rosin blanket
tucking in the shrubs for the winter.
A hare nibbles on spent summer flowers,
hanging dry, still, dead – grey as her fur.
The carrots in the garden are gone,
hidden away in the cellar,
food for mouse and man.
A red vixen peers out of her hole,
between the roots of a lofty chestnut,
amid the spiked nut casings and
brown, brown waxy leaves.
The chilled air is winter wet
soon the snow will come
the land will slumber deep
robed in white, not unlike bones.
A fat bear ambles by hives a’tilt.
Beekeeper is gone as are the bees.
A rubber ball and upturned rake lay
unemployed and unwanted as so many stay.
Finches eat seeds and huddle amid branches
while a cat’s tail whisks in anticipation.
Somewhere a dog barks and breaks the peace.
The moment is lost
as the first flakes flutter down
to blanket the wood.
A Soldier’s Letter
We lie in our fighting holes,
in the sweltering Afghan night,
arrayed like the graves our enemies dig.
We dream of home’s simplicity,
of girlfriends and mothers waiting,
yellow ribbons on countless trees adorned.
Rude war interrupts our sleep,
as mortars thump in the near distance,
walking closer like an invisible giant.
A boy with a box died today.
He wouldn’t stop and put it down.
It was a doll for his youngest sister.
Sometimes I wake up shouting,
but I am not the only one with nightmares.
The lieutenant issues pills to make them go away.
I am an unwilling killing machine,
for I need the G.I. bill to pay for college,
so I can escape the ghetto my government made.
Corporal Xerxes lost his legs last week,
to a Taliban man with a grenade launcher,
the Captain had to order us to stop return fire.
I’m going to heaven when I die,
as my faith in God has not yet been shaken,
and because I have already been to Hell.
The Wasting Away
Oh my dearest love,
life melting off your thin bones,
choked out by disease.
I clutch memories,
which slip away so easy,
my humanity.
The day at the zoo,
when the giraffe licked your face,
and the monkeys laughed,
or the carrousel,
on the backward elephant,
kissing away tears.
Your birthday party,
we ate your favorite cake,
but the dog stole most.
The swing-set is still,
stirred only by the north wind,
which brings omen chill.
Butterfly landed
on your nose with wings flapping
but it made you sneeze.
Riding on the train,
when your nose began to bleed,
I was in denial.
I saw you running
through Grandpa’s fresh spring clover,
but those times are gone.
The doctors pump drugs,
which are more poison than balm,
yet you waste away.
I remember then
my spoken promise to you.
Thus, I do not cry.
When I Dream
When I dream, I float away,
float away into the unclutchable sky.
I dream of shifting shadows,
shifting shadows which call my name.
When I dream I get swept around,
swept around like dry leaves in the wind.
I dream of your face scowling,
face scowling at my existence, annoyed.
When I dream I hear your taunting laughter,
taunting laughter all too real in my waking hours.
I dream of days without pain.
Without pain, you mock me in my misery.
When I dream, I dream of promised paradise,
promised paradise where you are good and kind.
These are mere dreams.
oh, that my reality and dreams were swapped,
I dream of long moments of gentle joy.
Gentle joy and hope’s promise keeps me here
when I dream.
The Mountain is King
From the mountain of the west
where the sun has set so oft’
a pyre alights the frightened night
with a growling high aloft.
With Sulki’s hand too tight,
and mine on Ravi’s tail
we stumbled through the dead of night
to a siren’s mournful wail.
The ground she shook so much
with the waters on the shore
we scrambled onto higher ground
as the waves came in for more.
I shivered on the rocks
as fiery bombs explode
Ravi licks my face and whines
while the lava eats the road
The mountain says he’s king
he shouts through out the night
his mantle falls in smoking swirls
of bone meal plaster white
When the sun awakes at last
and the sea breeze comes to giving
the mountain goes to sleep again
and our village counts the living
葬儀での幽霊
暁早 – Early Dawn
Wake up pink sky shine!
Stretch out and embrace the stars.
Touch the world with pearl.
Give me your beauty,
and bind me to the moment
lest I lose myself.
Fly away red clouds!
Do not bring a storm today.
I await Father.
Let me wear your robes!
So, I may hide from sorrow
and forget the past.
If today brings rain,
let not my tears be in vain,
nor my heart be cold.
早暁 – Dawn
I see the grand star,
the majesty in the east,
the sun arising.
Give me sunlight warm,
to melt my frozen heartache.
I so miss him now.
Father will come soon
to take me to the ancients
and lay my incense.
I hear the monks chant
up on the temple mountain
preparing the way.
If I do not go,
will my heart always be lost
and my love wander?
行列 – Procession
A stone pounds the nails,
to close the ornate coffin
and hide the dead flesh.
The monks walk with care,
that body in its wrappings,
empty and alone.
Seagulls greet the day,
but I have no joy within,
as the gong marks time.
Father bows his head,
Sister wears her Kimono,
Brother is not here.
The temple is rich
but our village is so poor
for new spirit names.
式葬 – Funeral Ceremony
The casket emptied,
the body is in flames now
burning with blue light.
The monks chant and bow
Sister falls and cries weeping
Father’s eyes are moist.
Chopsticks pick through bones
Sister and Father at once
put them in the urn.
First the toes go in
so the body is upright
and last is the skull.
The dust of ash flows,
as the village stands close by
to cover the bones.
墳墓 – Tomb
Father and the urn,
Silent, the village watches
his walking uphill.
Alone, he will place,
what is left inside the tomb.
There he cries alone.
Brother will not come,
until he leaves Tokyo,
a two day train ride.
Sister comes up next,
to lay the incense upon,
the rain speckled stone.
As she walks away,
I feel myself rising up,
At last, I am free.
Courage of the Innocent
I hold her hand upon her bed, bones brittle, skin thinning and clear.
Tubes and wires about her head, my whole body is shaking in fear.
Cancer came for one so fair, robbing and wrecking her life.
Chemo took her curly hair, and soon she goes under the knife.
“It isn’t fair,” I cry in the dark of night, when my soul lays bared to my God.
“Why her and not me,” I mourn for her plight, “I should walk the path that she’s trod.”
But she doesn’t complain at the needles and pain, as the doctors prepare for theater.
and she quietly goes where nobody knows and she doesn’t rebuke her creator.
It is said that saints young and old are not always the valiant and bold.
Yet, I disagree as I’m forced to see her courage as she’s laying there cold.
Dealing with Perpetual Pain
Imagine waking up, if you get to sleep at all, and remembering your vivid nightmares centered around one theme: pain. When you awaken the pain is not gone, it is still there, dogging your every step and preventing you from enjoying anything. Simple things you took for granted, like the sunlight or a child’s laughter become instruments of torture. Music, conversation, and socializing are ordeals you endure rather than look forward to experiencing. Pain negates every pleasurable visitation of life and penetrates deep into your core, tainting all of the things of beauty you love so much. You aren’t the only one suffering from your pain. Family and friends drift away or hide at the sight of your agony. You find yourself slinking away to spare them the vicarious pain. Even your pets learn to manage their lives around your torment.
If it were a terminal illness that could end your life at any moment to spare the rest of the world of your presence, then you could endure it, you think sometimes. However, is not a terminal illness, it is a perpetual acute migraine which remains for years.
This is my world, yet I remain through it all an optimist. I haunt the night, unable to go outside during the day. I hobble around due to neurological problems on my right side. My tremors and seizures occur daily and I am only able to write for at most an hour each day before fatigue forces me to rest. I am a physical wreck.
However, like I said, I am an optimist because I believe no matter what happens to my body and my mind, God will preserve and protect me. Am I naive in this world of so much doubt and depression? No, I have faith. When I look at the icon of the Theotokos (Virgin Mary) and contemplate her life, I realize how much better I have had it. King Herod wanted to kill her and her child because of a prophecy. The Sadducees wanted to kill her because they didn’t believe in divine intervention. Even as a young woman, she knew the cost of agreeing to what the Angel Gabriel asked of her. All Hebrew girls did. Still she accepted. Despite all of the trouble, it caused her, her family, and her community she said yes.
Thus, despite all of the pain I am enduring, many martyrs endured more. I am not fit to join their ranks. I will endure and when I can’t God will help me endure.
I’m working on my lastest top-secret project.
Well, maybe it isn’t so top-secret. I have so many book projects going I have lost track of them thus far. Nevertheless, I endeavor to stay the course and complete this novel first. You might ask what makes this project so top-secret. I haven’t been able to think up a name that describes it well enough to give it that breakout bang.
Let me start from the top. It has a tree a half-mile tall who is one of the main characters in the book. The novel has two opposing wizards, one good and the other evil, a fey realm and a kingdom in a far away land. Amid all of the turmoil, and struggling to survive the attacks of their pursuers are a mother and her two children. This family is a key component in the Prophesy of the Blue Coin.
“Blue coin on red tower totters
White moon on black sky slung
Green fury on flowing red waters
Young hand on white staff hung
Fey spirit becomes mere mortal
Mere mortal comes revealed as fey
Black staff breaks in temple portal
Red hair sits on throne that day
Blue coin floats in blue pool.”
The problem, as I stated, is developing a name for the book that will attract readers, young and old alike. The bad wizard is named the Toad Wizard (Treoraí Buaf Glas) and the good wizard is called the Earth Guardian (Treoraí Garda Cré). I’ve decided to use Gaelic names to add to the fantasy atmosphere. The book also has a red tower that is central to the entire story, as mentioned in the prophecy.
If anyone has a suggestion for a title and I like it, I would be happy to give them a sneak preview of the first few chapters.
Angels Falling Abyssal
Holding me as close as anyone can try
falling through the abyss
her radiance an inner glory
Not thinking of my yesterdays
nor gnawing on my tomorrows
feeling just the now
knowing only this moment
branching no where, no when, no how
She is a light illuminating my present.
angelic feathers spread about me unseen
She is the tranquility of the moment
calming the frantic chaos of my mind
She is the dweller in a still deep pool
inviting me to wash away the world.
Tight to her I fall through the abyss
spiraling about a singularity in space
stuttering about a moment in time
the radiance from her center
casts shadows passed my darkness
a darkness which gnaws away
an oily blackness in the pit of my heart
hiding every where, when, and how.
I am the bitter seed and core of the past
knuckles dragging on the pavement of sin
lurching from rotten age to age
venting against the pure without sense
raging against the kind, good, and sincere.
inviting the sweet to reprobation.
Held close by her as a sacrifice
falling into the eternal abyss
she gives of herself so others may live
she binds her fate to mine in a final act
an act of obedience and charity
two things I had never know
until her last shining moment
relenting no where, no when, no how
Last Moment of an Empty Heart
Oh, empty unfeeling heart
that thumps within my chest.
A pump for blood of gristle
pounding as I await death.
His money I lost –
lost at the tables.
Now I see a steel blue tube
as cold and unfeeling as my heart.
I smell the gun oil of the 9mm
pointed at my nose
I hear my breathing
fast and panicked.
I thought it would be different.
this moment
my world-line eclipsed
but no –
I am just a fool who fell afoul and now will fall
and the saddest thing of all
I have turned a desperate friend
into a murderer of his best friend
and yet,
my heart feels nothing.
Ek is die leeu, wie moet sy slaap. (I’m the lion, who should be sleeping)
Zebra, jy gebalk te veel.
Zebra, jy gebalk te veel!
Jy raserige zebra! Jy gebalk te veel!
Ek is die naaf in die natuur se wiel.
Ek sal eet jy, kom die aanbreek.
Esel, jy gebalk te veel.
Esel, jy gebalk te veel!
Jy raserige esel! Jy gebalk te veel!
Ek is die naaf in die natuur se wiel.
Ek sal eet jy, kom die aanbreek.
Twee bene, jy praat te veel.
Twee bene, jy praat te veel!
Jy raserige twee bene! Jy praat te veel!
Ek is die naaf in die natuur se wiel.
Ek sal eet jy, kom die aanbreek.
Ek is die leeu, wie moet sy slaap.
Zebra, you bray too much.
Zebra, you bray too much!
You noisy zebra! You bray too much!
I am the hub in nature’s wheel.
I will eat you, come the dawn.
Donkey, you bray too much.
Donkey, you bray too much!
You noisy donkey! You bray too much!
I am the hub in nature’s wheel.
I will eat you, come the dawn.
Two legs, you talk too much.
Two legs, you talk too much!
You noisy two legs! You talk too much!
I am the hub in nature’s wheel.
I will eat you, come the dawn.
I’m the lion, who should be sleeping.
Tine
She dances around the meadow
whirling in circles of light.
She dances around the forest
giving the woodsmen fright.
She dances through out the village
chasing them from their home.
She dances up to the sea
dying when touching the foam.
She cannot be hugged nor kissed,
when she leaves she hardly is missed.
She is needed by all who must eat,
especially by those who love meat.
When winter is cold,
she brings comfort to old
with a spark on lintel and stove.
When summer hot,
her comfort is not,
as she eats up the forest so bold.
Michael R. Hicks
Visit Michael R. Hicks' website to learn more about his writing. Get the first book in the series or catch up at KreelanWarrior.com
Audrey Niffenegger
If you thought Audrey Niffenegger's first book The Time Traveler's Wife was good, you have to get her latest novel, Her Fearful Symmetry. It is a ghost story set in and around the historical Highgate Cemetery in London. While it is different in most ways from her earlier novel, it is fantastic and satisfying to read. You can find it on Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble. There's a good reason her first book is a number one best seller for the second week of October 2009 NY Times Paperback bestseller list.
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- Writer's Conference in Hawley, PA October 4, 2008 M. Andrew Sprong
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- Scene excerpt from "Haley Cork and the Blue Door" July 30, 2008 M. Andrew Sprong
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Haley Cork and the Blue Door
