Near Death Experience and Writing by Darlene Jones

provided by D. Jones

Being a pedestrian hit by a car means multiple injuries and critical condition, but it’s not all doom and gloom. Well, okay, 99.9% of it is, but there are a few bright humorous moments.

I know I’m lying on the ground in the middle of the road. “Where are my kids? Where are my kids?” I open my eyes and see my son bending over me.

“It’s okay, Mom. We’re right here.”

“Where’s my purse? Where’s my purse.”

I can’t see my daughter, but I hear her say, “It’s okay, Mom. I have it right here.”

So, you see, I have my priorities in the right order.

In the emergency room, I say, “I wear contacts.”

A nice young intern hovers over me. “It’s okay, we took them out.” He holds a contact lens case a couple of inches from my eyes. “See, I have them right here.” Maybe he’s not so nice after all. Or, maybe I’ve been babbling a little too much?

Weeks later I’m transferred from the trauma unit to the rehabilitation hospital. I lie in bed with casts from the top of my legs to the tips of my toes. My right arm has been so badly dislocated that it’s useless.

A nurse comes in to tell me I’ll be going to physio and occupational therapy. Physio first. I’m taken to a room that looks like something out of the Spanish inquisition. Weird contraptions on the walls, with belts and straps and hooks that menace the helpless patient.

“Mrs. Jones, what are you doing here?” says a bright young thing I recognize as a former junior high student.

“Sandra, what are you doing here?”

“I’m your physiotherapist.”

I look again at the instruments of torture. “Oh, God, I hoped you liked me.” Turns out we get along just fine.

One evening the tall skinny nurse’s aide who is my favorite staff member offers to give me a shower.

“How can we do that?” I ask gesturing to my casts. Not a problem for her. She wraps both my legs in green garbage bags, wheels me on a gurney to the shower room, proceeds with a shampoo, and sprays the top half of my body. Never has a shower felt so good.

She dries me off, combs my hair, and removes the garbage bags. No problem with the first one, but when she pulls the second one off, she’s left holding the bag and my cast. We stare at my leg. She quickly slides the cast back on. We don’t tell a soul, but we hardly dare look at each other after that afraid we’ll burst into laughter.

And one last … what shall I call it…? … incident. I’ve progressed to walking casts, and am sitting on the edge of my bed naked. I’ve given myself a sponge bath and am about to get dressed. I hear a sound behind me. I turn to see a young window washer grinning from ear to ear. There’s not a heck of a lot I can do. I smile and wave. He turns beet red.

And for the 99.9% of bad bits. They do not need to be relived.

What has any of this got to do with my writing? Not a heck of a lot. Or, perhaps, everything. At some point in the emergency room, I saw myself walking back across the street wearing different clothes. My spiritual friend said that I was bringing myself back from the brink of death. I didn’t see lights or tunnels or angels, but I did experience an incredible calm and I am no longer afraid of death.

If you asked me, I’d say I was an atheist, yet my novels are all about deities. If you asked, I’d say I don’t believe in heaven, yet my novels encompass a heaven. If, before I began writing, you’d asked me what I would write, I never would have said novels about gods controlling Earth, gods interacting with humans, gods trying to set things right.

I don’t know if my stories are shaped by cultural conditioning or if somewhere, deep inside, I do truly believe. Perhaps I’ll never know. That’s okay with me. I’ll continue to live my life as I know it should be lived and I’ll continue to write. What new novels might bring will likely, once again, be a surprise to me.

For more from Darlene Jones, check out these links: www.emandyves.com and Amazon Author Central.

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Click below to share your Reactions and more. See you next time, Toi Thomas. #cursescanbebroken

Stone's Ghost by Melissa Bowersock

-Book Title: Stone’s Ghost

Image provided by author

-Author Name: Melissa Bowersock

-Publisher: New Moon Publishing

-Reading Level: Adult

-Genre: Fiction, paranormal, ghost

-Content Rating: Mature Adult

-Available Formats: Paperback, e-book

-Number of Pages: 224

-Purchase Links: AmazonPaperback | Kindle

Book blurb provided by author

Matthew Stone doesn't believe in ghosts … until he meets one. He owns a successful business in Lake Havasu, Arizona, home to the famed London Bridge that was brought over stone by stone and rebuilt over the Colorado River. He has a gorgeous girlfriend, a doting mother, and more money than he needs, but no time for stories about the ghosts who were transplanted from England with the famed bridge. When a chance encounter with a female ghost leads to unexpected friendship, Matt and the ghost are forced to rely on each other as they confront the pasts that haunt them.

****

This is that rare ghost story that avoids all the pratfalls and clichés of the usual spectral and paranormal tale. Melissa Bowersock has intertwined two stories seamlessly - one a modern tale of a man taking responsibility for himself amid the shades of his own past, and the other the story of a young woman from a bygone era looking for release and redemption. You will keep turning the pages on this finely-crafted tale! —Rich Meyer, author

Excerpt

The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as if light fingers hovered just above them. Instantly alert, he forced himself to stand still even though he would have liked to jerk upright and look about the bridge. Controlling even his quick, shallow breathing, he kept his head still but focused on the periphery of his sight. He felt more than saw it, but thought there was something standing to his right. Something dark. Slowly, slowly, he turned his head.

That shape. Smaller, shorter than the woman who had just passed, this person was almost petite, or at least he thought she would be under the heavy black clothes. She stood—floated—just scant feet away, hovering near the balustrade with a tension that suggested to Matt she would vanish at the slightest move. At the same moment that he realized he could actually see the bridge behind her—see through her—he also noticed the almost wild light in her eyes. Eyes that were looking directly at him.

Links

AuthorWebsite

AuthorBlog

AmazonAuthor Central

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Going to Mali by Darlene Jones

provided by D. Jones

Many years ago a young girl left the safety of Canada for adventure in Africa. This was in a generation when young girls didn’t go anywhere on their own and certainly not to the “the dark continent.”

I was that young girl and going to Mali demanded that I adapt to:

·         A different climate. I exchanged the snowy cold of Alberta winters for the arid Harmattan winds of the Sahara. I certainly wasn’t prepared for the force of the heat that pressed on me as I stepped off the airplane. Over the days and weeks that followed I learned how the heat saps your energy until you feel that you can barely drag yourself around. A person who shall remain nameless said that the Africans were lazy. This person lived in an air conditioned house, drove an air-conditioned car, and worked in an air-conditioned office.

·         A different culture. I very quickly packed away my mini-skirts and wore a pagne, the rectangle of cloth that women wrapped around themselves to be a skirt. I hired a house-boy – sounds degrading, but the $8 a month I paid him supported a family of seven. (My salary was about $140 a month and that was ample to live on.) I learned the proper greetings that came before any exchange whether it be buying a stamp or fruit at the market. I learned to bargain. The list goes on.

·         A different language. I spoke French, but not fluently so I had to work at perfecting that. I also tried to learn a little Bambara, the most common local language. My students put me to shame. They could speak four or five local languages, had learned French (the official language of the country), and were studying English (I was their teacher) and German in school.

But above all, I had to adapt to time travel, for most Malians lived the way they always had. Modern conveniences consisted of basic items such as kerosene lanterns and little else.

I brought home with me a love for Mali, the Sahara, and Malians that burns as brightly now as it did then.

It was the plight of Malians that inspired my novel series. Since I couldn’t wave a magic wand to make life better in Mali, I chose to do that fictitiously. I wrote my books to entertain, but also with the hope that readers would see the world in a broader perspective. I hope that doesn’t make my books sound preachy, because they’re not intended to be, but I don’t think I could have written them in any other way given my experiences in Mali. The wide warm smiles of Malians stay with me always. I hope that warmth and positive outlook is conveyed in my stories.  

For more from Darlene Jones, check out these links: www.emandyves.com and AmazonAuthor Central.

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Click below to share your Reactions and more. See you next time, Toi Thomas. #cursescanbebroken