Her second book entitled ‘A Storm of Magic’ happens to be a YA Fantasy. Speaking about the book, Ms Laino says, ‘Being brought back from the dead is an impressive trick, even for magician Darien Burron. Now he must try and use his sleight of hand to swindle modern-day witch, Mirah, to sign her power away, or end up a tormented demon in the afterlife. Meanwhile, sixteen-year-old Mirah is starting to lose control of her powers. After an incident at her aunt’s Witchery store, Mirah is sent to a secret coven to learn to control her abilities. While she is away, Mirah meets up with a soft-spoken clairvoyant, a brazen storm witch, and the creator of dark magic itself. The young woman must learn to trust in herself before she loses herself entirely to the darkness that hunts her.’
I haven’t seen you in a while, my friend.
But I still remember the time we’ve spent together;
Pictures of you are still vivid in my memory –
A part of my soul will always be there with you
Whose words are these I know I’ve heard?
To read his marker seems absurd,
He will not see me stopping by
Nor holding back the need to cry.
We all disappear into a marble crowd.
It’s a pity it has to be strait-laced.
Once our characters were declared out loud.
Now with a chisel symbols are traced
which give little or no clue to character
except to claim that our absence is a cause for grief,
that the life eternal is the victor
though elsewhere if that is your belief.
Acting as if I’m without integrity
My mimicry knows no limitation
Inspired by individuals too pretty
The inspiration becomes imitation.
What’s the use of a luxurious car
If it can’t fit a traveller travelling far?
Can you drive all alone with jubilant pride,
Having refused a soul a pleasant ride?
I see, I be, I walk, I talk;
Each morning I rise with a smile.
I read, I feed, I rock, don’t mock,
Have to cover many a mile.
Letting us know that she is a pantser, meaning she tends to start with a concept and characters and allows the story to unfold thereafter, Ms Martine, who used to be fluent in Spanish but has now lost touch with the language, says her debut romance novel entitled ‘dibs’, a finalist for romance in the 2020 Kindle Book Awards, came to her almost fully-formed, and she simply had to write it down as she saw the movie in her mind.
I personally found the events transpiring in the Belmarsh prison quite interesting. A kind of friendship blossoms here that one might seldom expect to blossom in the outside world. There are moments when you may end up weeping, but as we have mentioned already, the moments you’ll guffaw will be a lot more.
After pies there was a visit to the garden
to see the toad, huge, motionless and sullen,
but not from a diet of sausage pie.
Now in Swarga is He and greeted by the bravest of gods who’ve known how to fly.
For Him it has taken a second just to reach this world where iron nails not rust;
The planets beholding the scene are seen by the Man Himself with a conscience clean.
He after witnesses His comrade sole, who seems to house a sharp, courageous soul.
Oh! He deserves not, says He, to be down there.
‘For his spirit and love for me is pure and fine.
But I’ll play a game, see if he does well fare,
Then figure if he’s ware of being fully mine.’
An endless eternity of stars
Blanketed the lofty canopy celestial
Far into unseen mystery
Where swirling lights
A’simmer in a sea of indigo
Washed across the cosmos entire
And vanished into an infinity of glistering dust
There’s not much to put the eye at ease
when we pass the abandoned garden;
tangles of string, planks and chicken wire,
a smother of snowdrops in late spring,
a quince tree with lichen, yellow fruit
rotting to brown then a winter black.
Is there a forgotten expression
in the language for which the bleak phrase
‘abandoned garden’ is not enough?
They’ll build a gas station in its place.
Author Marc Cavella might have begun writing at the tender age of ten, but he’d never taken it seriously until 2015 when he decided to leave a Clinical Psychology doctoral program to focus more on writing books. Speaking to the Literary Express in an exclusive interaction, the California-based author , who is looking for a cabin to rent in the general vicinity of Georgia and the Carolinas as one of the stories he is planning to work on is set there, says he generally writes at night right after he finishes with work. ‘I don’t really have a schedule. though. If I get inspired and I’m not near my computer, I’ll write notes in my phone so I can work on them later,’ he lets us know.
Buried a little further, in sodden soils and balding grass, are the manifold agonies hardly ever silenced. These are the shadows that follow me everywhere― etching themselves onto my skin, digging deep with their claws, infiltrating my purpling veins, rusting the way I see the world. They are the screams and wails that scraped my throat. Here lie the sins I haven’t forgiven myself from, perhaps I couldn’t, for ten, twenty, thirty more years―not until the lips that utter the apology learn not to tremble terribly to speak of forgiveness.
I’ll sit with you a while my dear
As I often do
Look across the water clear
Turbulent serenity, blue
I’ll sip a morning coffee with you
Watch the passers by
I’ll hold your time written hands
And watch the flocking birds fly
The sky will house us, I say with no doubt;
Of course, the Earth will take care of our feet.
But would that we dwelt within not but out
so we may make these planets our strong fleet.
Eyes are darting left, at the filling docks beyond but
I stare to the right where the vast
terrain slopes toward the peak of the gods.
The peak is tarnished onyx, scorched with
red anger leaking from the top, slow and steady.
The grime started dusting the air, leaving
a layer of it on my tan skin, but I hold one hand
up and shield baby from breathing it in.