sharonad@comcast.net

and visit my website at:

www.sharonadonovan.com

Have a lovely spring and have fun planting your garden! Until next time…

Red Rock Canyon, Nevada

Deep in the underbrush of the Red Rock Mountains, the hunter crept through the rugged terrain toward the mansion nestled in the foothills. A moon hung low in the dark, desert sky. His eyesight as keen as the surrounding night predators, he slipped through the thicket, focused on his mission. The fragrant creosote bushes filled his senses as he eased through the woods, his booted feet crunching on pinecones on the dry carpet of the forest. A slight breeze stirred through the ponderosa pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the Paiute Indians buried thousands of feet below in the windblown sand.

He fingered the weapon in his hooded jacket, a shuriken, a Ninja star, a throwing death star laced with poison. Oh, yes, he was coming. His heart jackhammered in his chest, adrenaline pumping. He licked his lips in eager anticipation. From deep in the woods, a coyote howled, barely distinct over the wild beat of his heart.

He spotted the mansion in the distance, a torch-lit courtyard, copper lanterns casting willowy shadows on stained-glass windows. A bell tower loomed in eerie silence. Smooth marble lions guarded the entrance gate.

Adrenaline surged through him, filling him with a sense of power as potent as a deadly cobra. His fingers tightened on his death star, itching to wield it into the betrayer’s throat. He emerged from the thicket, crouching low in the shadows of the undulating pines.

Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cold night air of the Mohave. Blending into the shadows of the mansion, he shimmied along the red bricks of the estate, camouflaging himself in the waivery branches. The throaty cry of a raven screeched, eerie and foreboding.

Keeping low to the ground, the sounds of the night predators at his back, he crept up the stone steps leading to the mansion, sheathed his hands in latex gloves, and inserted a key in the heavy, mahogany door. He stood in the foyer of the two-story mansion, contemplating his moves. He glanced at his watch. Quarter till midnight. And when the clock strikes twelve, the death star will hit the mark. Bulls eye.

Water gushed from the gaping mouth of a lion head fountain, giving the foyer the look of a Greco sanctuary. A grand sweeping staircase led to upper wings. From upstairs, the sultry vocals of Patsy Cline drifted down, the bittersweet lyrics laced with heart-wrenching pain. A lamp in the parlor cast an amber glow on leather sofas scattered with tiger skin pillows. A large screen television and wet bar took up an entire wall.

Creeping along the marble floors, the hunter liberated a bottle of finely-aged whiskey from the bar and tilted it to his lips, wishing he had time for a premium cigar from the walk-in humidor. He raised the jug. “Here’s lookin’ at you, Carlos DeVeccio.” He checked his watch. Just about show time.

Cocktails over, he strutted down the hallway, the lyrics of his favorite song playing in his head. A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go. Heigh ho the dairy-o, a hunting we will go. We’ll catch a fox and put him in a box. Heigh ho the dairy-o, a hunting we will go.

Reaching the great room, his majesty’s private domain, he stalked across the threshold and entered the hall, giving a mock salute with his middle finger. The roiling presence of Carlos DeVeccio reached out from every corner, traces of his power and prestige palpable. Anger glinted in the hunter’s eyes.

Twelve leather chairs surrounded the large ebony table where the big man presided every Saturday during meetings. A pair of Sabre swords gleamed in the muted light of the moon. Directly above the king’s throne, presenting a daunting aura, a fleshless face mask rested, the one the old man wore when ruling the world with his big shot fist. The hunter grinned as he removed that mask and fastened it around his face.

Shimmying up the staircase, focused on his mission, he merged into the shadows of the dark wood paneling, concentrating on every sight, scent, and sound, just as the old man had taught him when he was his number one assassin. From the bathroom, the shower was running, pellets of water hitting the glass door as steady as a cold, hard rain. He was singing, his low voice echoing through the corridor.

Entering the master bath, the hunter crouched down behind the doorjamb, fingering his Ninja weapon. The water stopped with a jarring screech. The hunter’s heart danced a wild rhythm in his chest, his fingers poised and ready to wield the throwing star at a second’s notice. Hurry up, he silently urged. Come on, come on out.

Carlos DeVeccio stepped out of the shower, reached for a towel just as the bell in the bell tower gonged out twelve piercing chimes. They reverberated in the hunter’s ears, but he kept focused, his blood pumping. His fingers tightened and released, tightened and released.

Just then, Carlos DeVeccio, still singing, made an about face. Using an underarm pitch, he wield the death star, the blade slicing through his jack-be-nimble fingers in a smooth, controlled slice. It whizzed through the air with a hissing zing, hitting the mark, is throat.

Stunned, Carlos DeVeccio dropped his towel, his face twisting in pain as the poison seeped into his jugular vein and into his system. Lying on the cold, tile floor, belly up and dying, blood pumping out of his naked body, his eyes grew wide with shock when the hunter took off his mask and grinned at him.

I plan on donating a portion of this book to JDRF (Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation) fight for a cure. If I can prevent one child from living in fear of losing his or her vision the way I did, Echo of a Raven will be a smashing success. Here is a little about my book.

An autobiography is a person’s account of his or her own life. A narrative non-fiction is a retelling of a true story in which a series of events come to life on the page.  And that’s precisely what happens in Echo of a Raven. Diagnosed as a type 1 diabetic at the age of six, a doctor at Children’s Hospital predicted I would be blind by time I was twenty-five. His cruel words changed the entire course of my life, affecting every decision I made for years to come. His words haunted me. They consumed me. They devoured me. No matter where I was or what I was doing, the words echoed in my head. I was afraid to drive for fear I’d go blind and kill someone. I was afraid to get close to anyone for fear of rejection. I was always afraid. Yet no one knew my fears, not even my family or closest friends. I never discussed his venomous words because I thought if I said them aloud they would surely come true. And at the age of twenty-one when I had the initial bout of blindness, I went a little crazy. I had a fantastic job at the courthouse in the Family Division. I spent my weekends horseback riding and doing what I love most—painting. For the next two decades, I underwent countless operations where my vision came and went. It was an emotional roller coaster that tore me apart. With each passing year, I lost more and more vision, and more and more of my independence and dignity. And when I had the final operation, the outcome was total blindness, much to my shock and horror. Devastated and disillusioned, I enrolled in a sixteen-week program for the blind and visually impaired. The classes demanded discipline, motivation—and a whole lot of guts. Some of the classes were access technology where I was taught how to use a computer with adaptive software. Another class was personal adjustment, relearning basic skills as grooming, shopping, keeping a checkbook and organization skills without sight. Group therapy was for dealing with anger issues, and the worst, being trained to use the dreaded white cane. In Echo of a Raven, I take the reader on a brutally honest journey to some of the darkest recesses of my mind. I use raw but direct quotes that might shock and offend. But as my writing teacher told me, if the reader is to get the real feel of what went on inside this institution, the explicit language must be quoted; otherwise, the reader will not be drawn in. Without bringing my true-life characters to life on a page, the reader will never know or understand the extremes we faced. The sixteen weeks I spent at Pittsburgh Vision have left a lasting imprint on my brain. . Echo of a Raven is not for the weak at heart. Anger is not pretty and everyone deals with it in a different way. I use shocking anecdotes of my sixteen-week stay at Pittsburgh Vision. Some of these include: the humiliation of being fitted for a white cane, the sheer terror of being disoriented in traffic, being forced to talk about my feelings in front of strangers at group therapy, explosive anger issues straight out of the Wild Wild West. I have read memoirs about a person losing his or her vision, but none with such prolific details told from an insider’s point of view. It was an incredible journey filled with heart-wrenching pain. We laughed and we cried. We bonded in a way words could not describe.  Part of the reason I was reluctant to enroll in this program was I thought other clients would be uneducated. I was wrong. They were all ordinary people with extraordinary problems–thrust into a living nightmare due to circumstances beyond control. There were teachers, engineers, doctors, all with some type of eye disease that was literally robbing them blind. Some had the added burden of facing marital problems because a spouse was unable to deal with the pending blindness. I would not have survived the most challenging ordeal of my life without this special group of people. What didn’t kill me made me stronger.

Sierra Nevada Mountains were roughly defined

against a dramatic sky of crimson and lavender blue.

The warm breeze undulated through the ponderosa

pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the

Indians buried thousands of feet below in the

windblown sands. A vulture hovered high above the

foothills, an eerie screech foreboding as it circled the

canyon.

Easing his midnight blue SUV around the

horseshoe bend in the sloping ridge, Charles thought

about his wife. Jill had died two years ago of cancer

and the following day was the anniversary of her

death. Frustrated, his eyes filled with tears. His

vision blurred and he swiped at his eyes with the

back of his hand. He was angry at the whole world

and at God.

His heart was breaking. What kind of a God

would take away the love of his life, his reason for

living? How was he supposed to go on living when

the best part of him was gone? More tears spilled

down his cheeks. He wanted Jill back. He needed

her and wanted her with him, where she belonged.

He envisioned her out in her rose garden,

clipping and pruning them to sheer perfection. How

she’d loved the yellow rose, and as much as he used

to love them, he didn’t any more. Baskets and

baskets of yellow roses had been crammed into the

funeral home, permeating the air with the funereal

smell of death.

She was so pretty. Her serene green eyes were

 the color of the sea. He pictured her digging her

hands in the rich fertile soil, looking so peaceful and

content. Bathed in sunlight, she had the face of an

angel. She had a mega-watt smile that totally

beguiled him. No matter how hot or humid it was,

she always looked fresh and lovely. She had a habit

of toying with a strand of her long blonde hair,

twirling it between her fingers until it waved. Under

the amber glow of the hot desert sun, it flickered like

wildfire. Lord, he missed that woman.

As Charles drove deeper into the foothills, the

terrain became noticeably rougher, more

uncultivated. The air hummed with just a hint of

danger. The pioneer spirit of the Wild West was still

palpable as burros and wild horses galloped amidst

the sloping landscape. How he missed those long

afternoon drives through the wilderness with Jill,

imagining what life must have been like in the days

of the Wild, Wild West.

More memories of Jill flashed through his mind,

filling him with a deep sense of foreboding sadness.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. The desolate road

weaving in and out of the canyon was flanked with

sagebrush and tumbleweed, and deep in the

underbrush, mountain lions and bobcats roamed

free. A coyote yipped in the distance, its howling

wail slicing through the thick humid air.

As the sun disappeared behind the Sierra

Nevada Mountains, the sky blended into a

menagerie of pale peach, rich magenta, and deep

indigo. Charles thought of all the sunsets he’d seen

with Jill. All those good times, better times. She

should be here to watch the sunset with him. Why

wasn’t she? Why did she have to die? He felt so

betrayed. Life wasn’t fair.

White hot fury bubbled up inside him until it

erupted like a quaking volcano. Pulling off to the

side of the road, he hopped out of his vehicle. He

 stared up at the heavens and shook his fist at God.

He wanted answers. He needed answers. Angry and

frustrated, he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Why did you take my Jill from me?” his voice

echoed across the canyon. “How could you take the

love of my life away? How could you? How could a

loving God do something so cruel? I love her! I want

her here with me! I want her back!”

The air carried with it the scent of a coming

storm. Thunder exploded in the distance. A desert

storm was closing in on the Mojave. The wind

rippled through the surrounding Joshua trees. The

mournful cry of a desert thrasher sliced through the

night. Charles was as restless as the approaching

storm. He looked down. The hillside gave way to

steep ravines, tumbling down over rugged cliffs to

the valley below. The only thing separating him from

a drop of several thousand feet was a mound of

crumbled rock. He took a step closer.

Just as he was about to jump, a flash of

lightning illuminated the sky. He thought he saw

Jill. Pellets of hard rain pounded on his back,

soaking him to the bone. He blinked several times,

but whatever he’d seen was gone. Thunder exploded

in the sky, the sound ricocheting through the

heavens. Over the rumbling, he heard Jill’s sweet

melodic voice. “No, Charles. Don’t jump. It’s not your

time.”

Buy Touched by an Angel

www.sharonadonovan.com

Now here are a few of my silly superstitions I swear by.

The legend behind the pink tourmaline stone: said to bring good luck for writers. When a writer wears this gem, work is said to get published. Okay, so you guessed it. I made a wild dash and found not only a pink tourmaline ring, but a matching bracelet for good measure. And guess what? I got lots of compliments…and lots of rejection letters from publishing houses. But just when I wrote it off as a silly superstition, berating myself for falling prey to yet another scam, I got three contracts from The Wild Rose Press. I am now a firm believer in the legend of the pink tourmaline and rub it before opening all letters from my editor!

Angels: our protectors, our guardians… Do I believe in their celestial powers? You bet and here’s why. Nearly fifteen years ago, I had a potentially fatal illness and was not expected to live without risky brain surgery. The minute I was diagnosed, I went out and bought a gold angel charm and put it on my necklace. Almost immediately, a feeling of peace and tranquility washed over me. I placed my burden in God’s hands and felt confident my guardian angel would stay at my side. The night before the surgery, a prayer chain was started for me in three states. That night as I slept, I felt the presence of my angel. I can’t explain it, other than there was a definite aura in the room. The following morning, after I was wheeled to surgery and put out with the anesthetic, I felt at peace. When I came to, my doctor smiled at me and said, “No surgery. I cancelled the surgery at the last minute. I was up all night long going over your MRI and something made me change my mind.” For the next six weeks, I received intravenous drugs worse than chemo. But still, doctors did not expect me to live for more than six months. I just kept the faith and never once took off my angel. That was fifteen years ago….

Lady bugs, coffee and Baileys and fifty cent slot machines? Oh here we go! I do so enjoy a day at the casino now and again! And I heard as I’m sure you have, lady bugs bring good luck So my sister and I were gambling a few years ago and we both had our pinky lady bug rings on. We felt like a coffee and Baileys and no machines were available other than the fifty cent slot machines. And do you know we both hit for a few hundred bucks? Not a windfall by any stretch of the imagination, but when those bells ring and people come running, oh what a thrill! So what do you think? Just plain luck…or was it something in the coffee or the lady bug?

So now I’ve let you in on a few of my superstitions. I’d love to hear yours. Leave a comment and one comment will win a download of The Claddagh Ring. Good luck!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7QRcR5vEX8

As Rork’s arms tightened around her, the lyrics of the song seemed to crawl deeper and deeper inside her skin. Gazing into his hypnotic blue eyes, she thought perhaps St. Patrick had indeed bestowed his blessing into the Claddagh. Could Rork be her purpose? Finding love and friendship with a man who could sing like an angel?

On a romantic lilt, Rork ended the dance with a simple promenade around the floor, giving the couple the regal look of a king and queen. Staring into midnight blue eyes, Meghan’s heart danced a wild rhythm. When she finally came back down to earth, she was giddy with delight. And when they kissed, it was the kind of kiss dreams were made of. Meghan Shannon O’Malley had met her destiny.

Buy The Claddagh Ring

www.sharonadonovan.com

The LASTING LOVE is an unusual rose that shimmers like a citrine jewel. It’s a brand new hybrid tea rose with old fashioned vintage appeal. With its unique blend of dusky red and hint of plum sprouting from glossy green foliage, this gorgeous rose looks artificial. But the minute you get within ten feet of this tea rose, its timeless essence  wafts through the air, making it a must have for your garden!

FACTS ABOUT THE LASTING LOVE ROSE

Ø     Blooms will reach 4-6 inches across and repeat year round

Ø     Hearty and easy to care for

Ø     Disease resistant

Ø     More vigorous than other red tea roses

Ø     Perfect form and high-pointed center

Ø     Major attraction to gardens and arbors

Ø     Hearty rose reaching 5 feet tall and 4 feet wide

Ø     Grows well in climates ranging from North to South

CARING FOR THE LASTING LOVE ROSE

Ø     Plant in early spring

Ø     Plant 4 feet apart in well drained soil

Ø     Prefers full sun

Ø     Fertilize with Rose Tone until September

Would you like to win a gorgeous Lasting Love rosebush for your garden? Leave a comment telling me why roses get you all sentimental. I’ll draw a winner at random tonight at midnight. Good luck! Oh, BTW, the reason roses get me all sentimental is because they are timeless and forever. They never go out of style and receiving a big ol’ bouquet always makes me smile!

Lasting Love

Brady as they walked toward the restaurant hand in

hand. They knew they’d just crossed a major

milestone. The quiet was broken by Abbey’s cell

 phone. Annoyed at the interruption, she sighed and

answered. It was one of her employees. “Come quick,

Abbey. It’s the nursery. There’s a fire. It’s spreading

like wildfire. Things look bad. Get here soon.”

****

When Abbey and Brady reached the nursery, it

was a burning inferno. The glass walls had collapsed

and it was going up in a snarling hiss of smoke and

flames. Firefighters struggled to get the blaze under

control. Police and paramedics had arrived and Eye

Witness News was on the scene, snapping photos.

“Oh my!” Abbey was out of the car the minute it

came to a screeching halt. Her face was as ashen as

the thick clouds of smoke billowing up into the night

sky. Tripping over the gravel and cinders as she

rushed toward the fire chief, she screamed. “What

happened? I’m Abigail Jordan and I own this

nursery. What happened? When I left, everything

was fine. Please tell me nobody was in there!”

“No one was in there,” the fire chief placed a

hand on her shoulder. “Things could be a lot worse.

Dead plants can be replaced. People can’t.”

Riveted with shock as reality filtered through

her, Abbey screamed, “My roses! All my precious

roses. All those hanging baskets of lavender. My

exotic orchids and Easter lilies. Gone, all gone!”

“It’s all right,” Brady folded her into his arms.

“Shh.”

“What started it?” Abbey stared at the fire chief.

“How did it start?”

“It’s being investigated. At this time, the cause

is unknown. Could be a gas leak. A neighbor

reported hearing an explosion, and in a few minutes,

your greenhouse went up like a house of cards.”

In less than an hour, the fire was under control,

but all that remained of Abbey’s nursery was a bed

of ash. The floral boutique across the covered bridge

was unharmed but the rest of the damage caused by

 the fire was insurmountable.

“Do you have any idea how long it took me to

choose and cultivate each of my prize roses?” Abbey

finally let the tears roll. Leaning on Brady, she

sobbed in between hysterics. “My Lasting Love rose,

demolished. And to think I’ll never smell the spicy

aroma of my Sentimental rose again. And at prom

time, I never had enough of the Falling in Love rose.

They all wanted a corsage made of the pink roses,

timeless and romantic. And not to forget the Arctic

Flame rose, popular for keeping the romance alive.

All my hard work, up in smoke.”

“Ms. Jordan,” the fire chief interrupted. “We

know the cause of the fire. It was caused by a

recently installed heating table. Some of the cable

wiring possibly touched each other due to improper

installation.”

Abbey shoved Brady away and stared at him,

her eyes glinting with anger. “It was you. You said

you knew how to install the heating table and I

listened to you. You ruined my dream. Get away

from me.”

“Abbey,” he tried to reach her. “There’s gotta be

some mistake. Let me—”

“There was a mistake all right,” Abbey hissed.

“Hiring you and trusting you with my roses. Get out

of here and never come back. I never want to see you

again.”

****

On Easter morning, Abbey pulled up to her

floral shop, her heart heavy with grief. Feeling as if

she had the weight of the world on her shoulders,

she crossed the bridge to where her garden nursery

had been. Even before she got there, the thick scent

of smoke lingered, a pungent reminder of what had

happened the night before.

She wanted the world to stop spinning. How

could Brady have been so careless? How could she

 have been stupid enough to trust him? Somewhere

deep in her subconscious, she knew she should have

had an electrician install the heating table. So why

hadn’t she listened? Because she’d been attracted to

him and had been well on her way to falling in love

with him. She recalled how infatuated she’d been

only yesterday when she watched him touch the

roses with such tenderness. And the kiss they’d

shared last night. Tears spilled down her face at the

memory.

She kicked her foot in the rubble and screamed

at the top of her lungs. Sobs ripped through her until

she couldn’t breathe. On Easter morning of all

mornings, a time of rebirth and resurrection.

Hurling herself on the bed of ashes where her

nursery had been, she kicked and screamed, not

caring if the world came crashing down on top of her.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she looked up and

gasped.

An old man with flowing white hair stood over

her, his gnarled body stiff and bent. He poked at her

with his walking stick. “Get up, girlie,” he

commanded. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Who are you?” Abbey stood up and backed

away. Other than the birds, there was no one

around. She reached for her cell phone, only to

remember it was in her purse in the car. Her heart

pounded with adrenaline. “Who are you and where

did you come from?”

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

Abbey started across the bridge. She wanted to

get far away from this nut. Who was he?

“Stop.”

His words had a jarring effect. She turned

around to see him rooting through the rubble with

his cane. What was he doing, digging around in her

dirt? Was he looking for money? Food? Was he

homeless?

 He looked at her without expression. “I’ve come

to give you words of wisdom. When you find love,

hold on tight. Then find it in your heart to forgive.

It’s all about forgiveness.”

Curious, Abbey joined him. The sun was peeking

through the mountaintops and a shimmer of red

caught her eye where the old man was probing with

his cane. She got on her hands and knees and joined

him, shoving the dirt and cinders aside with

reverent fingers. There it was, the satiny red petals

of a Lasting Love rose, buried beneath the rubble.

Tears of joy trickled down her face. Preserved

beneath the ash and cinders was her favorite flower

in the whole world, her Lasting Love rose. She kept

digging, deeper and deeper, and before long, the

entire bush and its brilliant red blossoms had

resurrected. Not caring if the thorns cut her, she

clutched the plant to her heart. Then she turned

around to thank the old man, but he was gone. An

icy chill went through Abbey as reality struck. A

gaggle of bluebirds gathered on the railing, chirping

sweetly to the sound of nature. Abbey looked up at

the sky and smiled.

Buy Lasting Love

www.sharonadonovan.com

I hope you all had a pleasant and relaxing Easter. Even with the rebirth of the earth after a long winter, the birds chirping in the trees and the first crocuses popping their heads out of the soil, Easter takes me back to when I was six years old. I was rushed to Children’s Hospital three days before the holiday, nearly in a coma and was diagnosed as a type 1 diabetic. I spent the next two weeks in the hospital learning how to give insulin shots. From this day on, there would be no chocolate, sweets or ice cream.

As the years went by, I learned of the many complications associated with diabetes, diabetic retinopathy leading the list. This condition causes fragile blood vessels to grow and rupture in the retina and can lead to progressive blindness. Due to the early onslaught of the disease, I was at high risk for developing retinopathy.

And at the age of twenty-one, I experienced the first bout with blindness. I worked as a legal secretary in the Family Division where I prepared cases for judges. But painting was my passion, my life. Losing myself in tranquil settings was my sanctuary, a place where I could escape and not think of the threat of blindness. But as the years went on, more and more vision faded, and painting became increasingly more difficult. My heart wept. I underwent surgeries for the next two decades. Vision came and went. But through it all, I painted through magnification.

When a doctor suggested I have an operation using a new technique to remove scar tissue which had formed on my retinas, I put my trust in him. Much to my shock, I came out of the surgery totally blind, with nothing other than a few bright lights flashing. Devastated, my world as I knew it came to a screeching halt.

With great reluctance, I enrolled in a sixteen week program for the blind and visually impaired where I learned mobility, personal adjustment and the use of a computer with adaptive software, converting text to synthesized speech. Hope soared for the first time in years. With the aid of this screen reader, I can use all Window-based programs including the Internet, Microsoft and all its features, email and so much more. And through the gift of modern technology, I found the courage to compete in a sighted world I was once part of.

After completing this program for the blind and visually impaired, I enrolled in my local college for medical transcription. Almost immediately I knew it wasn’t for me, but I stuck with it. Can you imagine all those voices? There was my screen narrator and then there was the doctor’s voice on the tape, dictating. I felt as if I might snap. And not only that, but transcribing did nothing to stir my creative muse. As fate would have it, my life took yet another unexpected turn. Through creative writing classes, a new dream resurrected. Today, instead of painting my pictures on canvas, I paint my pictures with words.