The Waltz Beckons… With A New “Penny Willan…” Excerpt!

When was the last time that you read a book, a section of a story, and had to pause your reading out of sheer appreciation for what you just read? A time where you caught that special rhythm, that majestic beat, that flow of words that dances through your head like an operatic symphony? It is the rare author who can, not only capture this magic, but convey it.

There can be true artistry in the written word, if a story is written with passion. Words should be felt, not merely read. They should be sung in your head like a song, while you gasp out in awe, with a whispered gush, at the vision they convey.

Good writing is enjoyed, but great writing? It should be an event… A moment mentally experienced, and one that will henceforth impress upon you, like a long-held cherished memory, etched forever into the fabric of your being via a reality from an author’s inspired, composed creation:

“As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes.

The waltz begins

The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.” ~Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hallow

Anyone who has ever dreamed of becoming an author, aspires to this. They want to create, conduct, with their imagination something so great as to leave a lasting impact on their readers, long after they’ve read it. And, if their passion is great enough, their desire strong enough, they will find success in the lyrical flow of words they inscribe. These authors will touch you, move you, with the musical cadence of words that pours from their hearts, spilled out on to the page, with the hope that you will enjoy the waltz that they have devised for you, as much as they enjoyed composing it .

Simply this: My great hope is that from Penny Willan and the Well, you will find a waltz worth dancing to.

Excerpt:

“Separated from man,
alone does it stand,
a wishing well aged by time.
Made of hoary stone,
dead weeds ingrown,
dirty and covered with grime.

It sits in a dale,
a sinister vale,
amongst a shroud of trees.
Detached from society,
long had it the notoriety
of dark magic, an evil disease.

There’s those who know,
when into the forest they go,
avoid the wishing well.
‘Tis a place full of evil,
one that feeds on upheaval,
and all at the avarice of Hell.

So, dare not you heed,
the insidious need,
to drop your penny inside,
for Hell it will lash,
your wishes ‘twill cash,
dark torments to never subside.

The wishing well depends,
on your soul for its sins,
to trap you in Hell’s snare.
And with them ‘twill hasten,
your soul to damnation,
passersby ye beware.”

The Well waltz beckons… March 10, 2015.

More excerpts to come. Stay tuned!

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