Category Archives: Writing Fiction

The Scented Isle ~ in photos and words – The Citadelle Corte

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Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE by Karen Stephen

Within minutes I dropped down into a valley and entered the outskirts of Corte. Seeing its sleek, modern buildings dispelled the gruesome images. As I neared the turnoff to the university, I slowed to navigate a roundabout and caught my first glimpse of the city’s Citadelle. The ochre fortress rode atop a wave of rock that soared hundreds of feet above the valley floor, casting a long summer-evening shadow which wrapped its dusky fingers around my car.

Citadelle_2_corte

Photo credit: Les photos de Gaël / HDR / Citadelle 2 corte http://www.deficulturel.net

 

The Scented Isle ~ in photos and words ~ Monte Rotondo

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Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE by Karen Stephen

By now the sky turned had deep purple and clouds rose like puffs of steam off a pot of boiling soup. Exiting the next tunnel, a rounded peak still dusted with snow in mid-summer loomed into view. I glanced at the map spread out on the passenger seat. It had to be Monte Rotondo. As I passed each road sign, my eyes lingered on the names of destinations written in both French and lingua corsa: Corte and Corti, Ajaccio and Ajacciu, Ile Rousse and Isula Rossa. A few kilometers farther, a graffiti-covered stone wall, spray painted with the words Cuncolta Nazionale, took me back to Fresnes, which, in turn, triggered disturbing visions of Benatar’s son clinging to his father’s leg as he was being dragged across the very lawn where he had kicked a soccer ball to his Dad the day before.

Mont Rotundo

Another shot as I clicked along N193 from Bastia to Corte on Google Maps until I neared Corte. The graffiti says Corsica Nazione Indipendente. Monte Rotondo lies in the distance, still dusted with snow in the summer.

 

The Scented Isle ~ in photos and words ~ Caporalino

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Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE by Karen Stephen

I tapped my breaks as the first building in the tiny village came into view, a two-story house whose rear of rough, moss-covered stone lurked behind a façade of beige stucco. My gaze lingered on the checkerboard of cast stone at the point of demarcation. I felt an odd pulling sensation in my chest, as if someone was watching me from behind the white shuttered windows, each one tenderly surrounded by filigreed carvings. I imagined walking up to the oaken front door and lifting the brass knocker. The blare of a horn broke the spell and I drove on.

Caporalina house

Crawling along on Google Maps, I found this house in the village of Caporalino along N193 in Corsica and felt it was perfect as the dwelling that catches my protagonist’s eye when she first arrives on her mother’s native island.

 

The Scented Isle ~ in photos and words ~ Granite knob

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Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE by Karen Stephen

Not until I spotted a knob of granite sticking up from the valley floor like a two-hundred-foot-high thumb hitching a ride, its backside sheared off as if by a giant axe, did it strike me that Corsica, this place where my life had begun, might have a special character of its own. 

A Punta di U Diamante -U Spidali (l'Ospedale) -Corsica [Copy-protected photo by Thierry Tramoni]

A Punta di U Diamante -U Spidali (l’Ospedale) -Corsica [Copy-protected photo by Thierry Tramoni]

The American Library in Paris Book Award

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book award

Selections from the 2014 award year

I’ve just received an unexpected and most delightful invitation to submit my novel MOTHER TONGUE for the annual American Library in Paris Book Award designed for authors of fiction or non-fiction books written originally in English about France or the French-American connection. MOTHER TONGUE follows the journey of a young American child advocate attorney with Corsican roots who flees to Paris after a personal tragedy. Serving as a lingua corsa (native Corsican tongue) translator for Liberation, she finds herself caught up in another case of a missing child and uses her secret knowledge of lingua corsa to infiltrate the Corsican separatist movement to find the child and avert another tragedy. A suspense-filled French-American connection for sure. C’est moi! Wish me luck.

The winner of the Award receives a prize of $5000.00 and she is invited to Paris, with air travel and accommodation at the Library’s expense, for an award ceremony including a public reading. All nominated authors will have their books added to the permanent collection and showcased in a special display for six weeks in the fall of 2015. They will also be invited to the award ceremony and be considered for a public reading.

From their website: The American Library in Paris has attracted and celebrated writers for all of its ninety-four years. The Library was created in part as a memorial to a young American poet, Alan Seeger, who wrote the well-known poem “I have a rendezvous with death” not long before he died in action in France in 1916. One of the Library’s founding trustees was Edith Wharton. Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, among many other writers of note, contributed reviews to the Library’s literary magazine, Ex Libris. Stephen Vincent Benet composed John Brown’s Body at the Library. And authors of every generation have worked and spoken at the Library: Ford Madox Ford, Archibald MacLeish, Colette, Henry Miller, André Gide, Anaïs Nin, James Baldwin, Irwin Shaw, James Jones, and Mary McCarthy, to name a few.

Today the Library is the pre-eminent center in Paris for evening talks by prominent authors who write in English. The Library now looks to extend its commitment to outstanding writing by awarding an annual literary prize [of $5000] under the supervision of its Writer’s Council. A generous grant from the Florence Gould Foundation has allowed us to make this idea a reality.

Our_shelves_hold_over_120000_books

The collection of over 120,000 books at the American Library in Paris

The material in the Library’s collection of over 120,000 items is composed primarily of works by American and other English-language authors, and features significant holdings in American history and civilization, American literature and literary criticism, American artists, and general aspects of American culture and society. The collection is otherwise described as encyclopedic, covering all topics of knowledge.

On losing weight and buying cars…

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I know that other women get serious about losing weight when they start to salivate over a slinky new dress or want to look gorgeous for an upcoming wedding or be presentable at the beach. But not me. I think about whether I can fit into the car I want to buy. Right now I have a perfectly good KIA Optima which has plenty of room, sort of an automotive version of Not-Your-Daughter’s-Jeans. For those behind the times, NYDJ is the upscale très cher brand sold at Nordstrom’s with enough spandex woven in to bridge the gap between what size you think you are and what size you actually are.

MercedesI’ve never quite gotten over the fact that at age twenty-two, I owned a 190SL and could easily slide my then svelte body into its red leather seats and drive from San Diego to Illinois along Route 66 without a care.

Now I’m almost fifty more years down the road of life and I want a sports car again.

Honda S2000So off I went last week to look at a Honda S2000 which stopped production in 2009. It’s like a Miata’s much better-looking older sister with a tiger under the hood. I eyeballed it carefully as the salesman escorted me to the lot. Then I gingerly lifted one leg and squeezed myself into the seat. You know how bucket seats have raised edges–well, those protuberances felt like spikes sticking into my ample derriere, threatening to set off a major bout of sciatica. I extricated myself as gracefully as possible, relieved that the car’s battery was dead–my excuse for not taking a test drive. I’m sure the salesman had a momentary scary thought that he was going to have to bring in a crane.

2007_porsche_cayman_coupe_base_fq_oem_4_500But back in the showroom was a charcoal gray 2007 Porsche Cayman, with all the dangerous moves and fast-snapping speed of its namesake, the caiman alligator. It appeared roomier and I took the chance. Sliding in comfortably and with the smell of leather in my nostrils, I took to the highway. It sprang to life, although the dark tinted windows all around made me feel like I had just joined the subterranean world of drug lords. Aveline & Estelle April 2014

Price was right but the little upturned faces of my two and four-year-old granddaughters flashed before my eyes. They would want to ride in Mimi’s car but would be denied. How could that ever work!

MiniSo today I found a compromise. A brand new 2015 MINI 4-door hardtop. A entirely new model this year for those wanting easier access to the back seat without the clunky appearance of the Countryman. And in my favorite color Volcanic Orange with a black top plus a sunroof, automatic transmission and enough power, especially in Sports Mode, produced by its 2.0 Liter 4-Cylinder Engine with MINI TwinPower Turbo 189 HP engine to make you believe you’ve got your foot on the pedal of a sports car. Would have snapped it up on the spot but my daughter stepped in and brought me back to reality. I had gone in thinking I would take advantage of a real deal–but that was, of course, on the 2014 models. Isn’t it always true that you think you’ll buy the stuff of sale but see the new stuff and succumb? So although they were willing to deal, I need to wait 6 months until my lease is up on the KIA–big bucks to get out of leases early.

And, in the meantime, I can lose a few more pounds so that this smart and sassy little Volcanic Orange MINI will fit Mimi like a glove.

A icy 2002 winter in France

Gallery

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This gallery contains 21 photos.

   

These are a few of my favorite blogs…sing along!

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graham-welch-a-year-in-perigord-1
“My name is Graham Welch and I am a Francophile. This blog is a celebration of all things French – from France’s cuisine to its culture, from its people to its places. I intend to update it each day for a year, starting on 1 January 2014.”

BLOG: A YEAR IN PERIGORD

Lighting up Lyon and champagne for toasters
Cassoulet, confit, and camembert roasters
Provençal pleasures all tied up with strings
This is a blog of my favorite things.

 

jf_portraitI was born  to Irish parents living in England but spent most of my early life in Ireland. After years of teaching and traveling – everywhere but South America – i settled in Singapore and live here with my Malay family

BLOG: Johnpoetflanagan

Slums bulldozed clear as the afternoon passes
Tropical air as slow as molasses
Poetry lifting my heart with sure wings
This is a blog of my favorite things

 

cropped-dual-photo-blog-header-watermarked2Living on the French Riviera ~ Following your dream

BLOG: 24/7 in France

Matisse in Vence and Christmas in Nice
Fashions and fêtes and stuffed foie gras geese
Events and expats, and secrets of kings
This is a blog of my favorite things
~
When my drain clogs
When the sky fogs
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite blogs
And then I don’t feel so bad!

They make up…Excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE

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french colonial villaLeaving a tense encounter at the house with the oblique staircase in the wilds of Niolo, Antoine pulls up to an seemingly out-of-place and dilapidated French colonial villa, its crumbling walls stitched together with ivy. At the end of a bizarre dinner prepared by their enigmatic host and having had a few whiskeys, Liz turns flirtatious.

whiskey fire

I wanted to stay away from the sensitive areas, at least for now. With the whiskey diminishing my resolve, I tossed out a flirtatious remark. “So, confess, Antoine, is that when you developed your passion for American women?”

Scafani shifted in his chair and faced me head on. He reached and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “Passion?”

The clatter of broken pottery and muffled shrieks from the kitchen interrupted the moment. “Those poor girls,” I said, downing the last of my third glass of whiskey.

incenseWith the meal was finished, I suggested we head back to Corte. As we walked back down the darkened hallway, Scafani reached again for my arm and tucked it under his. The front room was now filled with the pungent odor of sandalwood. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me toward him. I paused a fraction of a second and then slid one hand around the back of his neck and pressed the other against his chest. Whether it was the whiskey or his obvious charm, I returned his eagerness as our kisses moved from tender to hot.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” he asked.

I jerked back to reality. “What!”

“If you really want to go back, we will. Just so you know, this is the only hotel in twenty kilometers.”

A laugh came from deep within my belly. “Do you bring all your women here?”

“Only the American ones.”

I allowed Scafani to take my hand and lead me through a door concealed in the room’s paneling. He guided me playfully up the steep staircase hidden behind, flicking his tongue over the nape of my neck on each riser.

“One bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and I’m out of here,” I said, envisioning a shabby room with dingy sheets.

beautiful-bedroom-book-candle-candles-curtain-Favim.com-47709Scafani pulled me through the first open door at the top of the landing. I let out a soft whistle when I saw a mosquito-netted four-poster bed and three squat candles aglow on the dresser. “Spontaneous combustion?”

Scafani shushed me with a single finger to my lips.

They meet…excerpt from MOTHER TONGUE

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Liz Fallon has inveigled her way to Corsica by taking a fluff assignment to cover Professor Nicoli’s announcement at the Università di Corsica Pasquale Paoli about the mysterious mazzeri and quite unexpectedly meets Antoine Scafani for the first time.

NPG Ax39646; (Frederica) Dorothy Violet (nÈe Carrington), Lady Rose by Francis GoodmanThe Professor’s voice turned tremulous. “I am currently seeking funding for an investigation to be—”

The same voice, louder and more agitated, drowned her out. “You expect the Corsican people to provide funds for this hogwash. We have more important issues to deal with. We are waging a war for independence. Several hundred voices are being raised outside these doors at this very moment. While we sit listening to fairy tales, they are out marching in solidarity for self-determination for all of us.”

flag and hillsAn even deeper male voice boomed out from the aisle. “You underestimate the importance of the Professor’s work. She is a true heroine, as much as any bearer of the Moor’s head. For decades, she has been dedicated to the preservation of our history and culture.”

mazzeri8I watched as the owner of the voice, whose words had silenced the interloper, strode toward the podium. I couldn’t see his face but the mass of dark curls dangling above a set of self-assured shoulders captured my attention. As he addressed the audience, I studied his chestnut-colored eyes and the pulsating muscles of his jaw. “Every invader from the Romans to the Visigoths to the French has tried to eradicate our spiritual beliefs—whether it is the signadoras who bring healing, or the mazzeri, who announce impending deaths. Suppressing local customs and beliefs is an invader’s way of keeping a people subjugated. Our comrades outside understand this well.”

I felt my throat go dry as the man paused and looked directly at me, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.

As another derogatory comment flew at the Professor, the man on the stage curled a protective arm around her frail shoulders and spit out a long string of expletives in lingua corsa. I twisted in my seat just in time to see the gatecrasher’s face twist in anger as he hurled back an insulting rejoinder.

linguaSuddenly, the noise of slamming of doors and rankled voices erupted from the back of the auditorium. I spun around to see a flood of protestors storming down the side aisles, their Moor’s head banners cutting through the air like scythes through ripe wheat. As I looked back to the podium, a second contingent thudded in from behind the curtains and took up a military stance across the front of the stage causing the professor’s champion to whisk her away. I muttered a few choice words of my own as the opportunity to meet the Professor and finish up my phony baloney research assignment got blown to hell.

I hadn’t given a thought to my own safety until that very moment. But as the chants of the protestors became more frenzied, I started scanning the room for camouflage clothing, masks, or gun muzzles, anything that could presage a hostage situation. I saw only Levis and passionate faces, more fervent than threatening.

flnc10Just as I let my shoulders relax, a loud bang echoed from the wings. A shot? I couldn’t tell. The audience wasn’t waiting to find out and broke for the exits. I jumped out of my own seat, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and shoved my way through the line of demonstrators filling the aisle. I was about to reach for my duffle bag when one of our placards smacked me across the cheek. The next thing I knew, a strong hand was gripping my upper arm and jerking me back against the wall. I wrenched myself free only to discover that I was being manhandled by the Professor’s defender. He scolded the man with the placard, who instantly offered up a sheepish nod of apology.

“Forgive my friend, Mademoiselle. We should be more welcoming to our English friends.”

“I’m not British.”

“Ah, American. My apologies again. Permit me to introduce myself. Antoine Scafani. Can I help you get out of here?”

LE FLNC REVENDIQUE UNE TRENTAINE D'ATTENTATS COMMIS EN CORSE AU MOIS DE MAIThe name Scafani set off alarm bells in my head. Hadn’t I just read about a man named Scafani in one of Benatar’s reports? Something about an unsolved assassination. This could turn into my first lead about Benatar and his son’s disappearance. I started to introduce myself as Lisabetta Falcucci but thought better of it. “Liz Fallon,” I finally said. “I’m here to cover the Professor’s announcement about the mazzeri.”