Monthly Archives: July 2014

Prologue to my book, In-Between Reflections


The first book I wrote on my newly gifted laptop is an almost 52,000 word novel entitled “In-Between Reflections”.  I am sharing the prologue with you here in the hopes that you will like what you read.  First read the synopsis and then the prologue.  Please feel free to comment.

QUICKIE SYNOPSIS: Elizabeth Pickett Sloan dies peacefully at the age of 96 in the family mansion. The last of her line, Elizabeth leaves her estate and mansion to the town of Bigby, Tennessee for the purpose of establishing a Bed and Breakfast (B and B). Laura Dole, a recently widowed 37-year-old, is hired to supervise renovations to the old house and manage the B and B. She moves in along with her 14-year-old daughter, Cassie, and 7-year-old daughter, Steph.

Elizabeth’s presence remains in the house. Although she likes these people, she is disturbed by the overwhelming sadness they bring to her house. In an effort to restore her home to the happy place it has always been, Elizabeth visits each member of this new family. They are unaware they are being visited by a ghost.

She visits 7-year-old Steph as her own 7-year-old self, 14-year-old Cassie as her own 14-year-old self, and 37-year-old Laura … well, you get the idea.

The premise of the novel is … a 96-year-old woman has been many people throughout her long life, and the lessons she has learned along the way are worthy of sharing.


Dead should be dark. I always imagined that the state of deadness would initially be dark. Since I have explored all other possibilities, I surmise that I am dead. Not having had prior experience with the state of deadness, I could be wrong. If it turns out that I am correctly dead, I promise you that it is not dark.

I take a breath and nothing happens. I mean, nothing happens. I do not feel myself breathing. I do not feel myself at all. The air is loose and the space around me ripples like water after a pebble has been tossed. I do not see myself. I hold out my hand … there is only a wraithlike manifestation, which I find fascinating. I am not afraid. I am allusion and mystery. I feel warm and gentle palpitations – consoling and reassuring sensations as though the environment welcomes my presence. I have no pain. I peer through a fine haze or mist at my surroundings. I am in a large house. I have always lived in this house. It is familiar and very dear.  

I wish to touch my surroundings, but it is as though surfaces are shielded by some energy source; an electrical sensation shimmies up my arm. I am enveloped by whispers. A susurrus of voices belonging to men, women, and children I know I should acknowledge and recognize. People I know intuitively I have cherished and gone without. I move through the space which surrounds me, and the whisperers become disturbed and tangled together. I cease my attempts at movement, and the whisperers settle like butterflies temporarily disturbed from their posts.

As I adjust to my new mystifying reality, I move throughout the large house. I pass by mirrors and strain to see my reflection in each. Each time I pause, the whisperers settle. I peer into the glass, and I am not there. I am in a lovely room. There is a piano and many books. This is a place of sanctuary. This was a safe haven for my living self. Of this, I am certain. Mirrors cover one entire wall. So eager am I to recover my reflection, I try to merge with the glass. I am like Peter Pan … in desperate search for his shadow. I am unable to penetrate the glass. The mirrors do not contain my reflection. The mirrors do not lead me to the place of the whisperers.

I turn around and around as though a ballerina in a whirling pirouette. The whisperers rise and fall in cadence.

I do not remember myself. I search within the depths to recover my name … to recover my reflection … my sense of self.

I am Elizabeth … Somebody … surely  I … was … somebody …

I do not wish to be alone here in this curiously not-dark place; therefore, I shall converse with you … whoever you are.