"A Song for New Year's Eve"

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Today is the last day of 2014. It seems not so very long ago that it was the first day of 2014. I suppose that's a sign that I'm getting old. But I don't feel it, and so let us raise a glass in toast of what has been, and what shall be.

In that vein, here's one of my favorite poems for the day. I've used it before, and I've no doubt I'll use it again. I hope you like it as much as I do.

~~~

A Song for New Year’s Eve

by William Cullen Bryant

 Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay— 

     Stay till the good old year, 

So long companion of our way, 

     Shakes hands, and leaves us here. 

          Oh stay, oh stay, 

One little hour, and then away.

The year, whose hopes were high and strong, 

     Has now no hopes to wake; 

Yet one hour more of jest and song 

     For his familiar sake. 

          Oh stay, oh stay, 

One mirthful hour, and then away.  

The kindly year, his liberal hands 

     Have lavished all his store. 

And shall we turn from where he stands, 

     Because he gives no more? 

          Oh stay, oh stay, 

One grateful hour, and then away.  

Days brightly came and calmly went, 

     While yet he was our guest; 

How cheerfully the week was spent! 

     How sweet the seventh day’s rest! 

          Oh stay, oh stay, 

One golden hour, and then away.  

Dear friends were with us, some who sleep 

     Beneath the coffin-lid: 

What pleasant memories we keep 

     Of all they said and did! 

          Oh stay, oh stay, 

One tender hour, and then away.  

Even while we sing, he smiles his last, 

     And leaves our sphere behind. 

The good old year is with the past; 

     Oh be the new as kind! 

          Oh stay, oh stay, 

One parting strain, and then away.

~~~

And the hours count down...

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

ANNOUNCEMENT: A Downturn for Social Media

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Guys, it looks like at the first of the year, I will have to close down all the Facebook fan pages for my books, as well as probably the fan clue group and possibly Lady Osborn's Pub. Reason: Facebook has decided to squeeze us small business peoples dry and will charge for, per my understanding...Every. Single. Post. I make that can **in any way** be considered promotional. This includes simply announcing a new book.

As it's also my understanding that Google is looking to follow, that excludes transferring to G+ as well as Blogspot, where I have my blog. It may be only a matter of time before other social media such as Twitter follow suit.

Here's what the Wall Street Journal has to say about it.

If you are interested at all in hearing about my new books, awards, sales, upcoming appearances, and the like, I'm going to ask you to please go to the link below and subscribe to my newsletter. I try to issue a newsletter no more than once a month, sometimes once every couple of months; now and again important news will urge me to send out a quick bulletin, but that's infrequent.

Subscribe to my email newsletter by emailing me at steph-osborn@sff.net please.

I'm really very sorry about the whole mess; I rather liked being able to put out quick, timely notifications of what was going on in my publishing world. But there it is, and now I must look to see what else can be done. I expect you will be seeing much less of me on social media after the first of the year, and this blog is likely to be moving soon, as well. Meanwhile, after the first of the year, this blog will go on a brief hiatus while I decide what to do about it.

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Merry Christmas

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com


I've worn a lot of various hats in my time. Scientist (of different sorts), rocket scientist, polymath, police officer, personal trainer, storm spotter, author, among others. But one of the most important, at least to me, is licensed minister.

"What?" you ask. "How can that be? Didn't you just say you were a scientist?"

That's right, I did. 

But to me, science and theology are the obverse and reverse of the same coin. One attempts to explain how, and the other tries to say why.

And so Christmastide is one of my favorite times of year. I quite know that Jesus wasn't BORN this time of year. But did you know that, according to the various astronomical data we are given (and there's more than you might think), it is entirely possible that the Magi ARRIVED at this time of year?

And I think that's just...cool.

~~~

8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.~Luke 2:8-14, KJV

~~~

"That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown." ~"Linus," A Charlie Brown Christmas, Charles Shultz

"God bless us, every one!" ~"Tiny Tim," A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

And so be it -- this year, and every year.

-Stephanie Osborn

http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Holiday Memories

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

The following is taken from my collection of poetry, and is a melange of Christmas memories throughout my life, from childhood to the present day. It is warm and sweet and comforting, like hot chocolate on a winter's day. Merry Christmas.

~~~

The Tree

by Stephanie Osborn

excerpted from Stolen Moments: A Book of Verse, by Stephanie Osborn

The wind blows briskly through the bare tree limbs.

It bites my cheeks, turning them a dusky red.

The lowering clouds spit snowflakes.

We make our way through the harvested field

Brown and sere, toward the clump of trees near the edge.

Cedar trees grow here. Thickly clustered

On the hillside, they are the only green visible

For miles. We circle each one carefully, inspecting

And commenting to each other about this one

Or that. Finally, it is done. The choice is made.

Father glances at Mother. "Are you sure?"

A nod, and he raises the axe. In a few strokes

The living tree has fallen, the scent of cedar

Borne to our nostrils on the crisp December air.

We breathe deep the fragrance of evergreen.

At home, measurements are carefully made

And Father trims the base of the tree,

affixes the stand, and brings it inside.

We oooh and aaah with excitement

Before Mother opens the ornament box.

Fairy lights and tinsel, snowballs and mercury glass

And garland ropes, antique balls and strands

Of silver bedeck the tree in quick order. Each

Of us has his or her apportioned task, and even

The youngest has a special ornament for the tree.

The oldest ornaments, the family reserves for me

To place carefully. They know my love for them

And know I treat them as the treasures they are.

Delicately, I position them on each branch, and smile.

"There," I decide, "perfect. It's all done."

Mother nods, and Father smiles. He switches off

The room lights, and we all sigh with happiness.

Glimmering proud, the tree stands as a symbol

Of love, of family, of tradition, of faith. The room

Grows quiet, as we all settle back to enjoy.

 

Later, the gaily-wrapped gifts will emerge to be

Placed beneath the decorated boughs and enjoy

Their rightful place. For now, the cat slinks her way

Underneath, finds a spot where she can gaze up

Into the multicolored phantasia, and settles down.

Outside, the snow comes down softly. Father

Lights a fire in the fireplace. Mother gets out

The homemade candies and puts them nearby. There is

The sound of mirth, soft laughter, loving conversation.

The season has come to us. Happy Christmas.

~~~

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night." ~Clement Clarke Moore

-Stephanie Osborn

Christmas Eve 2014

http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: The Ariadne Connection, A Guest Blog by Sara Stamey

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

SURPRISE! This book isn't quiiiiiite ready for a holiday gift just yet! This is a sneak peek at the upcoming book by Sara Stamey, The Ariadne Connection! Here's what Sara has to say:

"I’m excited to announce my new near-future thriller, to be published in print and ebook by Book View Café in March 2015. The Ariadne Connection follows a young Greek scientist experimenting with a cure for the New Plague pandemic, who discovers she’s actually healing plague victims with her touch. Dubbed “Saint Ariadne,” she’s pursued by violent factions out to claim her secret, and must rely on a jaded American smuggler to escape pursuit and visit ancient sacred sites to explore the source of her disconcerting gift."
~Sara Stamey

Now let's read a short excerpt!

~~~

“Final warning to the boat bearing Ariadne Demodakis. Last chance to surrender, or—” The radio cut out into static.

“Peter, we can go through the Hot Zone. They won’t follow us. And I can cure us of radiation exposure—my experiments have reversed cellular damage.”

“Damn!” Peter jerked the wheel, swerving around a barely-submerged rock reef. He cut back the throttles and checked radar, then spared her a glance, bracing himself against the lure of her eyes, clear blue with those purple glimmering depths. Or was that just in his own eyes, like the Cherenkov’s radiation? “Look, maybe you’re a genius or a saint or maybe we’re out of our minds, but I don’t care if you can make the dead rise, I’m not taking us into the heart of this Hot Zone.”

Whoompf. A missile struck just to port, throwing them sideways in a thrashing surge. Adrenaline slicing, Peter rode it, boat nearly swamping.

Whine of another missile, striking the islet he was weaving past, spraying rock shrapnel. “Duck!” Ahead of them, a channel opened up the only escape, Ariadne jabbing her finger toward it.

“Okay, hang on.” He blew out a breath. “We’re going in.”

He wrenched the wheel, and Nereid flew into the angled passage, island blocking off his view of the mercenary hydrofoil, taking them out of radar range. He cut speed, looked back again. Waited.

“Phew.” Dicey little skirmish. And he hadn’t even winged the hydrofoil. Would his client cough up for expenses on top? Re-arming on the black market would be pricey.... Just better hope they didn’t run into any more action before they made Crete.

“They are no longer following.” Ariadne had straightened, raking the hair off her face to peer back over the stern.

“They’ll be waiting for us to turn back.” He swallowed and gestured with his chin.

She turned to look. “Oh.”

The narrow cut between islands opened out into a natural harbor sheltered by the high cliffs now blasted into a lifeless moonscape. Twisted, blackened masses—most unrecognizable as former pieces of ships and a nuclear sub—were scattered over the rock slopes. A jagged thirty-foot length of twisted metal was imbedded in the cliff face to starboard. Sharp spires and melted blobs hulked out of the water, making the bay into a bizarre obstacle course. Gray ash drifted in the breeze off the lifeless islands.

“Here. Cover your nose and mouth.” Peter handed Ariadne his bandanna, then pulled up his T-shirt to cover his own lower face. He cut the engines way back, edging cautiously forward to grope out a passage.

Through the crystal-clear water as they passed over some shallows and more sunken wreckage, he could see them etched sharply: scattered, broken fuel rods. The sea shimmered a harsh radiant blue.

“Hellfire and damnation….” he whispered.

Beside him, Ariadne stirred, then laid her hand on his bare arm. He turned to look into the steady, deep blue of her eyes. The color wasn’t at all like that sizzling virulent Cherenkov’s.

“Holy shit!” Leeza scrambled up from her huddled crouch on the deck, camera-goggles craning back and forth. The reporter stepped forward, jerked back, then lured by her big story she scurried forward to the rail. She aimed the goggles over the side, into the shimmering blue glow of radiation. “Subliminal....”

~~~

Cool, huh?

And here is the complete book cover "flat"!

Be sure to reserve your copy asap!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com