Rebecca's PenThe creative works of R.E.W.

About R.E.W

I am author, artist, history buff, wishing to share these three passions of mine with anyone who cares to read this blog. The main drive between these three deep interests of mine is imagination.

History isn't just people and events in a dusty book. Writing isn't just words in a tome. Art isn't just random images in a photograph, sketch or painting. I'll give you examples of what they really are.

There has been a long, long hiatus in the posting on this blog. But no more of that–I don’t do New Year Resolutions but I’ll call this list of aims for 2012!

  • Post much, much more frequently on this blog
  • Write every day!!!!!!! 😀 (if possible)
  • Draw frequently (every day, maybe)
  • Read the Bible all the way through
  • Delve into photography
  • Read every book on my book list (coming up)!
  • Finish One Year Adventure Novel
  • Finish the rough draft of Strong Hearts (to be spoken of soon)
  • Finish the rough draft of To Seek, To Find
  • Finish the rough draft of The Professor

The list extends but I’ll leave of right here. I’m filled with a burning enthusiasm to face this upcoming year–a feverish excitement and anticipation to see what I will learn, how I will grow, how the Lord will mold me in the days and weeks and months ahead. Christmastime was splendid–beautiful, sweet, and the memory of it one I will always hold close to my heart.

Here’s a sneak peek of the various stories I’m writing–little scene clips:

Julian asked to walk with Diana around the orchard, and she nodded with gravity, pensive and quiet.

They climbed down from the oak and followed the path that wound through the shadowy grove at the top of the crest behind the house, watched as the sun-luminance slowly diminished, watched the lavender, rose-pink, and orange-topaz gather in a nosegay of hues over in the western skies. The branches shook, their leaves turning delicately with the gusts of air that swept past in soft breaths. Diana, subdued, slipped along through the grass, mind someplace in the hills, in a sea of wonder and aesthetic ecstasy. It tamed her turbulent thoughts, stilled her mind so she could move without the rigidity of one in a black fervor. Roses and goldenrod abloom . . . Diana worshipped the beauty, concentrated on it with remote desperation . . . wished for the morning and for its star—the sparkle of Venus in the purple-gray sky. “My star,” she thought, “My sister star.”

The moon appeared on an eastern crest, lustrous orb, its silver slanting in through the overhead boughs, patches of that brilliant white color speckling the grass. Diana raised her eyes to it, catching glimpses of it through the trees.  Forsooth, she had always felt herself to belong to it—had always fondly fancied herself the goddess of the moon, like myths of yore claimed. Once upon a youth she had dreamed herself to be born in it, had sailed down the Broad River and drifted ashore, taken in by a mother wolf, nursed and weaned, then adopted by this human family. Somehow she couldn’t imagine herself to have been born at Oak Orchard. It seemed almost . . . impossible. Or at least, she didn’t belong there fully. It had always been so, though Diana had never told anyone this. Julian picked a mayflower from their bed on the grassy hillside of the Fir Mount, gave it to her . . . Diana slipped it into the folds of her glossy hair.

Julian didn’t want to ever forget these sweet moments, with Diana standing there before him, nymph-like, clad in light muslin—a thing of mist and dusk—the starry blossom luminous against her dark head . . . so sweet and mystical. He wanted to read her expression, to tell her what he thought of her—he never had before, had never dared to. But how he yearned to!

Diana knew Julian was looking at her . . . knew uncomfortably how he looked at her. His eyes always seemed to say something his mouth never did—she had seen him regard her thus so, once, that terrible night years before . . . the night she had seen him as no longer the boy but suddenly a tall, grave, determined man.

Diana said something about returning to the house, to ready herself for Peg. She wouldn’t remain a moment longer. She abruptly started to walk back through the orchard, Julian falling alongside her in pace, she disregarding him cleverly.


She went on till she had reached the gate and had safely passed through it before turning to respond.

Julian hesitated, but then boldly asked, “May I come by to-night, while Peg and Hadley are still here?”

Her shoulders rose and fell the motion scarcely visible. Diana compressed her lips. “Oh, I don’t know . . .” she said faintly, “’Tis no matter;”

Julian’s hand came close to hers resting upon the split-log fence—dangerously close. He gazed at her for long silent moments filled with nothing save the chirping, droning cicadas and the mockingbird singing somewhere in the bush. It ended when the sound of carriage wheels reached them. Diana started, turned her head, stepping away, and then vanishing in the shadows of the garden as she returned to the house. Julian heard a door open and shut, and let out a long, deep sigh . . . he removed his coat due to the night’s warmth, trudged away into the dims of evening.

Strong Hearts © R. E. Williams



He sank down onto his couch, wondering what he had to live for. There were days like this when he had a sallow sense deep down, when even the blue sky looked gray, when his life had no outlook . . . when he sat lost and alone in this little house in a small town in Texas—with no family to speak of around.

He stood up abruptly and walked over to the window, gazed out at his small backyard with Atticus stretched out in the shade of the single oak tree—flicking his white-tipped tail with a languid air. Hilary thought idly that cats had it easy. They had it far too easy—no care at all in the world—Atticus’ world revolved around these naps of his, and his slipping round seeking some place to lie down. Why couldn’t it be that way—couldn’t it be?—Hilary wondered, had he missed it? Missed out on a life that his father had outstretched to him that last night before graduation—the night everything had divided. A chasm stretched out between Hilary and his father. A deep, black chasm he knew he could not cross ever; not for a thousand years. A thousand years from now perhaps some of his father’s bitterness would be worn off.

But now?—Hilary was Professor Pat, and would be always. An old, lonely teacher with nothing much to live for but history itself. The past had always been fascinating but now it was straight and flat—no mystery to it, none of the former wholesomeness that used to impassion Hilary with joy at having chosen it for his profession. It had seemed pleasurable, perfect—just perfect. He shivered slightly and walked into his little kitchen. The old absorption seemed absent just now. And politics were . . . glamorous. He couldn’t make it out. Hilary hadn’t wanted a part in it. Somehow, even though his dad was a senator, it had seemed too sensational. But what did teaching have in it? Oh, it wasn’t vulgar—but it was . . . he couldn’t bring himself to think the word—monotonous. Was it?

The Professor © R. E. Williams


I could not remain a moment longer; for we heard the cannons in the distance, the roar of muskets, the cracks of rifles . . . it was all over.  I could not stay, and knowing this swayed me like a storm gale.  Standing on the ridge, with the trees rising up all around, my eyes could not leave the quiet house down in the dell, with the tall pines and oaks towering over it, the yard empty and soundless.  That little house which had once been so full of life…now abandoned.  The Yankees would have it, they would burn it; they would pierce its shingle roof, would put their bullets in the front oaken door, would bereft it of every piece of furniture and then . . . burn it.  The thought scourged my heart, sending an ice-cold chill running ‘long my back and neck.  But I had to go.  And so I ran away from the home of my childhood, the very home that I had been born in, Mama had given birth to Jess, Will and Tom there too.  Now, it would be the ashes that the night winds would scatter over the woodland greens, over the firs and little forest meadows.  One last time I turned, high above the valley now, on the hillside of one of the Blue Ridge.  I had been running for a while, but from here I could only faintly see the outline of the house through the trees.  “Goodbye,” I murmured, the word falling like a stone upon my soul.

Against the Wind (OYAN) © R. E. Williams








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2 Responses to At last . . .

  1. Dan says:

    Forsooth, verily, I liketh thy style!

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