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I am a creative and wildly romantic girly girl who loves poetry, writing, theater, ballet, antiquities, Shabby Chic, Lord of the Rings, the St. Louis Rams, renaissance festivals (and jousting). I enjoy science fiction, probing into the deep, dark mysteries of black holes, Jewish mysticism, time travel, building sandcastles on the beach while watching an octopus escape from a sealed jar...my favorite pet..., observing a ladybug explore the complexities of a rose, and picnics on Morrow Mountain. Also, romantic interludes in Missy's cave. I graduated from the University of South Florida... English degree. I am a freelance magazine and newspaper writer whose numerous publications have appeared in Country Almanac, The Forum, and the Fayetteville Observer. I have received several awards for my essays and educational exhibitions in Marine Biology, and for a French children's book... was also the Senior Writer/Consultant for a children's television workshop series and was Senior Writer/Editor for a small publishing company. I was an At-Large Executive Committee Member for a worldwide organization for three years and wrote/edited recovery books, pamphlets, and magazine articles. I own a company entitled, The Final Draft and I am writing a fairy tale... regarding a princess and a thorn bush. His words were poison ... meaningless garble, spoken in haste ... without remorse, without restraint, without sincere intent, without endearing sentiment. And, what of betrayal? And, Sirens, who, with their melodious ballads, inveigle wanton hearts into the ocean deep? Or, fallen knights whose tarnished swords plunge unmercifully into the hearts of unsuspecting fools? It was folly to believe she was ever loved, ever truly desired. Blinded by fairy dust (a substance created from one's promises, wishes, and dreams), she now dwells in a castle, long abandoned by a crownless king. Vanquished, she will live out the days of her useless, unkempt life in ruin ... her hope waning with the setting of the sun. Once again, the little thorn bush was afflicted with overwhelming sadness. Oftentimes, he would envision himself as the gallant, chivalrous, and vermillion princes-feather engaging in a pas de deux with his beautiful Princess. As her carmine lips softly kissed his feathered-cheek, he would quaver, and reappear, anew, as an ugly thorn bush. Frightened, she would blench, and run away. Everyday, he would wish upon every star in the vast heavens for the ability to produce a flower. He so wanted to be beautiful, alike the icy-petaled narcissuses with their crystal scents, and the exotic orchids with their unprecedented pigmentation, or the fragile camellias whose concentric petals might have been drawn by a compass. As he pondered his unlikely chances of ever being chosen for the princesss bouquet, he began to weep and his tears moistened his thorns, aggrandizing their appearance. In helpless agony, he cried out bitterly, "If anyone is listening, please, oh please, just let me be anyone but myself!" Within the shadowy, convoluted recesses of his consciousness, Terry felt a penetrating epiphany. Her delicate, tender countenance had incited a curious, resolute passion. As if interwoven in an elaborate tapestry from a past incarnation, her heart had transcended earthly perimeters of breadth and time, and, as though awakening from an ephemeral dream, whispered to his forlorn soul as she had once whispered eons ago. He loved her deeply, immeasurably, enmeshed eternally within the billowy creases of her elysian essences. As he peered uneasily through the moon-illumined palaces gates, whose ornate ironwork shimmered like glossy pebbles alongside a babbling brook, Terry whispered wistfully, "Only if..." During tomorrows Imperial Ball, his beloved Rose, known to him forever as, Mary, would choose a marriage partner and they would both live happily ever after. Unfortunately, Terry did not believe in fairy tales. Fairy tales only existed in the hearts of rosy children, he concluded sadly, after prolonged suffering and heartache, and beautiful princesses almost always married dashing, handsome princes who were descended from wealthy, eminent families. Besides, Queen Margaret would never condone a marriage between her aristocratic daughter and an uneducated, penniless gardeners son from the Netherlands. Only if he were in possession of the glass flower... perhaps, then, she would agree to be his bride. Sunrise was approaching and Brian needed a miracle. Where would he possibly discover such a rare, exquisite flower? With a discontented sigh, he repeated again, "Only if fairy tales existed." The little thorn bush, who had overheard Terry's mournful soliloquy, begin to weep. He, too, often wondered if fairy tales and happy endings truly existed. But, unlike Terry, whom he loved dearly, the little thorn bush wholeheartedly embraced life and believed in the restorative powers of love... the most precious gem in a hearts quarry. Miracles were not generated by external stimuli; they were conceived within the veins and arteries of one's heart. By loving one's self, the heart became nourished, thereby enabling its expansion to love others. At long last, the little thorn bush finally accepted himself, thorns and all, and love began to bloom. Within the deepest recesses of his soul, he felt a powerful, almost overwhelming physical sensation. His tiny thorns quivered and several leaves sprouted forth. Soon, an enormous bud appeared, and through a long and painstaking process which lasted nearly until sunrise, the little thorn bush, ineluctably, created a flower! The morning sun was dazzling bright. It's silverly aureole rippled through the strewen clouds in patterned guise the way gilded silver needlework ripples through French alencon lace chemise. Tiny, iridescent water droplets from an earlier cloudburst lingered momentarily on the crimson silken curves of the tomato and the purple satin skin of the eggplant. Poised aloft Jacobs ladder in blue, the unswerving shepherds purses pledged their abiding love to the comely fair-maids of France; the dainty, delicate lady slippers performed an indelible minuet with the sweet williams; and the golden sunflowers turned to crown the sun. After laboring most of the nightfall, the little thorn bush, yawned, and augustly extended his newly-formed petals, whose argent coloration surpassed the pulchritude of any angels feather and whose redolent essences waned gracefully over the halcyon Kingdom. Quite contented and most excited, he announced immodestly, "Look at me! Aren't I handsome!" Even Queen Margaret, who was sedulously organizing preparations for the upcoming events, remarked curiously to her lady-in-waiting, "My, how extraordinarily fragrant and lovely the morning breeze seems today!" Mid-morning. Rose was pleasantly awakened by the stentorian trumpeting of the icy-white morning glories in a paradoxical aubade with the dulcet warbling of heaven-bound birdies, kelly green Ireland bells, and pellucid, cerulean bluebells. Slipping on her cambric morning gown, she hastened to the garden, waving a lackadaisical farewell to her Mother who was, once again, quarreling with the Chef over the hors doeuvres.As she entered the garden, the snowy-white gardenias lifted their quiescent heads and laughed joyously; dazzling butterflies, whose gossamer wings elude the human eyes, flirted ostentatiously with whimsical, florid tulips; raven-black orchids peered curiously through misty, greenhouse panels; and ruffly, petalous hydrangeas fluttered peacock blue blossoms in mimicry of butterflies in flush. In celebration of Rose's eighteenth birthday, and en regle, each flower bowed or curtsied. Even the haughty irises, who never succumbed to anyone, imparted their grandest gestures to the reverent Princess. Upon completing a picturesque pirouette, Rose wholeheartedly embraced a sumptuous bouquet of pearly-white and amethyst-tinted lilacs, becoming thoroughly intoxicated while inhaling their deliciously-sweet attar. As though guided by the sweet, feathery wisp of an Angel's breath, each frothy, confectionery blossom coqueted momentarily with the wind, then gracefully interlaced themselves within the silky, golden threads of her unraveled hair. In her coqueting revelry and comporting as though she were the Guest of Honor at a grand affair, the blithesome Princess curtsied and consorted with each radiant blossom. Emulating a Prima ballerina, she lifted up her lacey hemline, and while En Pointe, performed a pas de bourree betwixt the jack-in-the-pulpits, peonies, hyacinths, and impatiens. Even the narcissistic daffodil, who was hopelessly enraptured by his own image in the palaces cascading fountain, glanced momentarily in the Princesss direction and laughed delightedly. With a graceful bow, the flowers merrily replied, "How do you do, Princess Rose?" "Very well, thank you," she replied, happily, while braiding her thick, lavish locks. "Such a fine, lovely morning, wouldn't you agree?" "Oh yes, indeed!" they cried eagerly. "But not nearly as fine and lovely as you!" "Oh, flattery will get you everywhere!" returned the Princess, laughing, while kneeling to kiss one of the hyacinths silvery-pink petals. Blushing, he murmured dreamily, "I'll never wash this petal again." As if enchanted by a charismatic spell, several amorous flowers subsequently unfolded their petals, eagerly awaiting a coveted kiss from their enamored Princess. Cloaked in argent robes befitting a King, the little thorn bush had become increasingly impatient. By evenfall, he had produced twelve flowers and greatly desired an aficionado. Because he loved the Princess, he wanted her to be happy. In his radiant magnanimity, he had become willing to offer Princess Rose his finest possession, the quintessential core of his existence... his magnificent flowers.Upon aromatic winds her sweet essence flowed Breathing purpose into my senses As I slowly inhaled her sweetest fragrance.Slideshow
In loving memory of Terry Preston Shiver.
Guest Book for Terry Shiver – Online Guest Book by Fayetteville Observer and Legacy.com.
http://www.legacy.com/gb2/default.aspx?bookID=7443...
Guest Book for Terry Shiver – Online Guest Book by Fayetteville Observer and Legacy.com.