Source: 3 Questions Wednesday with Robin E. Mason

Writing Prompts &Thoughts & Ideas...Oh My!

Welcome to 3 Questions Wednesday! Today’s interview is with former Crew Member, Robin E. Mason.

Hi, Robin! It’s great to hear from you 🙂

Question: What inspires you?

Robin: Morning coffee. LOL Truly though, what doesn’t inspire me? Holy Spirit is my Muse, and I can find inspiration anytime, anywhere. He’s funny like that, whispers at random times, random moments.

 I guess many people would say coffee. 🙂

Just for fun–You’re a new addition to the crayon box. What color would you be and why?

Robin: Amethyst Rose. Amethyst is my birthstone and royal purple is my favorite color. My grandfather bought an amethyst ring in 1919 (!) and it’s now mine. It is a) an unusual setting, and b) a rare pink amethyst. It is my most cherished possession.

Wow. Sounds like a beautiful heirloom. 

Final Question–As a child, what did you want to be when you…

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“Exactly, Pearl.” Simone tapped her head with her finger. “You are a lady, and the degenerate rake likes ladies.”

If it were not for Scarlett and his treatment of her, I would wonder of his reputation. What I knew of his beloved first wife… Perhaps he grieved so deeply… Something was amiss, I felt it.

“Well Merc surely can’t go. He won’t acknowledge her station.” Pearl turned from the window, rubbing the chill from her arms. “And you can’t go. He thinks you’re dead.” For all her grace and etiquette Pearl sometimes had no tact.

It dawned on us all at the same moment—Simone would be the one to deliver the watch to Fontaine, precisely because he thought her dead—dressed in gray and white with ashes smeared over her face and arms—she would pose as a ghost.

We arranged a time, after Simmie’s 1:00 feeding, and I crept down the stairs. It was a new house so there were no creaky steps. My feet absorbed the plush cushion of the velvety carpet and I slipped on my old work boots on the stoop as raindrops flicked the ground.

Shrouded in a black riding cloak, Simone had donned her costume and followed me out the door. She had spent much time barefoot as a child, and the habit had carried to her adult life. I wondered for a fleeting moment did her time in the village influence her preference.

Tonight she wore no shoes.

Pearl and I both were garbed all in black, my pale hair tightly coiled beneath a black wrap. No hats, only our dresses and cloaks, both against the damp chill and to veil our presence.

Without le bébé inside me, I moved as lithely as Simone. Pearl was light on her feet, but not in the dark and not along the bank of the canal. Tonight would not be the time for her to repeat her episode and fall into the muddy water.

Pearl had sent a message to Scarlett with instruction that it be delivered directly into her hand. If Scarlett was unavailable, Tierney was to read it. Tierney was fond of Pearl and would do whatever she required, no questions asked.

The door was not only unlocked, but stood open. Not a single light flickered, and no shadows evidenced themselves; it was utter darkness. Pearl and I slipped our shoes off and tucked them in a bin by the door.

I led the way by virtue of my former status and therefore, my familiarity with the stairs and passageways as they turned and twisted. As a younger woman, I had visited with Abigail and Harley. Abby and I were dear friends still.

The stairs and hallways were something out of a medieval tale, veering off, hallways offset, alcoves with stairs that climbed upward but no corresponding steps descending. Fontaine had even specified a tower, six stories high, but the room at the top was unbearable in the summer heat. I remembered tales of someone dying in the heat in that room while locked in.

Also cloaked in black, Scarlett waited in an alcove at the end of the passage. She knew a trick to open the door without making a sound. I cast a chastising glance at her. Of all of us, she was at greatest risk. If Fontaine awoke and saw any of us other than Simone, he would have all our necks, regardless of our station or our wealth, or even that Simone had his precious watch.

I knew from talking to Scarlett that Fontaine slept alone unless he had company in his bed. His pitiful wife was abandoned to her apartments, living as much in solitude as Madame Marchand, though not of her own choosing. I knew also that he drank heavily of his whiskey of an evening till he passed out. We used this knowledge to our advantage.

Scarlett had not been part of our planning but she offered what was at once the greatest proposition and the most dangerous—Simone would ride on her shoulders giving even greater impression of a visiting specter. She carried Simone with ease.

Fontaine had an enormous bed with massive columns at the corners. The ceiling was coffered above, and heavy drapes enclosed the space. Scarlett said they were always tied back; it wasn’t cold enough in South Carolina to ever draw them closed. Pearl and I padded to the sides and loosed the ties, the drapes casting the bed and its drunken occupant in utter dark.

Next we drew the windows open, the chill breeze blustering through. My blood ran cold as Fontaine’s gravelly voice rumbled. We all held still as the statue in the square, and I wondered I didn’t faint away from holding my breath.

He muttered something about Sessy and the fire. My skin crawled.

He gargled and wheezed, then it sounded like a wild beast as he settled into slumbered snoring.

I released my breath and resisted the urge to drop to my knees in prayerful thanks.

We had brought candles, and Pearl and I now lit them, placing them on three tables between the windows, away from drapes and wind so they’d neither be extinguished nor catch the drapes ablaze, but would cast shadows with the movement of the wind. We then slid to the wall at the head of the bed and whispered hushed moans, high and plaintive.

Fontaine mumbled again, calling out for Sessy.

Then he saw her and he shrieked like Pearl had when Simone had killed a cotton mouth one summer when we had been dipping our feet in the canal. I feared his staff might awaken and come to his aid; I didn’t realize they would neither hear him nor care if they did.

He sputtered and muttered, and like the character in the Charles Dicken’s tale, begged the spirit to leave him be.

Simone raised an ash-smeared white hand and pointed at him. I couldn’t see him but imagined him to be trembling, clutching the covers to his chin. I could, however, hear his piteous whimpers and felt a fleeting sense of pity. We had banked on the man’s superstitious nature and his lack of interest in all things godly and I now felt we were taking cruel advantage. I knew because Scarlett had told me, he was deathly afraid of ghosts—and here we were perpetrating our ruse with the very thing he feared most in life.

Pearl and I increased our wailing, and so too, did Fontaine. Simone held her position, her accusing finger seeming to reach right into his soul.

When I thought the man could bear no more—truly when I thought I could bear no more—Simone pulled her hand back inside her cloak and pulled the hood over her face. I was by the windows and extinguished the candles, then dropped them to the ground below. Still moaning soft and low, Pearl and I padded to the end of the bed and released the ties at the end, then we left the room quickly and silently, slamming the door behind us and leaving Fontaine bellowing like a wounded bear.

Scarlett led us to a secret stairway and we made our hasty exit. She had said she would retrieve the candles from the ground. We took no time for friendly affection in parting but knew we’d not risk coming to see Scarlett for several days at least.

“Did you leave it?”

Even in the dark, I knew the expression on Simone’s face. “Of course I left it Pearl.”

“I know you did.” Pearl’s breath was ragged. This was the most daring thing she had done in her pampered life. “I was so scared.”

“We all were, Pearl.” I caught just the movement, and that more of a whisper of sound, but I knew Simone had taken Pearl’s hand in hers.

We walked in silence for some minutes. It was the middle of the night and the darkness was eerie, perhaps spookier because of what we had just done.

I was a woman now of seven and twenty years, a wife and mother. I was no longer the adventuresome adolescent I had once been. I made my decisions based on prayer and deliberation, not whimsy or irrational diversion. What had we just done? What were we thinking?


The southern town of Saisons lies at the crossroads between North and South, progressive and genteel antebellum life. Between East and West, between history and heritage, and new frontiers. Downton Abbey meets Gone With the Wind.


It’s 1912, in a world where slavery is dying and women’s rights are rising, and four young women who once shared a bond—and experienced a tragedy—question their own truths.


Mercedes has always been an avid reader and devours each new Sherlock Holmes mystery as soon as she gets her hands on them. When one of her friends comes to her, Mercedes vows to keep Simone’s secrets and uncover the truth.


But as Mercedes plays detective to her friends’ questions, she discovers something far more shocking—she herself is not who she thought she was.



#Blogwords, Special Edition, The Long Shadows of Summer, Excerpt, Release Feature





When artist Willow Sharpe throws herself in front of the riding lawnmower to save her fairy world from being mowed over, the landscaper thinks she’s more than a little loopy.


Clint-doesn’t-talk-much-Kirkland is fascinated by the pixie artist woman. And yet he is drawn to her.


But if opposites attract, can they find common ground and let their hearts do the talking?



This is my first read by Ms. Coryell and I’m sold. The story zings with fun and the snappy dialogue bounced. As an artist, I totally relate to Willow’s reaction to her endangered fairy scape—and her incessant chatter… And with her heart as love begins to stir. I enjoyed as Willow transferred the things of her life to her fairy character—and when she created a Clint character to go in her storyline.

Ms. Coryell has written a clever story within a story, life imitating life imitating life, love on the page… on the page. Sweet and silly and fair-ily delightful.


I received a free copy of this book, but was under no obligation to read the book or to post a review. I offer my review of my own free will. The opinions expressed in my review are my honest thoughts and reaction to this book.




USA Today bestselling author Christina Coryell was born and raised in southwest Missouri, where she lives with her husband and children. She had plenty of people tell her that her degree in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing would be useless. They were probably right. Added to her dual major in History, she became the least likely candidate for nearly every career on the planet, save being a writer. That suits her just fine.

Christina has written from the back hatch of an SUV, in a lawn chair while at soccer practice, in the front seat of her car, with kids climbing on her, and often with extremely loud noise in the background. At least half of her books have been written during baseball games.

She believes great fiction mirrors life, and great life contains a little humor, so it’s difficult not to sprinkle a little funny business throughout her work. Oh…and character is everything.
She loves hearing from readers. You can find all the ways to connect with her at www.christinacoryell.com





#Blogwords, Tuesday Reviews-Day, #TRD, Book Review, Mowed Over, Pepper Basham, Love at First Laugh




Call it summer vacation, call it too much on my plate, call it outpatient procedure interference – #NWNF is on a break this week! But keep your eyes peeled next month – exciting things are happening! New Series, New Story, Cover Reveal! Parties and prizes and free copies!


#Blogwords, New Week New Face, #NWNF, On Break, Coming in August




Some days are better than others. And I’ve had a few, shall we say, difficult ones. And right now I’m just utterly drained. There’s a quote I’ve seen / heard,


“When you can’t see His hand, trust His heart.”


Today is Saturday (late) and I crashed today. Crawl under a rock and run away kind of crashed. So weary, so tired and tired of waiting. Hope deferred… and today it hit. Hard.


So I rest in Him. I know even though I neither see nor feel Him, He’s got me. Wrapped in His love, actually. I rest in Him because I know He’ll see—no, carry me through. He is faithful and He won’t let me down. He never has.




#Blogwords, Front Porch Fellowship, #FPF, Sunday Devotion, Rest in Me,

BLOGWORDS – Thursday 3 August 2017 – CHAT THURSDAY – ON BREAK




Call it summer vacation, call it too much on my plate, call it outpatient procedure interference – Chat Thursday is on a break this week! But keep your eyes peeled this month – exciting things are happening! New Series, New Story, Cover Reveal! Parties and prizes and free copies!


#Blogwords, Chat Thursday, On Break, Coming in August

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