In addition to my novella A Christmas Canticle--my homage to Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol--being rereleased this season in both Kindle and paperback on Amazon, I've also written a little song for you as a gift.

It's called The Days of Christmas.
 
On the first day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
an alien anal probing!
 
On the second day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
2 ativan and an alien anal probing!
 
On the third day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
9 spiders spinning, 8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
10 saucer sightings, 9 spiders spinning, 8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
11 inch-tall figures, 10 saucer sightings, 9 spiders spinning, 8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gifted me:
12 fresh-baked cookies, 11 inch-tall figures, 10 saucer sightings, 9 spiders spinning, 8 bars of chocolate, 7 fish in fishbowls, 6 mice with fig bars, 5 crooked cakes, 4 wine boxes, 3 blue balls, 2 ativan, and an alien anal probing!
 
On the thirteenth day of Christmas because twelve were not enough:
I moved without a forwarding address!


Did you enjoy my song?
You're so very welcome! And remember, tell everyone you know about my novella A Christmas Canticle available on Kindle and in paperback on Amazon, please and thank you!

My holiday novella has just been re-released in a new edition. To set this second edition apart from the first, because I love the cover so much I decided to use it again, I've chosen a matte finish as opposed to the glossy of the previous edition and this time around the pages are cream rather than white. Instead of 1.5 spacing, I did single spacing and that allowed me to add some additional details to the story and keep A Christmas Canticle at a slender 102 pages, and that allowed the price to be reduced to $5.99--perfect for jingle gifts or as stocking stuffers!

Many thanks to my friend and designer Laura Meese for working with me to alter the cover for my novella. !

This is the review for my holiday tale A Christmas Canticle from A Grave Interest website.

A Christmas Canticle is available on Amazon.com in both kindle and paperback.

Book Review: A Christmas Canticle by Frank E. Bittinger

For those of us who love a good ghost story, no matter what time of year it is, Frank E. Bittinger provides a fun holiday read with A Christmas Canticle.

Channeling Charles Dickens' novella A Christmas Carol for inspiration, Bittinger gives us his version of Ebenezer Scrooge - Bronson Ghostley, a demanding gothic horror author, paranormal television star, and all-around media personality who has no time for sentiment or holidays.

This twist on the familiar holiday tale has been up-dated to the 21st century complete with cell phones, DVDs and the internet. Although the story is predictable as to the purpose of the visiting spirits (And how could it not be?), Bittinger leads us along with enough interesting details that we accept Ghostley as a modern-day Scrooge.

His spin on Marley’s ghost is unique and interesting, especially when you begin to understand the backstory of Ghostley’s childhood. The Ghost of Christmas Past has a unique vision, offering Ghostley “two sides of the same coin.”

The Spirit of Christmas Present provides more illumination into what makes Ghostley tick, reminding him, and us, that “even when we can see, sometimes we are still blind.”

The final spirit, the dreaded Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, is a “real bite in the ass” according to Ghostley. But the death coach that propels Ghostley into the future does seem pretty cool!

All in all, A Christmas Canticle is an enjoyable holiday read offering a message that transcends religious ideology and simply asks that we treat our fellow man, woman, and the animals, with respect and caring.

[The Youngblood’s 1960s song Get Together kept running through my mind as the perfect soundtrack for this book:
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now]

The Author and A Friend
Bittinger originally wrote his book as a Kindle exclusive to raise money for animals in need.  Now available in paperback, a portion of the royalties from A Christmas Canticle are used to assist in rescuing and caring for animals that have been abused and neglected. So go ahead, order the book and enjoy the guilty pleasure of reading a rejuvenated Christmas novella by the fire knowing that you're helping to save lives, too.

A Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good read!

~ Joy


About the Author:
Over the centuries, Frank Bittinger has experienced many existences. In this incarnation, Mr. Bittinger is a vegan who lives and writes in Western Maryland, sharing his home with a menagerie of pets, several alternate personalities, and the occasional ghost. One of his favorite pastimes is taking walks in old cemeteries in the evening. Ancient Egypt holds a fascination for him; he has a scarab beetle tattoo between his shoulder blades as well as a collection of Egyptian items and books in his deep, dark red bedroom. Learn more about the author at his web site: http://www.frankebittinger.com


Book Details:
A Christmas Canticle by Frank E. Bittinger
Published and available at  Amazon   (2014)

            This is Sker House.
            Welcome.
            Dale and Lucy come to the centuries-old, four-story mansion that has been converted into an inn in South Wales to investigate the rumors of paranormal happenings.
            Machen, the present owner, has forbidden Dale and Lucy from investigating the final floor, using the excuse the renovations were never completed.
            Things go bump in the night. Lucy senses things Champ, the old German shepherd, probably sees, and soon she is sleepwalking around upstairs on the fourth floor.
            Is it the Maid of Sker lurking about and staring out windows on the fourth floor?
            There is something about the fourth floor.
            And perhaps something else hidden away deeper within.
            Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.
            Welcome to Sker House, where even the ground is poisoned and nothing but the most stubborn of weeds will flourish. But there is a mysterious walled garden. Or is there? Perhaps that’s one of the secrets Sker House intends to keep.
            The key to everything is within reach.
            And then a storm blows in from the sea and the power goes out, and confessions are made, history revealed, and secrets unveiled inside the old mansion.
            Magic may be forgotten over time, but time does nothing to dilute it.
            The past will always come back to haunt you.
            The desolate, claustrophobic feel of Sker House is enjoyable to those of us who like our ghost stories full of cold drafts, shadows, and faces in windows. It’s a different but familiar tale, an homage to the classic ghost tales, and that’s a great thing.
            And it’s more.
            Sometimes what happened in the past has dire repercussions in the present.
            I enjoyed every eerie page.
            Consider this your invitation to Sker House. Come and experience it for yourself.

Welcome back, all you readers out there in the dark.
I've come to let you know about my latest offering. Rhayven House is available on Amazon.com!
You know how I love ghost stories and tales of haunted houses.

My fantastic friend and graphic designer Laura Meese created the wrap-around cover. I think it's awesome.
And the story could very well be my favorite so far!
Pass it along and tell everyone you know, please and thank you!

Rhayven House:
The old house literally captured his attention with a flash of light, almost as if it had intentionally signaled him.

Ian Harket knew he wanted it as soon as he laid his eyes upon it, regardless of how much work needed to be done.

Even before he actually moved into the house, some odd, unexplainable things happened.

After he moved in, he began to really experience the strangeness for himself, and he got the distinct feeling the presence in the house did not want him there.

For all those military and law enforcement personnel
—men, women, and animals--
—past, present, and future--
who work so hard to make the world safe
and to protect me.



 “If HGTV’s Fixer Upper merged with SyFy’s Ghost Hunters, it wouldn’t be nearly as good as Rhayven House! Readers will love the chills (including an inexplicably icy doorknob), the surprises, the uncovering of secrets, and the hero, Ian. It's a touch of Grand Guignol. To paraphrase Poe, 'Quoth the raven—buy this book!'”
                                                                                                    --Savannah Russe, USA Today Bestselling Author

By Edgar Allan Poe, this is perhaps my favorite piece of poetry. It's very vivid in its imagery. First published in 1845, Poe made several revisions over the the years, small ones, and these revisions are evident in the various published forms of the poem. I read it to myself as I lay on his original resting spot in Baltimore, MD, on 19 September 2015 when I visited.

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore --
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door --
  Only this and nothing more.”


Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore --
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
  Nameless here for evermore.


And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
   This it is and nothing more.”


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” — here I opened wide the door; —--
    Darkness there and nothing more.


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” --
Merely this and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
 ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
   Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
   With such name as “Nevermore.”


But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
  Then the bird said “Nevermore.”


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
   Of ‘Never — nevermore’.”


But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
   Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
  Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! --
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore --
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting --
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”


And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!



If you would like to hear The Raven read by Sir Christopher Lee, please click here.
The words are included in the video, or you can play it in the background and follow along with the poem above.
Perhaps you would care to listen to Omnia's version instead.
They have altered a word here and there, but it's still a lovely version. Click here.
Enjoy, all you pretty people out there in the dark...

I've had this memorized for many years. It is an old poem or folk song thought to date from at least 1400 CE. The author is unknown. It's very romantic, vampiric, and spiritual. I find it very soothing at the same time and I wanted to share it.

"The wind doth blow today, my love,         
    And a few small drops of rain;         
I never had but one true-love,         
    In cold grave she was lain.         

“I’ll do as much for my true-love
    As any young man may;         
I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave         
    For a twelvemonth and a day.”

The twelvemonth and a day being up,         
    The dead began to speak:            
“Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
    And will not let me sleep?”

“’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,         
    And will not let you sleep;         
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
    And that is all I seek.”

“You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,         
    But my breath smells earthy strong;         
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,         
    Your time will not be long.

“’T is down in yonder garden green,         
    Love, where we used to walk,         
The finest flower that e’re was seen         
    Is withered to a stalk.         

“The stalk is withered dry, my love,
    So will our hearts decay;         
So make yourself content, my love,         
    Till God calls you away.”

This is the review for my holiday tale A Christmas Canticle from A Grave Interest website.
A Christmas Canticle is available on Amazon.com in both kindle and paperback.

Book Review: A Christmas Canticle by Frank E. Bittinger

For those of us who love a good ghost story, no matter what time of year it is, Frank E. Bittinger provides a fun holiday read with A Christmas Canticle.

Channeling Charles Dickens' novella A Christmas Carol for inspiration, Bittinger gives us his version of Ebenezer Scrooge - Bronson Ghostley, a demanding gothic horror author, paranormal television star, and all-around media personality who has no time for sentiment or holidays.

This twist on the familiar holiday tale has been up-dated to the 21st century complete with cell phones, DVDs and the internet. Although the story is predictable as to the purpose of the visiting spirits (And how could it not be?), Bittinger leads us along with enough interesting details that we accept Ghostley as a modern-day Scrooge.


His spin on Marley’s ghost is unique and interesting, especially when you begin to understand the backstory of Ghostley’s childhood. The Ghost of Christmas Past has a unique vision, offering Ghostley “two sides of the same coin.”

The Spirit of Christmas Present provides more illumination into what makes Ghostley tick, reminding him, and us, that “even when we can see, sometimes we are still blind.”

The final spirit, the dreaded Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, is a “real bite in the ass” according to Ghostley. But the death coach that propels Ghostley into the future does seem pretty cool!

All in all, A Christmas Canticle is an enjoyable holiday read offering a message that transcends religious ideology and simply asks that we treat our fellow man, woman, and the animals, with respect and caring.

[The Youngblood’s 1960s song Get Together kept running through my mind as the perfect soundtrack for this book:
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now]


The Author and A Friend
Bittinger originally wrote his book as a Kindle exclusive to raise money for animals in need.  Now available in paperback, a portion of the royalties from A Christmas Canticle are used to assist in rescuing and caring for animals that have been abused and neglected. So go ahead, order the book and enjoy the guilty pleasure of reading a rejuvenated Christmas novella by the fire knowing that you're helping to save lives, too.

A Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good read!

~ Joy


About the Author:
Over the centuries, Frank Bittinger has experienced many existences. In this incarnation, Mr. Bittinger is a vegan who lives and writes in Western Maryland, sharing his home with a menagerie of pets, several alternate personalities, and the occasional ghost. One of his favorite pastimes is taking walks in old cemeteries in the evening. Ancient Egypt holds a fascination for him; he has a scarab beetle tattoo between his shoulder blades as well as a collection of Egyptian items and books in his deep, dark red bedroom. Learn more about the author at his web site: http://www.frankebittinger.com


Book Details:
A Christmas Canticle by Frank E. Bittinger
Published and available at  Amazon   (2014)

Baltimore, Maryland, a very historic city, has its share of ghostly figures, one of the most famous being Black Aggie, but there are a number of others.

Westminster Presbyterian Cemetery, or Western Burying Ground, is located in Baltimore, MD, and arguably its most famous resident is the man himself, Edgar Allan Poe (19 January 1809 – 7 October 1849) is reputed to be Baltimore's most haunted cemetery, and it can indeed be found on many lists of most haunted cemeteries.

Upon learning of my lifelong desire to visit Westminster and the grave of Edgar Allan Poe, my friend and paranormal investigator Nancy Stallings encouraged me to do so. She told me about the time she and her team made their own midnight visit and said I would very much enjoy the cemetery, also telling me I would be safe as long as I showed my usual respect.

Finally, after all the years of anticipation, I was going to go and I couldn't have been more excited. So. on Saturday 19 September 2015, my good friends Tammy and Lea Ann took me to realize my dream of visiting Edgar Allan Poe.

Coming to a stop at the corner, I exclaimed “There it is!” to my friends Tammy and Lea Ann. If we had known exactly where we were going and had stopped just a few second sooner, we would have been able to park right in front of the open gate, right there where Poe, his young bride, and his mother-in-law are interred. It's a breathtaking sight to see the monument right on the other side of the wrought iron fence from the street. At least, it is for me. They knew what they were doing when they exhumed him, reburied him up front, and erected the big marker.

We turned left at the corner and parked on the right hand of the street, and then walked back up to the front gate to enter. Just seeing the wall and gate and church from the street is an experience.

The Screaming Skull of Cambridge, Maryland, rumored to be the skull of a murdered minister, is buried here—allegedly encased in cement with its mouth bound to stifle its horrendous screams—but we didn't as about that and there weren't any muffled, horrific screams shattering the atmosphere. Perhaps on the next visit.

For being in the midst of the city, the grounds were eerily quiet and very peaceful. All three of us remarked on that as soon as we walked through the gate. It felt as though the sounds of the city faded away.

Strangely enough, even though we were informed by the volunteer there were other people in the cemetery, not to be afraid if we see someone, there wasn't anyone else until we'd strolled through the property and taken all the pictures we'd wanted to take. Then we noticed other people had begun to enter the cemetery.

Finding the original resting place of Edgar Allan Poe, his burial spot from 9 October 1849 to 17 November 1875, is exceptionally easy. All one has to do is follow the brick path from the front entrance, where his new spot and the large monument is located, to where the bricks end, all the way to nearly the back corner.

Sources indicate Poe was technically reburied on 1 October 1875, the dedication ceremony was held on 17 November 1875.

For a man who was originally buried without a gravestone and didn't have one for many years, except for a simple sandstone block that read “No 80,” he ended up with two very nice ones.

Westminster Hall and Burial Ground—formerly the Westminster Presbyterian Church—was constructed over a part of the original cemetery, approximately a third. The church is immense considering the plot of land it was constructed upon, so I can see how it would cover at least a third. The graveyard still exists as a catacomb underneath the church. Lea Ann, Tammy, and I did not get to see the catacombs during our visit on Saturday 19 September 2015. Touring the catacombs is by appointment only and we decided we'd just have to make an appointment and come back for another visit.

The cemetery is very well-kept and not nearly as big as I'd anticipated. An atmosphere of serenity, peace, calm, however you wish to term it, permeated the grounds on the day of our visit. The weather was very nice—neither too warm nor too cool. Of course the sun brightly, but there were still corners filled with shade from the trees and the walls of the burying ground.

We followed the brick path until it ended at nearly the rear corner, and found Mr. Poe's original resting spot. Of course, the first thing I did after greeting him, just in case he was hanging around the spot, was lie down and take pictures of what his view would have been. Truth be told, I could have closed my eyes and taken a nap if I could have been sure no one would have called the police to come and cart me away, that's how serene it was.

Before my friends caught up with me, I read my poem/song lyrics Beneath the Shadow of the Raven to Mr. Poe since I'd had in mind dedicating it to him when I'd originally written it. I know he appreciated it and gladly gave me because I received what I interpreted as a sign while I was still prostrate upon his original grave site: a bird landed on my chest and stared straight into my eyes before taking off. Now, I know it wasn't a raven or even a crow, but I believe it was a sign from Mr. Poe himself, or one heck of a coincidence.

A very similar, if not the same, bird landed on the grave stone right before Tammy snapped a picture of me. It landed, looked at us, Tammy exclaimed, “Look at that,” and then it flew off again.

I leave it up to you to decide.