Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Promo Spotlight on the Flower Bowl Spell by Olivia Boler

by Olivia Boler

Journalist Memphis Zhang isn’t ashamed of her Wiccan upbringing—in fact, she’s proud to be one of a few Chinese American witches in San Francisco, and maybe the world. Unlike the well-meaning but basically powerless Wiccans in her disbanded coven, Memphis can see fairies, read auras, and cast spells that actually work—even though she concocts them with ingredients like Nutella and antiperspirant. Yet after a friend she tries to protect is brutally killed, Memphis, full of guilt, abandons magick to lead a “normal” life. 

The appearance, however, of her dead friend’s attractive rock star brother—as well as a fairy in a subway tunnel—suggest that magick is not done with her. Reluctantly, Memphis finds herself dragged back into the world of urban magick, trying to stop a power-hungry witch from using the dangerous Flower Bowl Spell and killing the people Memphis loves—and maybe even Memphis herself.


"Olivia Boler's The Flower Bowl Spell is a genre-bending ride with sexy rock stars, Californian witches, children with potentially otherworldly gifts, and the occasional fairy. But it is also a story of identity, of the sometimes warring facets that make and shape a human being. Beautifully written, witty, and brimming with both ordinary and fantastical life, The Flower Bowl Spell will charm readers everywhere." -- Siobhan Fallon, author of You Know When the Men Are Gone

Get a Sneak Peek and an excerpt...


I wake from a light doze, no more than ten minutes. Outside, the sun has barely shifted. Cooper lies by my side watching me, a smile on his lips, his eyes a little confused with love.
“Time for the sunset now?” I yawn.
“Yes, by all means. The sunset.”
He rolls to the edge of our bed and I watch him walk out the door to the bathroom. I hear him turn on the shower and start to mumble-sing “Toréador” from Carmen, his favorite shower song.
Cooper knows about my Wiccan upbringing and refers to me and Auntie Tess as the Asian Pagan Invasion. I’ve even shared tales of some of the more far-out stuff, like the green glow that would suddenly emanate from candles when our former coven would chant around a pentacle circle. But we don’t talk about fairies. Or inanimate objects coming to life. I tried to once, and he told me I had a very active imagination as a child, a sure sign of greatness of mind. Who am I to argue?
Besides, I knew he’d say something like that. Cooper is supportive and easy to read. It’s why I chose him. But he’s not able to handle the fact that my imagination only gets me so far. For reasons I don’t even understand, I can see and do things other witches can’t, things you read about in fairy tales. Only two others know about me. One is Auntie Tess, yet we never talk about it. Something stops me from sharing too much, and something stops her from asking. The other person—well, we haven’t spoken in a long, long time.
I study the ceiling, my old friend. There’s a crack that’s been there forever, before I moved into this place. I’ve never liked the ceiling light fixture and pretty much ignore it, even though each time I pass a lamp store I study the possibilities. Cooper tells me to wait until we buy a place of our own. But I doubt we’ll ever leave this apartment. Still, that lamp with its 1950s design of starbursts and boomerang angles just does not fit with the Edwardian crown molding and—
Something behind it moves.
My breath catches. I blink. What could it be? A mouse? A giant spider? Something small. Something that darts. With wings.
A face peeks over the rim of the lamp. As I sit up it ducks away, disappearing from my view. I feel something, almost like a raindrop, hit my belly, and I jump low into a crouch. Slowly I stand up on the bed, trying to balance on the lumpy old mattress. I reach for the lamp. I’m too short.
“Did you just spit on me?” I holler. “What do you want?” And where, I wonder, have you been?
Footfalls pound down the hall. Cooper stands in the doorway of our room, dripping wet and naked. He looks me up and down. The shower is still running.
“Why are you yelling? What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing. There’s something there.”
I point. “The light. The lamp.”
For a second, I don’t think he’s heard me. He continues to stare at me like maybe this is the moment where he sees the truth about me and it all ends between us. It’s only a fraction of a second and then he steps onto the bed—he’s a good foot taller than I—and unscrews the knob that holds the shade in place. Carefully, he removes it before peering inside. He raises his eyes to me.
“You’re right. There’s something here.”
I open my mouth but don’t say what I’m thinking: Are you magickal after all? He pauses, making sure I’m ready. I nod. He holds the shade toward me like—I can’t help thinking with a wee shiver—it’s a sacrifice.
Inside are bits of asbestos. Dead flies. Lots and lots of dust.
“Oh,” I say. “Oh.”
“Confess.” He wipes the dripping water from his wet hair out of his eyes. “You just wanted me to pull the ugly lampshade down. Am I right?”
I look up at the glaringly bright lightbulbs in their sockets. There’s a hole next to them—a swallow could fit through it, or something of that ilk.
“Yeah, big C,” I say. “You caught me.”
“You are a piece of work, Memphis Zhang.”
“You mean a control freak.”
Comme tu veux.”
Cooper goes back to the bathroom. He turns off the shower and I hear him toweling off. I stretch out on the bed and study my bod. The spot where I felt something drip on my skin is dry, clean as a whistle. Cooper comes back into our room and starts to dress.
“What did you think was there, anyway?” he asks.
I raise my hands in a helpless shrug. “A squirrel?”
He snorts. “A squirrel.”
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s crazy talk. It was probably a fairy.”
“Or the ghost of Columbus.”
“Ha ha.”
Yet, I know it was a fairy because he smiled at me.

 Want to See Even More?


The first time the veil lifted I was eight and very bored.
When I was a kid, my parents often left me in the care of Auntie Tess. Since she was a practicing Wiccan of the hippy-dippy variety, the kind that gives San Francisco its reputation for benign lunacy, they knew I’d be safe. I don’t remember a time when we weren’t together in someone’s backyard or a public space celebrating Sabbats major and minor. For these ladies—and sometimes gents—practicing magick was like prayer. Or wishful thinking. They’d do their rituals, but nothing supernatural actually ever happened—except, on occasion, the green light from the candles, which not everyone could actually see. They didn’t seem to expect real magick. They just liked to come together. Like a book club.
On the night in question, we’d gone to Golden Gate Park’s Lindley Meadow. In the daytime, it was the domain of dogs, acrobats, guitarists, and Frisbee freaks. I liked to visit the horses in the nearby stables or watch the model-boaters cutting loose on Spreckels Lake.
But after the sun went down, the meadow was a favorite ritual site for Wiccans and pagans. It’s resplendent with tiny daisy-chain daisies. The other coven kids and I would collect them, their petals tightly closed for the night, while our mothers and caretakers prepped for the forthcoming hocus-pocus.
The priestesses would get there before everyone else to set up, lighting candles, arranging the talismans, laying out white ropes in a near perfect circle. They were dressed in their robes, mostly handmade get-ups of maroon velvet or navy blue velour. When everything was just so, they called the kids over. As the laughter and murmuring died down, we all joined hands and, without preamble, began to sway and hum. The women closed their eyes. In unison, they sang a song that was some variation of this:
Through all the world below
She is seen all around
Search hills and valley through
There she is found
The growing of the corn
The lily and the thorn
The pleasant and forlorn
All declare
She is there
In meadow dressed in green
She is seen.
La la la. Hills and valleys we have in San Francisco, but growing corn? A few public garden plots here and there, I’m sure, but even as a child I knew fantasy from reality. We were urban witches longing for a landscape that belonged to Wine Country fifty miles away. Or to a time three hundred years past.
On and on they sang, in harmony buffered by the fog. That night was extra-special—in the center of the circle next to the usual beeswax candles, someone had placed skeleton dolls dressed in bright clothing.
Auntie Tess was the smallest woman there (easy to pick out in the crowd if you set your gaze lower than usual) and the only Asian face among the others (not including yours truly), which were predominantly white. There was a black woman from Cuba too, but that’s as far as our coven’s diversity diversified.
As I mentioned, I was bored. Bored with making daisy chains, bored with the other coven kids, bored with Tess. I leaned against her, her dark silk kimono slippery and cool under my cheek. She had sewn it shut so that she could slide it over her head.
“Auntie Tess,” I whispered.
“Shhh.” She opened one eye, which glinted down at me.
“I want to be Dorothy for Halloween.” Wizard of Oz Dorothy, of course. “When are we getting my costume?”
“Tomorrow, Memphis, I promise. Now sing or be quiet.”
I watched the other women. Some smiled through their song, earnest and blissed-out. Some undulated. Others mouthed the words, but not Tess. With my ear pressed to her side, I could feel her strong voice, her heartbeat, the gurgling of her supper digesting. I pressed harder until she stumbled a little, and got a frown for my hug.
In the center of the circle, the candles in their hurricane lanterns and jelly jars burned, illuminating a bouquet of flowers. The shadows flowed over the dolls, which made it seem like they were dancing and grinning. I blinked and peered closer and realized that they actually were dancing, all on their own. One tossed off his sombrero and led the others in a Mexican hat dance. Faintly, I could make out their voices, a discordant cheering through the women’s singing. You might expect them to sound like cartoon chipmunks, but their voices, though faint, sounded quite robust.
As they cha-cha’ed by, they saluted me. And I saluted back. I tugged on Tess’s brocade sleeve.
The thing is, I realized in the instant she turned to look down at me that it was hopeless. Her face was full of annoyance, and there was an absence of something I couldn’t name at the time, but I thought of it as a light. She was missing the light that makes magick visible.

Author Bio 

Olivia Boler is the author of two novels, YEAR OF THE SMOKE GIRL and THE FLOWER BOWL SPELL. Poet Gary Snyder described SMOKE GIRL as a "dense weave in the cross-cultural multi-racial world of complex, educated hip contemporary coast-to-coast America...It is a fine first novel, rich in paradox and detail."

A freelance writer who received her master's degree in creative writing from UC Davis, Boler has published short stories in the Asian American Women Artists Association (AAWAA) anthology Cheers to Muses, the literary journal MARY, and The Lyon Review, among others. She lives in San Francisco with her family.

To find out about her latest work, visit http://oliviaboler.com

Purchase the Flower Bowl Spell at:

Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/The-Flower-Bowl-Spell-ebook/dp/B0073B180A

Barnes&Noble:  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-flower-bowl-spell-olivia-boler/1108648162?ean=2940033013227&itm=1&usri=the+flower+bowl+spell


Olivia Boler said...

Thank you so much for featuring the book. Great blog! Love the design.

KaSonndra Leigh said...

You're very welcome. I'm looking forward to reading your book. And thanks so much for the compliment on my blog. :-D


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