Coronation of the White Rose

By Vendens H. Pierre

The Coronation of the White Rose is a story that follows my first novel. The true meaning of the story represents peace after the tragedy of the people in the spring town of Virgin Mary. The story also represents a new beginning at the end of an era.

When Isabelwho is a mute rich blonde girlheard a bunch of rolling grains of precious stone making noise in the basement of her house on a dawn evening, she left her room and followed it to find out what it was. She discovered a bunch of rolling white pearls beads next to a white ballerina shoe with a long pink satin ribbon that holds the memories of a lost little girl. As she put her hand on the shoes ribbon, lightning strikes cast down from heaven through her dark vision, galloping horses hooves with heavy breaths and neighing noises, begging voices of a praying woman, and a sniffing noise of a crying little girl invaded her ears. She gasped and choked as she discovered a new world that evening.

As she went to bed that night, she dreamed about a singing little girls shadow passing through the cathedrals stained glass windows in that town. The girl was singing and praying, and Isabel saw herself crowned as a new queen in front of the church. Without thought and doubt, she left the spring town of Virgin Mary in the morning to find out what her dream meant. And life arrived tracing its own path for her, used her as the gate of a new beginning, and crowned her as the new Madonna of the whole land.

On the other side, wild, charming, and escape convict Badjo Badu was troubling the spring town and playing with the hearts of two beautiful women. Sandra Vedette, a beautiful, dark, fierce, mythical persona whom Badjo made a pact with to help her trace her way back to the flowering land, but instead of that, he found a girl in the spring town that he loved more: Anna Mariah, a beautiful Latina girl with long raven hair, red lips, and roses crowning her head, and gave all his attention to her instead of helping Vedette accomplish her mission.

Read and find out about the game of these three lovely birds in the land of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524698478

Vendens H. Pierre

My first novel, “Anaize, the widow’s girl!” Went as I expected as a self-publishing author, “Successful!” The reviews I got from friends, teachers, professor, classmate, family member and other book reader gave me courage to keep writing more stories. Sometime I felt it is not worth it to keep writing, but there’s a voice in my mind that keep telling me to keep on working on myself and not worrying about the obstacle I encounter on my path and what other have to say about me because it going to worth it at the end of the day. I always thanks god as a writer for the gift and inspiration he gave me and the people he gifted to inspire me such as the American entrepreneur Walt Disney who I see as the gate keeper of the fantasy world, and the great British author J. K. Rowling ( harry Potter) which represent the goddess (creator) of the mythical world. It took me two years to come up with the whole story for “The coronation of the White Rose” while my first book, “Anaize, the Widow’s Girl” took me five years to complete. School, work and writing was invaded my life for the past two years as I was writing this book, but with courage and hope I know it was going to be worth it at the end of the day that was one of the reason that motived me and keep me on writing because deep in my heart I know it’s a part of me and I can do it.

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© 2017 Vendens H. Pierre. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/29/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9848-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9846-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9847-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017910213

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Anaize, the Widow’s Girl is about a widow named Violet who loses her only child in the forest. The absence of her daughter changes her world, but she never stops hoping that one day her daughter will come home. No matter how the wind shakes the tree’s branches, blows down its leaves, or scatters them far from the trunk, the heart and the roots of the tree will always remain connected and will not die until their time comes.

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T he shadow of the miserable old widow’s life in Spring Town of the Virgin Mary was gone with the dawn wind after the night of her death. Days went and nights came, switching with each other. Seasons came and went, disguising nature’s view with ugliness and beauty. The ash of the tragedy still hung over the old widow’s yard, overgrown with green grass and tiny blooming daisies and other small, colorful flowers, as if feet never touched the ground. Spring reclaimed the yard for its own. The decaying front porch, front wall, and broken roof of the attic were the only parts of the unpainted wooden house left standing alone in the yard. An unpainted wooden pillar supported the remaining peeling roof, and old, dry wheat bundles hung in the middle of the ceiling like a chandelier. The main door remained closed with dust and spider web designs all over it. White calla lilies, white roses, and sunflowers grew all around the foundation of the house, and creeping plants crawled up on both sides of the short, unpainted fences. Broken wooden barrels, broken grillage from the domestic bird cage to which dry feathers stuck, pieces of twinkling glass, and parts of the widow’s shattered doll were spread all over the yard.

The Catholic Church’s bell tolled over the town, made visible as the soft morning sun emerged. Roosters chanted the upcoming glory of the day. A low morning breeze awakened the sleeping branches, shaking them while crystal dawn dew ran down slowly from the leaves and blooming flower petals. Soft, chirping bird noise and low, indistinct morning conversation—Good morning, neighbors. How was your night? and Have a nice day—filled the somber morning air. Some villagers were starting their daily activities, watering flowers in their front yards, walking on the street, heading down to the church to pray. As the sunlight grew and cast shadows over the town, melting the rest of the dawn away, three poor boys sat in a doorway behind a huge, luxurious mansion on the main street.

The boys were playing on classical instruments, softly, with their eyes closed as if to call out the sunrays and bid them shine more brightly over the town so they could collect dimes and dollar bills from passing villagers. A squeaking noise above their heads startled the boys. They stopped playing and looked up to see a thick woman’s arms thrusting out of one of the fancy gold windows. Her nails were polished red and shiny like an apple’s skin. She threw six dimes into the air, sending the boys scrambling after the rolling dimes on the ground like dogs running after bones.

Morning, pretty girl, the woman said, making sign language with her pretty fingers. Girlie, girlie, girl, wake up, Isabelle! the woman chanted in a lovely voice. She giggled, and the boys below lost sight of her as she left the window.

At the bed where Isabelle lay, she wrung out a white towel embroidered with pink cherry blossoms and red, gold, and green peacock feathers. A tall man entered the room, with dark eyebrows, light brown eyes, a short, ash moustache, and black raven hair. Dressed all in white with gold jewelry around his neck and wrist, he carried a golden bath bowl decorated with butterflies and blossoms and filled with warm water. He walked toward the bed, and the fat, motherly woman dipped the white towel into the bowl again and started to bathe the young girl. Isabelle moaned, yawned, and stretched out as the maid cleaned her.

Fresh! the servant said when she was done, and the man turned and left the room. She threw the towel on a chair next to the bed, then walked toward a golden four-legged night table that held a large, white porcelain vase. In the vase there was a white rose bouquet, and next to it a white peacock statuette, its long, ornate tail feathers hanging open and wide to the floor. The woman pulled a stunning sky-blue dress from the closet and looked back at Isabelle on the king-sized vintage golden bed. She smiled and said, signing, Pretty, hmm, glamorous!

Isabelle looked at the servant with an innocent face and shook her head no.

Pink is pretty! The servant giggled and pulled out another fancy dress covered in designs of pink cherry blossoms. Isabelle shook her head again. The servant signed a disappointed feeling and said, Black? Isabelle closed her eyes and ignored the maid. Then the servant said, White? and Isabelle opened her eyes, smiled, and nodded. The servant took a deep, relieved breath. She went back to the closet and pulled a large farthingale dress out that was larger than her hips.

No, Isabelle said with her finger, then moved near the edge of the bed to get up.

Nooooo! the fat, motherly servant screamed. She started to mutter, her lips trembling. She ran toward the bed and fell to the floor so that Isabelle’s feet landed on her fat tummy, prompting her to pass gas. She took a relieved breath and said tiredly, Thank God your feet did not touch the ground! The pretty girl giggled and climbed back on the bed, and the woman, who was breathing hard on the floor, muttered with her hand on her chest, What a child! She rose up off the floor and walked backward to the closet.

The woman reached behind her, opened the closet, and turned her head over her shoulder to grab more clothes. Isabelle moved slowly, and the bed squeaked. The woman stopped and turned her head back, worry on her face. Do not move one inch forward. Stay still! the woman warned. She then turned to the closet again, humming while she looked through Isabelle’s clothes.

The woman stopped humming when the bed made another noise. She turned her head to look at Isabelle. Don’t move an inch forward.

The young girl was sitting calmly on the bed, staring at the woman and fidgeting her toes under the white blanket. The bedroom door opened slowly, and the same man entered, now with three other maids. One of the maids unrolled a little white carpet from the bed to the dresser with a round, golden girandole mirror. The second maid held a silver serving tray heaped with cold fruit: red and purple grapes, slices of grapefruit, halved strawberries, red pomegranates scattering their pulp, and yellow slices of pineapple. The third maid held two large, white feather fans; she stood next to the fat, motherly woman who still held the white dress. The man waited on the right side of the mirror with makeup tools. Isabelle rose from the bed and walked on the white carpet to the dresser.

It’s tiiiime! the fat, motherly woman chanted." Finally, it is the time of day when we have to