A Candle, a Goblet, & a Crystal Ball: the Paintings and Stories of

K. E. Ward

Acknowledgements:

First of all, I would like to thank people I did not thank for my first book and subsequent books.
Thank you to my mother, who edited The Heart Grows Stronger and The Incident for free.
Thank you also the man who worked at the Chamber of Commerce in Enumclaw, Washington,
upon which the fictional town of Mapleview is based. He told me he did not like lawyers. I
would also like to thank my English teachers, who wouldnt be so upset that I have included a
few clichs and grammatical errors. Thank you also to my family, who supported me. I will
always appreciate it.

Dedicated to my Mother

I
Introduction

This book will give you an account of my writing and writing techniques, as well as show you a
few of my paintings. I do not assert that I am any good; but I had wanted to tell you and show
you my creativity and say that I love it so much, and I urge you to make creations of your own.
Some will say that visual art is a discipline; others will say it is fine to draw cartoons and doodle,
as long as it is appealing to you. I think that both are good. Look at the pictures I have shared
and read what I have written. Try to get inside my mind. I make sketches, paintings, I write
poetry, fiction, and childrens stories. I once experimented with the automatic writing
technique under the instruction of a teacher, and I lovingly call her my creative writing mentor.
I was her student when I was sixteen years old.

The following pages will show you pictures of my art, below which you will find titles and
sometimes short descriptions. Following the paintings, I have included two poems which were
never put into my short collection of poetry, Beside Rippling Waters. Following the poems, you
will find pictures of my Tarot art. Let me emphasize that I am not a superstitious Occultist. I
simply enjoy painting Tarot cards because I find them very spiritual, which I have medita ted
about in addition to my time with the rosary. I understand that spiritual people will beg to differ
about what is the correct religious dogma, or what is the correct way to pray, but I have a free

attitude when it comes to my belief in a God and my dev otion to that which is larger than
myself.

Please look at the pictures and read the writing with an open mind. Following the pictures of
my Tarot art, you will find the beginning of my next novella, entitled, Train Tracks. Finally you
will find previous versions and deleted scenes from my first book, The Heart Grows Stronger. I
have included these because, well, there was so much to the book that could not be included in
the final product. Also with this book get an idea of who I am and what I have to say to the
world.

I leave you with well thoughts, hoping and praying that you will enjoy this book, learn
something from it, and be intrigued by me.

II
My Paintings

First I will show you a collection of paintings comprised of photographs, though crudely taken,
of my art. A Candle, a Goblet, and a Crystal Ball was the first painting I did with oils, in my late
twenties. I changed mediums to oils at that age because I considered myself a magnificent
artist, and though I was never instructed with oils, I thought to myself how much more I would
enjoy them than acrylics. This particular painting was done with very inexpensive oil paints
from the local superstore. I used inanimate objects, skectched them, then painted them,
although the checkered tablecloth was never underneath the objects I was painting. You may
know me as an author of novels, novellas, and shorter works, but I am also a visual artist, and I
have been drawing and painting all of my life. I have been writing, yes, and in the fifth grade I
wrote a short story for class which was ten pages of typed work, so very impressive to my
classmates that I was considered the best writer. My art talent had peeked out about a year
earlier, in the fourth grade, when I drew realistic still life for art class. In the fifth grade, I drew
my first realistic portrait.

K. E. Ward is my author name, in ode to Great Britain, as the initials are signature of England
and the British. I write stories that are love stories, which always do have a happy ending, in
different forms. The reason I do this is because I always believed in the concept of hope.
Someone once asked me when I was a child what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told him I
either wanted to be an artist or a writer; I couldnt decide which. Later talents which came out
of me were the study of ballet: I became a ballerina; dramatic acting: I won praise for my role as
Juliet one year; and music: though I never had the vocal range as a child, I learned to sing
gradually after picking up a few instruments in my childhood but never going far with them.

I have many talents, really, as we all do. I even tried a little crude animation with a computer
application one time. I have worked with clay. Creativity comes in many forms.

The point is, I had wanted to share with you some of my visual works and to talk about
creativity in all aspects.

II
Fiddling with a Piano

One never ought to say, fiddling with a piano, as teachers would tell you that we do not fiddle
with pianos. We fiddle with violins and proverbially fiddle with other things. In my life, I have
experimented with all sorts of creative outlets, even using childrens crayons and watercolors as
an adult, and designing fashions for women and making jewelry, as many people do.

Talent means that an art comes naturally to us, and yet we need to develop it. So, I tell you that
I may or may not be talented, but I have such a love for art and writing that I was going to
spontaneously combust if I didnt share them with you. I think I am talented. I took writing and
art classes in my youth and adulthood. I talked about art with friends and joined writers circles.
I studied art in many forms so much that I can tell you that art is a sort of communication with a
subject. It is not a duplication; such a thing is only copying, which we never ought to do. How
does the artist feel about the subject? Does it cause him or her joy? All of the subjects must be
beautiful, even though some teachers would tell us to depict something that is ugly.

I think that art and creativity is not only a portrayal of what we see or imagine, but also
something that conveys our innermost feelings to all whom we dare to share it with. So be
careful how much you expose of yourself when being creative. Not everyone will appreciate
you, and yet you know mentally that you are good.

Being a writer or an artist can give one joy. The pains of writers block or frustration with art
come with the territory, but remember that they are temporary. The part that we need is when
it flows freely from us, a kind of silent music that invigorates us, or what gives us a kind of
euphoria or feeling of flying, for example when our fingers fly across a keyboard. Being on a roll
feels wonderful, and it is good. We must gravitate towards that which makes us feel good. The
stumbling blocks we always need to take care of.

This is a painting I did years earlier with acrylics. As you can see, it is not entirely realistic. I have
drawn two hands embracing a red sun with a goblet inside of it, and with a heart upon one of
the hands. Take it as symbolic, but I will not explain what it means.

The second painting I did with oils. As you can see, I did not like the perspective; I thought it
was off. And it looks to me like an illustration of a story, rather than a picture by itself, although
I do not know what that story is. It is definitely not symbolic. I title it, Crystal Ball, Flower,
Locket, Glove, Deck of Cards, and Perfume on a Background.

I title this painting, Lone Vase. I was unsure of the dark line of paint behind the vase, but now
I like it.

This is a face I did without any model. I title it, Pondering Woman. I hope you dont mind that
I smudge the paint sometimes.

This is another painting I did of a candle and a crystal ball, although the beam of light coming
from the crystal ball is not blended, and I did this on purpose. I did not detail the crystal ball as
much as in my very first oil painting, but one can sense a power from it, anyway.

The Reaching Hand. My favorite painting, even though it is not realistic, and it is not entirely
covered with paint.

A painting I used as an illustration for my childrens stories. The perspective is flat, but the
colors stand out. One might say the birds are M birds, but who cares. I never agreed with
that, anyway.

Cross At Dusk. With a religious symbol.

Mary and Jesus Praying at Sundown Before His Ministry.

An illustration I was going to use for my first novel, The Heart Grows Stronger, but she doesnt
look like my heroine.

Perhaps more dimension on a face, but the painting was originally supposed to be someone
other than Jesus. I had trouble with it. In this picture he has blue eyes, but no one really knows,
do they? And also in this picture he has blonde hair. I experimented with the colors.

A sketch I did of myself in high school with art pencil and years later covered with India ink, and
years later than that covered with charcoal.

A painting of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She looks tall and intimidating in this picture, with the
impression of a palm branch in the background.

A woman from the stars kissing a man.

I will need to speak about this a little bit. This painting was done based upon a photograph of
me when I was supposed to be seventeen years old. I did not intend for it to be realistic, but I
did intend for it to be psychedelic.

Woman of Secret Anger.

A very simple painting, I guess, of Mary. I so enjoyed doing it. She looks almost as though she is
crying. She is the sorrowful mother, and she has such a tender face. She wears a crown and
there are jewels encrusted around the neckline of her dress.

III
The Conception of Lies

Fiction doesnt really happen. It could have been inspired by a dream, a news piece, or a
conversation. Fiction is something that we wish would happen to us, especially if the story ends
happily. Fiction is a fantasy world in which we experience something, with the written word and
with our imaginations, and we enjoy doing it. Whether we are reading for pleasure or

completing an assignment for class, we ought to learn something from fiction. I s tarted
daydreaming in my childhood. Looking back, I might have had Attention Deficit Disorder, not
Hyperactivity, because I couldnt pay perfect attention in class. Fantasy means that something
happens to us that didnt happen in real life.

Not that we ought to immerse ourselves in fantasy too much. But fantasy is born of our
thoughts, and our thoughts are born of fantasy.

I didnt intend to mislead anyone with my work. All of my fiction didnt happen to me. A lot of
the storyline is inspired by real events from my life, but the entirety of the plot is not. But I love
the characters. All of my heroines, to The Heart Grows Stronger, to The Incident, to Novacadia
even, to Im Watching You, to Streetwalker, are me. The heroine from Hes After Me is not me,
and neither are the characters from the childrens story and fairy tales. The poetry is my voice; I
am the one talking. I am expressing my love for God and for a man.

Fiction may be lying, but true lying hurts another, and that is not what I intend to do. I love my
characters so much so that I want them to live. And yet they do: I know people who remind me
of them. I have shown you everything from a confused 15-year-old girl, to an alien, to a severely
depressed young woman, to an ex-streetwalker, to a drugstore cashier and their heroes. I try to

make my fiction exciting, and yet insightful. I try to give them the clich happy ending, even
though people tell us not to do that. I find them fun.

I love my stories, too. They heal my emotions. And hopefully they did that with you, too. About
my art, I look for the becoming in life. We all must have hope. Sinking into the ugliness of life
and depression pulls us into even more pain and turmoil, and I never approve of it. I love happy
endings. And I know that one will inevitably happen.

II
Two Poems

I have prepared for you two poems that I did not include in my short collection of
poetry, entitled, Poetry Beside Rippling Waters. They are both love poems.

Ode to the Stars

Daffodils bow as the night hovers near,

The evening wind warning sparrows and deer.

I shiver as romance touches treetops and spires,
With pink and blue stripes as the sunlight retires.

The day darkens fast and the clouds rush away;

I feel the anticipatory passing of day.
I see the moon rising and increasing its light,
As swallows disperse from the tree limbs in flight.

I lift up my eyes and release a sigh:

Pinpricks of light in a slate-black sky.
They cover the earth like silent ghosts;
Watching their kingdom, these heavenly hosts.

Stars, who shoot their light to earth,

Theres power in their diamond worth.
I lie beneath them, mesmerized

My pain they will anesthetize.

I see stars in your eyes, as you look at me

I cannot dream a brighter dream.
Dizziness shocks me as I fall;
The sky spins round and I recall

The stars. You are a star.

I look at you and I feel dizzy, from afar
You are bright, and I admit
I am a star, too.

True Love

I remember the checkered bedspread.

I remember the green plastic cups

Carelessly thrown on the floor.

I remember you painting my face,
And laughing as we danced on Halloween.
That night the room began to visually spin.

I remember kissing you at night under a red moon.

I remember a triangular mirror standing on the wall in your room.
I remember you walking with me at night, under the dark clouds, a black sky;
And later an empty bottle of liquor we left beneath the bed.
Only the last drops spilled on the carpet.

You had opal eyes and full lips.

I kissed them and it was True Love.
But the laughter became so much.
I fainted amid faces which were laughing at me.
This carnival ride must be stopped.

Only the kiss of True Love will wake me

From the sleep of death, caused by the evil witch.
Rouse me from the drugged night of Halloween,
So that I will awake in my princes arms.
I need the kiss of True Love.

III
My Tarot Paintings

Dear readers, I have also begun to paint my very own Tarot deck. I call it the Bright Star Deck.
In the following pages you will see examples of some of the cards. It is, to this day, an
unfinished deck.

It goes without saying that this is the first card in the deck, the Fool card.

The Magician.

The Empress, not pregnant. As you can see, I have trouble with the paint when it comes to
small details. I suppose it has not only to do with my ability but also with my small amount of
art supplies, including brushes.

The Emperor, although he looks a bit like the Heirophant in this particular picture. Amazing how
the painting always turns out perfectly the way it should.

Two of Cups.

Queen of Cups.

Nine of Swords. These paintings took me hours to make, each one.

Queen of Swords, perhaps my favorite Tarot painting.

Queen of Pentacles.

IV

The Beginning of my Next Novella

Also, I would like to share with you the beginning of my next novella, Train Tracks. I have not
yet decided whether to finish it. The titles following will be No Way Out, Dead End, and The
Forest.

Train Tracks
By K. E. Ward

Behind the Main Street bar on the lonely streets of Camden, in a little alleyway the kids
called, the place, Jackie Stevenson waited in the midst of thick clouds of smoke and dust, for
her boyfriend to finish haggling with the Broush brothers and take her home. She could hardly
wait for him to return, as two cocky dudes had already tried to hit on her while he was gone.
She rubbed her hands against her arms, trying to warm them. Her stockings were warm, but
not thick enough to defend against the wind and chill. Loud music pounded from the entryway
of the club across the street, and in the night-time rowdy atmosphere, Jackie was afraid that
she was going to get mugged, or, even worse. Shivering, she clutched her bag closer to her.
The high heels had proven to be the wrong choice on a night like this. Andrew had been
drinking again, and undoubtedly was trying to settle his gambling debts. If things went wrong,
Jackie wanted to be ready in case she had to run, so she slipped off her shoes and placed them
in her spider-decorated bag.
Multi-colored strobe lights cut through the smoke and exhaust of cars traveling down
the street, the advertisements of Chases Hot Spot. She was glad to have finally escaped from
her parents place; after all, the tiny enclosure of a house was filled with the loud trills of yells
coming from both directions. Jackie had known that they were not happy for a long time.
Evidence of their discontent was showing up everywhere, including an angry little note that
ended up in her bathroom as a reminder to take clothes to the dry cleaners. Her older brother

Sammy was already graduated from high school and living at home, and Sammy and their
mother were having a number of battles from day to day. Not able to handle the fighting,
Jackie decided to duck out, while still unnoticed, and go clubbing in the evenings.
From a distance, a train rumbled across, blowing its loud horn and rushing across the
lonely streets where taxicabs and grocery trucks waited for it to pass. As a child, Jackie would
follow those train tracks home every day from school, waiting until the last minute before the
train would come before jumping to the side. She often wondered which people took the train
and for which reason. She mused often about the various lives and reasons for travel , jotting
down stories in her journal about people who took the train.
Hey, girl. Jackie looked up. Above her was a girl, a bit taller than her, with short,
brown hair and blue eyes with a cigarette perched from the first two fingers on her right hand.
She was wearing blue jeans and a ratty t-shirt with the faded word, Queen, splashed across
the front of it, and low-top Converse sneakers.
Hey, she said, trying to sound tough.
The girl said, Have you had enough of this scene?
I dont know what youre talking about.
I dont know about you, but this place seems kinda seedy. Whats your name?
Jackie, she said, feeling shy.
My names Christine. Wanna go somewhere and hang out?

Jackie wasnt sure what to say. She thought about the dangers of meeting strange
people on the street, wondered why this girl would want to go somewhere with her when they
had barely exchanged two words, and why she had chosen to approach her in the first place.
Yeah, sure, why not.

Christines house was a dirty looking three-level split-level. She could almost call it,
seedy, although that was exactly the word she had just used to describe the scene in front of
the club. In her room, Christine sat on the bed and cradled a red pillow in the shape of a pair of
puckering lips, while Jackie sat on the couch, noticing the posters of rock stars on the walls and
the messiness of the room.
Whered you come from? she asked. She didnt recognize her from school.
I just moved here. Im adopted.
How old are you? Im fifteen.
Im fifteen, too. And she looked it. Christine had a masculine quality about her, and
she thought maybe she was a lesbian. Jackie wasnt a lesbian; she was straight. But this cool looking girl across from her seemed to be everything she had never been: a bad girl. A
troublemaker. A victimized daredevil. On the edge between innocent and criminal, Jackie
shuddered to think what kind of problems she had had. She was fascinated by her. And yet, she
was just a tad frightened by her. She could have been older, seventeen judging by her
confidence, but Jackie knew better.

Ive never been adopted, she said. There was a long silence between the two of them.
Thats okay. Were all unique. Nothing to feel bad about. I dont mind it so much.
Tell me more about yourself, she said.
They talked for a few hours. Jackie listened to Christine tell her story about how her
biological father had murdered her mother, and how all of her siblings had skipped town and
disappeared. She talked about drug use in the family, how her father had cheated on her
mother, and how she had been locked in the basement for three weeks. She talked about
coming here, and how much she liked her adopted parents, and how much more freedom she
got here, and how they bought her things.
Their conversation slowed, and after a few more minutes, Jackie said, I guess I had
better get going.
Well, thanks for coming over. It was really nice to meet you. Come over again
sometime and well have some fun. Have a good night.
Jackie walked out of the house still wearing her high heels and realized how cold it had
gotten. She had a premonition that something dramatic was going to happen with this new
friend, but she didnt know what that would be. She looked up sadly at the house. She really
wanted to get to know her more.

Earlier Versions & Deleted Scenes from The Heart Grows Stronger
The first excerpt is perhaps the first version of the first couple of pages of my first novel , which I
wrote when I was very young.

She looked out beyond the French doors into the vast blackness that surrounded their
27th story penthouse apartment, the sky growing dimmer and dimmer as the minutes slipped
by into twilight. She sighed, realizing how dark it had gotten, and wondered how night had
managed to creep up on her, like a cat getting ready to pounce. The apartment was enveloped
in darkness, and only the lights from the city cast their glow against the room, an effect which
gave the sense of some eerie, supernatural presence. Instead of getting up to turn on a light,
she rested her head against the glass of the door, running her hand along the smooth surface.
She looked down at the chaos of New York City, following the silent line of cars, the thousands
of flickering lights, the perfect and controlled, s uch a startling contrast to the awful reality of it.
She doubted she had ever seen such a clear view of the city before, for it was amazingly dry and
crisp, a rarity she welcomed openly. In Seattle it seemed as though the sky was always that
dingy, gray color. From somewhere behind the Empire State Building a sliver of a moon was
trying to peek out from several wisps of silvery clouds, casting its weak light upon the dramatic,
familiar skyline of high rises. She lifted her hand to the window, looking out at something she
thought she saw just beyond the balcony, but then retreated as soon as she realized it was only
her reflection. A sudden chill made her turn away from the window and slip back into the

darkened apartment, suddenly feeling very exposed. She hastily tossed the curtains back in
place, retreating from the terrace.
Strange, she thought. She could have sworn shed seen something, like some tiny
movement from one of the high rises just across the road. It was as though someone were
watching her but it was probably just her imagination. She tossed the notion out of her
mind. After all, she had been traveling all day, and coming home to an empty apartment with
no numbers to call was bound to make her a bit paranoid. Usually it was her favorite thing to do
at night before Michael came home, whenever they were in New Yorkshe always felt so safe
being able to gaze down upon everyone in the city, when no one could see her. But tonight, it
seemed to offer her no protection at all. She had felt the same way since she had arrived here
this afternoon, and it still gnawed at the back of her mind, threatening to rip her apart. No, this
night, this evening, she felt like a prisoner, not only captive of the concrete walls around her,
but of her fears, as well. She glanced at the closed drapes and sighed. She would give anything
to be out there right now, to be free to go where she pleased.
But she was not allowed to leave. She was to stay at home until Michael came home
and kissed her hello. Then she would sit with him beside the fire and pour him a glass of wine,
and then listen as he complained about the events of his long, cumbersome day. She would put
on that long, red dress.

Deleted Scene:

Michael seemed very agitated that day. Julie had noticed it all day long, and especially
when he began to yell at many of his employees. What was going on? There was tension in the
office. After Michael had gone back into his office, Julie decided to wait a few moments and
then peek her head in. She pushed the door slightly ajar. What she heard was surprising.

Jeffrey, you know as well as I do that my client will simply not agree to your demands,
he said, in a gruff, angry-sounding voice. She pushed the door open even further, and saw that
he was holding up a tape recorder to the phone.

Michaels cigarette smoke was overwhelming the office.

Now, the reason why I share these with you is for you to get an idea of my voice and my
first attempt at a novel when I was twelve years old. Below you will see a charcoal sketch I
made of my very first heroine, Julie:

And below you will see an oil painting I later made of her:

Julie Anne Miller, born Julia Anne Miller, daughter to Candace Miller, whom they call,
Candy, although I did not tell you this in the book. I also did not tell you I developed my
character so much so that I knew her date-of-birth, which of course I made up. March 14th,
1968.

Todd Aaron Brooks, the hero, also born in 1968, was the son of divorced parents and
had no siblings.

Michael Valentino, formerly called Michael Julian Crawford, was more of a mystery. I
changed his age and made him younger. He was supposed to have been born in the 1940s, and
remember, this is a piece of historical fiction. Did he have Italian parents which came over to
the United States, or was he a bastard child to a member of the Cicillian Mafia? Or did he spend
longer in Italy than we had thought and joined the Italian army? His past was mysterious. If he
was a member of the Mafia, then was he involved in drug trafficking? Around this time of the
1980s, crack-cocaine showed its head for the first time. Was he by any chance a crack boss,
dealing also with the Mexican Mafia and drug lords? Did he smoke crack behind Julies back?

Well, anything to make him sound evil would have been perfect for the book, but I
decided to make it short and sweet, leaving things up to the imagination. I find my first work of

fiction the most thrilling, the most romantic, and the most popularly appealing of all of my
stuff. Maybe The Incident is my favorite, but the first one was so special to me because I was so
young when I conceived of the story, and I fell in love with both the hero and the villain. I even
drew someones portrait one time in high school and changed it to make it look like the villains
face, but I do not have that portrait anymore.

The Heart Grows Stronger, whose title I could not think of for so long, was so clear in my
imagination that I saw it like a movie running though my head.

Needless to say, the written word and imagination do allow us to picture things. The
Heart Grows Stronger, The Incident, and the others were molded like a sculpture made of art
clay. I crafted them for so long. I dreamed about them for so long. And finally, I had the nerve
to get them published.

So, to sum up my art and writing, I would like to put it this way: I told you that when I
was in elementary school I couldnt decide whether to be an artist or a writer. Both draw upon
the imagination and urge us to look deeper into ourselves for meaning. I like the words of St.
Catherine of Siena: Know Thyself. And the constant search for the self is what we share with
other people, when we love. We are all beautiful. But the reason we need art and
entertainment is because we constantly need to be reminded of this. Both creating and

enjoying art helps. Art is a depiction, art in all its forms, rather than a duplication. And true art
means that I love with such sensitivity that I would never dare to criticize or insult that which I
am depicting.

I have had a long career in creative writing, as I wrote many short stories as a child, and
started my first novel when I was twelve years old. Visual art, too, I started when I was very
young. I wish I could show you my still life and portraits from when I was younger, because they
were so very realistic, but I have lost all of them. My art has changed. Some might say I have
less of a perspective, that I stopped developing as a person and came down with brain damage.
But I like to think that my art has metamorphosed into something even more than just realistic.
I have shown you an account mostly of my recent work. I am fairly sure that the excerpt from a
previous version of The Heart Grows Stronger, is one from when I was twelve years old. My first
work, unlike the rest of them, was self-published in 2012 after a little bit of free editing by my
mother and a time crunch. I was the one responsible for getting rid of any errors before the
book went to print, as there was no editor at the publishing company who would edit it further.
As I have mentioned before, my first two books were edited by my mother. She did get upset
by some of the subject matter, but they ended up making us closer together. She did not edit
my subsequent books. I used to print out my manuscripts and have her scribble with pencil on
them, and then I would go back to the computer and adjust it. I liked Annie Dilliards The
Writing Life, in high school.

To conclude, I hope you have enjoyed this book. All of the art and writing is heartfelt,
and I did the best job I think I could, and I appreciate your time with me, as I know time is
precious. Please take these words and consider creativity of your own. After all, creativity is a
cooperation, not for one person to be a star above another one; pride is deadly, and I prefer
the concept of fairness for all.

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