A Secret Party

rachel-bjerke In another lifetime these woods were full of life. The fires would roar in their stone chambers giving their gifts of heat and light. The fountain filled with the best wine available. Men in suits of black, women in gowns of every color conversed on the excitement of the first moving picture. When the band sounded their first note of Ain’t Misbehavin’ even the trees would stop to listen. Then the drums would shake foundations and hips alike and the dancing wouldn’t stop until the wine was dry. But that was a hundred years ago.


This is a story in 100 words or fewer for Friday Fictioneers based on the photo above. Click the blue frog to read more stories inspired by this photo!

I’m not here…

I want to let you in on a few things. I’m not here to be popular. I’m not here to get rich. You are a fantastic audience and I thank you from the bottom of the heart (and the top and both sides – there are four chambers after all). It is you who keep me coming back to write more. Yes you, the one reading these very words. Banana. Turtle. Poop. See? I just made you read poop. Twice. I might still have a little growing up to do.

Anyway, just like my running is for me, so is my writing. I’m not sure why I publish it for the whole world to read, but I do. I’ll figure that part out later. Or never. Doesn’t matter. What I do know is why I write almost every day.

It keeps me thinking

Writing every day for a non-specific audience can be challenging. The options are limitless, boundless, unrestrained. While I haven’t really ventured into sharing my fictional writing yet, the option is obviously there. I’m constantly thinking and looking for the next article to write. Can I expand upon a certain topic yet still keep it interesting enough to read? It’s not writers block I experience, it’s an inability to get started. Much like a car when it’s -10 degrees outside.

Practice practice practice

Part of my writing is to practice the art of writing, story telling, informing, or persuading. However, what I’ve really been trying to focus on is my self-editing. I tend to omit words – often keywords. DW can testify to that after a few years of instant messaging each other.  Also, I’ve been working on my wording – writing in such a way that others will want to read it.

A book

One day I hope to publish a book or two or many. I love writing short stories. I’ve written in numerous genres, ranging between 1,000 and 1,500 words. One story I was writing is up to 13,500 words. However, it so closely resembles the start of The Neverending Story that I’m afraid I would get nailed for plagiarism. My hope here is to build up an audience who enjoys my writing enough to buy a book I write later down this road of life. I hope I don’t have this backwards and should publish a book then build the audience to read it? So, to my 41 followers, thank you.

As a little bonus here is an e-book I co-wrote Mr. Eus – The Story of the Future available on iTunes for only $1.19. Here is is on Google Play for your android.

Beach, Mountains, or Forest?

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Places.”

My blogging brother over at Gramblings wrote about getting away. He wrote about not having to leave to relax. We don’t need a cabin in the woods or the beach house or a summer home in order to get away and recharge. Simply being with friends and family is enough. Enjoying the quiet (or boisterous if that’s your style) moments is all it takes to get away. It’s work we are usually attempting to escape from. Therefore, once you’re not at work, once you’re at home and changed into comfy clothes, surrounded by family, then it’s unwind and getaway time. But, what if you have the opportunity to actually get away and go somewhere for a day or two. Daily Post’s Prompt asked if we’d get away to the beach, the mountains or a forest…

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The Bridge

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Seven little men whistled while they crossed the bridge to the wood. It was rumored that a troll lived under that bridge, once upon a time. The hooves from the Three Billy Goats Gruff long since washed away.  Lying along a road less traveled through the woods to grandmother’s house, Jack Frost leaves not a trail of crumbs. Its a bridge to an enchanted forest, lost of its magic simply because no believed. Patiently waiting with the giving tree who gave too much for the right someone to come along to unlock it’s powers.


This is a story in 100 words or fewer for Friday Fictioneers based on the photo above. Click the blue frog to read more stories inspired by this photo!

Once Upon a Bedtime

Crash, the 7 year old knows the bedtime routine. When I ask him what it is he responds with “Yogurt, Pajamas, brush teeth, rinse, pee, get in bed.” And I say “Bingo, you got it.”  But just because he knows what the routine is, doesn’t mean he’ll follow it. He would stay up until midnight if let him. Actually, he was up until 1 am last New Years with us and he still wasn’t ready for bed. Anyway, he tries every trick in the book to delay bedtime. It wears my patience very quickly because I expect him to be autonomous at this point.

Soon enough, I’m fussing at him. I think he likes to be fussed at, though. He tries to get extra screen time not by asking, but simply playing his games in front of us. Sometimes, he ends up losing screen time for the rest of the day. But it doesn’t stop him from trying again the next day.

To get to the point, we fuss at him frequently. I hope it’s just a phase and he’s testing boundaries and that once he finds those boundaries aren’t flexible, he’ll stop. Last night was no different. While I was getting Bang ready for bed in his room, Crash was supposed to be following the routine – minus the yogurt because he’d already eaten. While I was reading Bang his bedtime book, Crash “sneaks” in to listen. I let him, because, well, books are fun.

I directed him back to his routine while I finished Bang’s routine – lotion, inhalers, vitamin E on his lips, and nose blowing (his cold is getting much better). I finished all that and went to check on Crash. Was he ready for bed? Of course not. He had done nothing. He was instead “hiding” on the stairs and was going to attempt to scare me. Then our Parrot, Piper, screeched. She was ready for bed, too.

Crash asked if he could put her bed. I told him no and, naturally, he didn’t like that answer. I told him if he had followed routine and had been ready for bed, then he could have put the bird to bed (change her food and water and cover her cage with a sheet). Now he had to get ready. Fussed at, again.

Finally in bed, all tucked in and books read and lights out and star turtle turned on, I’m feeling (I think DW has similar feelings) like I’ve done nothing but fuss at him since he got home from school. I’m laying there with my eyes closed getting ready to say something to him (our nightly chat) when I feel wet lips on my forehead. “I love you, dad.”

And BOOM, just like that, all of the fussing I’ve done, all of the testing he’s done, suddenly no longer exists. He’s melted his mom like this, before, too. Little bugger. Just when we’re feeling like we haven’t a clue what we’re doing, when we feel like what we are doing isn’t working, he leaves us laying in a puddle of our melted heart.

I snuggle him for a few minutes enjoying the brief moment. Then kiss on his forehead and tell him “Night night, love you buddy. Ugga Mugga, see ya in the morning.”

A 7 Year Old’s Man Cold

Both kids, Crash and Bang, have colds. Only Crashes is WAY worse. Judging by his moaning last night at bedtime I wasn’t sure he would survive the night. He also chose the hottest pair of pajamas he owns – fleece footed pajamas. He was told he’d get too hot, but like many sevenagers, he just had to wear them because mom and dad don’t know what they’re talking about. Apparently he didn’t believe us because Mr. Stubborn wore them anyway. He wasn’t in bed 5 minutes when he was up telling us he couldn’t sleep.

Literally, it was 5 minutes. My nose is running like a tap, he told us. I’m too hot. Go blow your nose we told him. Change your pajamas. (See? I told you so!) He’s horrible at blowing his nose and I have no idea why. It makes no sense to us. He barely gives a puff that might put out a candle and he expects that to be enough. We just can’t get him to put any effort into it. He can’t wait for his cold to be gone? Neither can we!

Bang, the threenage, on the other hand, is genuinely ill. Tired, stuffy head, wheezy, snot dripping out of his nose every time he sneezes kind of sick. I’d say cranky, but he’s that most days. Last night, DW propped him up to sleep and that seemed to help significantly. He only woke once or twice through night because he fell off his props and got cold when he became uncovered. They both have doctor appointments this afternoon so she can listen to their chest and check their throats and ears to make sure there’s nothing going on there.

Now I’m going to take them out to get some fresh air and clear their heads.

How are your little ones when they get colds? Do they handle it well or does it become a “man cold”? 

The Flight North

erin-leary

Moses told us to follow the drinking gourd to this here station. We knowed the pile of firewood on the front step meant we’d be safe in their barn. Now we’re just a load of hay waiting for delivery to The Promised Land.

But this night we’re not leavin’. We heard them dogs barkin’ an’ peoples was talkin’ askin if anyone seen runaway negroes. Them kind folk in the cabin lied for us. Dunno why, they don’t owe us nothin’. Now, them hunters are in here searchin’ the dark.


This is a story in 100 words or fewer for Friday Fictioneers based on the photo above. Click the blue frog to read more stories!

The Write Impression: Hauraches

This post is in response to Izzy’s  Literary impressions

For those who know me, I’m an avid runner. More avid some days than others. I injured my IT band (it connects your hip to your knee) after a half marathon about four years ago. Every time I would run, whether it was 1 mile or 12, I would barely be able to walk for hours. So I took some time off to let it heal. After a year of “letting it heal” I began reading Christopher McDougall’s book Born to Run. Continue reading