Category: Sparks

  • Halloween Special

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Halloween Special

    By Graham Chalk

    I am posting this for the edification and diversion of fellow travelers. I wish for no observations regarding my syntax or your tin tacks. I do not wish to hear about your grammar or my grandpa. I thank you.

    Halloween Special

    I have not written this story down before, although I have told it before.

    Told it as if I were at confession and the listener was a priest.

    But there will, I believe, be no absolution.

    How much of this story is true?

    I will let the reader decide.

    Schools are scary places.

    And when they are empty?

    Then they are very scary places indeed. Full of dead echoes.

    Generations of ghostly, silent feet disturbing the sleeping dust of generations

    My very first ever job was working as a lab technician in a vast and ancient school.

    It’s all gone now. All that time and all those buildings have crumbled into brickdust and orphaned memories.

    I just checked the internet for traces of that school. I found something.

    There exist very few staff group photographs from that hallowed institution. But I wasn’t in those pictures. None of the other half-dozen lab technicians were. Nor were the gardeners, cleaners, or dinner ladies. We didn’t even exist in those old and faded images.

    We have all faded into ghosts.

    Anyway, where was I? Oh yes: the school holidays.

    All the pupils went home, while I, and a few others, remained within that maze of dark and creaky corridors. It gave us some time to do the essential chores that we couldn’t perform when the school kids were about. You know, like playing cards and flirting.

    They didn’t have Facebook back then or we’d definitely be on that all day, so we had to make do with re-reading last week’s newspapers.

    I’ve never really fitted in anywhere but there was one guy who really didn’t fit in with us.

    It gave me such a warm glow of satisfaction to find someone who had less social skills than I had. He was the handyman. His name was Jack.

    In conversation, Jack had the unnerving habit of unpicking glue (I seem to remember that it was wood glue) from his fingers and flicking it everywhere. You could tell where he had been by a little pile of dried-up adhesive..

    I’m not sure why he did that.

    Oh, and he lurked in the shadows, He was only about four foot tall so he was easy to miss, but he just crept about in a creepy sort of way. You’d be having a conversation about something with someone, and you’d turn around and Jack was right there. Listening. He was always where you didn’t want him to be, which was anywhere at all, really.

    There would be an early warning system of his approach. He wore heavy safety boots and the metal studs on the soles would click, click, click along the polished floors. You’d always know he was there. That he was coming.

    School holidays gave us plenty of time to explore the place: There are a lot of dark hidden corners to these vast old buildings. They were made to look grand and the concepts of grand and small couldn’t co-exist, so they built big back then. Really big. So the school had a faded palatial aspect to it. Gravitas. They even put concrete owls on the roof to inspire wisdom in the crowds beneath them. Not sure if that bit worked, This was in Sunderland, after all.

    On one of my foraging expeditions into the forbidden corners, I came across a room I had not seen before. The door was unlocked, so after switching on the light, I proceeded inside.

    “Hello, what’s this?” I asked myself in an amateur theatrical manner.

    Lots of shelves and lots of boxes. Acres of dress-up clothing. It must have been where they kept the costumes for amateur theatricals.

    I went back to the prep’ room where all the other technicians hung out and as they were all dreadfully bored we all set off on an adventure to investigate my discovery.

    I still have a photograph that records our rummaging that day. Even before digital cameras I always had some little camera or other about my person. Ah, the pre-digital days: You’d wait forever for a bunch of expensive prints only to find you left the lens cap on the camera and everything was blank. But not today.

    So we had fun dressing up. All of us, the whole team. Well, almost the whole team. We forgot to ask Jack. Oh well.

    I dug deep into one of the boxes.

    Hey, what have we here in this tea chest? An entire black morning suit: the sort of thing a nineteenth-century gentleman would wear when horse riding. Complete with tails and everything. Even a top hat. I had never seen an outfit like this apart from old black-and-white movies on TV on a wet Sunday afternoon.

    I tried it on and it was a perfect fit. Remarkable.

    And that’s when the wicked plan occurred to me.

    I didn’t work alone, I mean I’m not John Wick or anything. We all hatched a plan. My workmates and I. I would dress in my morning coat, creep up, through a dark and spooky corridor, and shock and surprise the terribly creepy Jack.

    Serve him right, after all.

    For not fitting in and everything.

    And for his anti-social behaviour.

    The following day: It was a late winter’s afternoon, the sun was almost gone and the vast building began to be swallowed into dusk. Soon the real ghosts would arrive.

    We found out where Jack was working. You could hear him. Down those long corridors, echoing. Even in the semi-darkness, You could hear him working. When everyone had already stopped for the day he was still working. Hammering, chiseling, sawing away like a magical little elf. You know: like the ones that fixed those shoes in the story.

    So I quietly tip-toed towards him. He was hunched over his work, oblivious to the world. I stopped and cleared my throat. He turned around and looked at me. Blinked and tried to focus on me through his monstrously thick bifocals.

    “Oh, hello….what?…why are you…dressed like that?”

    I pulled myself up to my full height, looked down at him, and in my best Count Dracula voice I replied “I always dress….for dinner”.

    I turned away from him and casually walked back to the others. They should have been witnessing the whole Academy Award performance but it turned out they had scattered when I approached him. Abandoned by my public, Hah

    The next day came and it was lunchtime before someone asked the question: “Where’s Jack?”

    We all looked at each other and said a collective “Oh” and then we went back to reading the funny papers.

    A week went by and there was still no sign of him.

    On the seventh morning, I went to work to find that the atmosphere was a little different. It was very quiet and people were unusually.. busy.

    “What’s up?” I asked

    “He’s dead” came the reply

    I stared. I hesitated, then, haltingly I slowly muttered

    “Who… is dead?”

    “Jack” came the reply “Jack is dead. He went home. He went home, he made himself a cup of tea, sat down had a heart attack, and died.

    I sat down,

    I thought for a moment.

    This was silly really.

    It wasn’t as if I could have been the cause of that.

    It could have been caused by anything.

    But nobody looked at me all day long. And nobody looked at me much after that.

    The corridors fell silent. No clicking of Jack’s heavy workboots in the dark to announce his presence.,

    People didn’t seem to joke and carry on as much.

    I left that job soon after. It didn’t feel right anymore.

    Things moved on. I’m glad I left or I might have shriveled up and died there. All the rest of them probably did.

    Life opened up for me after that and it was a remarkably rewarding life, all told.

    Sometimes though, after all that time and all those faces have faded, when it’s all quiet when there’s no one else about and I’m going about my life and there’s nobody with me…

    I swear I hear it,

    I swear I hear him.

    I live by the sea now, but even when I’m walking by the sea. Even when I’m walking on the sand where I walk with silent footsteps, even when the waves are crashing and the seagulls are calling.

    I hear something. Behind me. Always behind me.

    click…click…click

    Graham Chalk

    A little about me:

    When I told my wife I was going to write this she laughed.

    That was because, she said, that if I were to attempt to summarise my life I would need an awful lot of paper.

    Things happen to me. I can’t help that.

    I have retired from working in mental health. Done with it.

    And yet….

    I go for a walk with my dog under a viaduct on a sunny afternoon and a body falls to earth just behind me. Whoosh! Thump!

    It’s like that, you see: the harder you run from something the closer it gets.

    The jumper from the bridge was, I think, amongst other things, a message to me.

    I have known far too many people who have ended themselves and the guilt that you feel is horrible. It’s rarely your fault but that doesn’t take away the feeling.

     That “what if” feeling.

    It never goes away.

    The jumper from the bridge lived, you see.  He still breathed.

    It was an awfully long way down but he survived.

    He shouldn’t have lived but he lived anyway.

    So then I had to do something.

    When the ambulance (eventually) arrived and took away his broken body I was pretty sure he wouldn’t live. Then I got a phone call.

    It was from his father.

    His boy lived. He was critically ill but alive. The doctors at the hospital had known many people who jumped from that bridge but none had survived.

    None.

    His father said that I had “saved his life” but I didn’t think that.

    The doctors, nurses, and ambulance personnel did that. They saved his life.

    They did that. I just hoped that now he really wanted to live.

    Then I heard nothing more. I was convinced that he had died, the jumper. Then, months later his father sent me a text. His son was learning to walk again.

    I don’t know if I believe in God but I do believe in something. A balance.

    So. My life is a bit like that.

    The harder I run from something, the closer it gets.

    I now write as therapy. I once wrote for money.

    I wrote for little magazines and they paid me.

    One of my interests is motorcycles and motorbike rags are the magazines I wrote for. Unfortunately, these little publications have now vanished, but I do remember how much of a buzz it was to actually get paid for writing.

    I liked to be paid.

    And I liked to write stuff that made people giggle. It’s so much of a closed shop now: any kind of journalism. It’s a pity.

    These days being paid isn’t as important to me. The internet is great though.

    When I wrote for money there was no internet.

    Now you can get published really easily. You just type away and press send.

    My dad wrote stuff. He’s dead now. He was a railwayman but he wanted to be a writer, so after work, he’d clack clack, clack at his typewriter. He never got published.

    He kept all his rejection letters. I read them after he died. It was sad. I never got on with him, but it was sad.

    My real back-burner project is currently looking for an agent but is a little too controversial for the current market.

    It consists mainly of interviews with crazy people.

    Of which I am one, of course.

    Marlene C

  • Changing Seasons

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Changing Seasons

    By Julie Sherman

    My garden is feeing anxious. The hydrangeas are protesting with powdery mildew on her large leaves. The yellow stargazers are shrinking back into themselves refusing to open. The last of the white roses are reluctantly peeling back one petal at a time, objecting to the assault of cold temperatures after having owned a sunny resort for the past 4 months. The plumbago has given up altogether, and the sweet peas are trying their best to climb the trellis. The last few pink ballerinas are hanging precariously to their brittle fuchsia branches before folding in their tutus, turning brown, and falling to the ground. Only the chrysanthemums are welcoming the morning chill and pale gray skies.

    The veteran plants know what’s coming and are bracing themselves, feeling tough enough to survive. They look to me for protection and comfort, knowing I will gently shroud them in netted mesh when it dips below 40.

    Some of my beauties will not last. The nasturtium and alyssum will die, but their seeds will stubbornly stay hidden below the rocks and dirt until spring, then surprise me by showing up in different corners around my house. I never know where those flowery renegades will appear, but they always do.

    The hummers, so brazen and audacious, are beginning to retreat. The six feeders filled every Sunday due to the hummers’ gluttony have been full for the last 10 days, only an occasional daring flutterer visiting while the others huddle together for warmth in the tree across the street.

    Fall. My favorite time, my garden’s fearful time. We shift the balance and she tries to hang on another day, waiting for warmth and light to come, only to concede and brace for months of brisk, biting temperatures and darkness to come three full hours sooner than just a month ago.

    I move my sleeveless cotton tops to the back of the closet pulling forward my sweatshirts, long-sleeved tops and jeans. Like my garden, I pull in, nestle, protect, and try to keep my tutu from falling to the ground.

    Julie Sherman is a native San Franciscan and long-time resident of Petaluma, California.  Raised in a family of readers, writers, performers, musicians and political activists, Julie followed her dream of singing professionally.

    While working on “The Love Boat” for Princess Cruises, she met her husband, bassist Jeff Sherman. After a 20-year career as a professional singer, Julie worked in education and technology.

    Now retired, Julie enjoys writing, baking, gardening and worldwide travel, most recently having visited Viet Nam, Ireland, and Thailand. She is the mother of twin girls, opera singer Camille Sherman and music producer Emily Sherman. Julie resides in a little house with her husband, a dog and two cats while enjoying reading, writing, eating well, and tending to her garden.

    Marlene C

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  • Seasonal Considerations in 14 Stanzas

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Seasonal Considerations in 14 Stanzas

    By Christine Renaudin

    Yesterday’s rain was announced,
    yet came as a surprise,
    we’ve grown so used to dreading drought and fire.

    Yesterday’s rain was a gift
    early for the wet season,
    tardy for the thirsty and parched.

    Yesterday’s rain relieved anxieties,
    expectations, released myriads of winged
    insects dancing in today’s afternoon sunlight.

    Some are termites, I think, roused by the premature sprinkle.
    They flutter aimlessly as if lost in the midst of dream.
    In two hours, I hear, their wings will fall and drop them home to thrive or die.

    Yesterday’s rain took us inside
    trading shade for shelter
    to share a Sunday lunch with friends.

    Today the sun glistens over puddles,
    the air feels clean, cobwebs glitter,
    alive with earthy fragrances.

    Breath deepens, heart quickens,
    there is a bounce in the season:
    I want to catch its tune.

    Soon the grass will grow green again
    before the first frosty mornings,
    as usual I wish for a drizzle on my birthday.

    Inside, a child wonders,
    tracing California with a finger on a blue rug:
    “the world does not fit on a rug.

    Too many maps crowding Wikipedia
    telling stories of migrations
    —atoms, animals, tectonic plates, people—

    Over centuries and beyond
    six thousand years old for some,
    several billion years for many, many, most others.

    The world is worth a million maps before one rug is born
    out of the weaver’s hand or the machine that replaced it,”
    the child pursues aloud within mother’s earshot.

    My child has grown, she thinks,
    like grass on October Sundays
    between new and full moon.

    I see the fruit of the buckeye dangling like tiny lanterns in the dusky sky;
    soon persimmons will hang round and orange in naked branches,
    like ornaments out of season glowing through morning fog or against bright blue skies.

    Christine Renaudin’s writing has been featured in several of The Write Spot’s Sparks, as well as in The Write Spot anthologies:  “Discoveries,” and “Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year,”  available at your local bookseller and on Amazon (print and as an e-reader).

    Christine lives, writes, and paints in Petaluma, CA. She is also a dancer. Her most recent performances in 2022 include Sunset in Spring (Fort Bragg, May 2022), The Slow Show (San Francisco, September 2022), Run, Or Don’t (San Francisco, April 2023).An avid practitioner of Contact Improvisation, she facilitates the monthly West Marin Contact Improvisation Jam at The Dance Palace in Point Reyes Station. She loves to see these various practices interact and inform her art-making process.

    Marlene C

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  • Halloween

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Halloween

    By Tina Deason

    This season holds mystery and thrill, as the sun fades and the fog clings to the earth. The darkness hides creatures and haunted beings. The empty trees have died for a bit, but plan to return in the spring. The thought of witches casting spells and making potions right out in the open after hiding away for the eleven other months of the year, intrigues me.

    The creaking bones of the dead and the soft sound of earth moving as the zombies unearth themselves to rise to life. . .

    And Dracula!

    I had the most fear of Dracula when I was a kid. I used to slam my hand against the light switch and run up the stairs as fast as my legs could get me to the top. In my mind, I’d hear the basement door below flying open, the sound of thunder and pouring rain, and then, in the flash of lightning, he would be standing on the threshold. Dracula in his black cape with red lining and his white shirt. He’d wear his family medallion and the twinkle of his fang would scare the hell out of me. I could imagine his black polished shoes as he stood there, in the rainiest weather I could dream of, and he waited patiently for me to invite him in.

    All of that happened in a split second while I ran to the top of the stairs and opened the door to the main floor of the house. On the other side of the door was a warm, cheery home where no one could get to me. Our house was built by my dad, and so I felt as if the fortress could never be invaded, and old Count Dracula could stand in the rain forever for all I cared.

    At least, when I closed the door at the top of the stairs.

    Tina Deason lives in Sonoma County, CA. She is a wife, mother, grandma.

    She is the author of “One’s Own Sweet Way,” a novel about her daughter’s challenges with debilitating anxiety in high school.

    Tina is also a spiritual leader who writes rituals and ceremonies. 

    Marlene C

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  • One Cup At A Time

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    One Cup At A Time

    By DSBriggs

    Judith saw her hand reaching out and towards her mug. She noticed since her brain injury, she had to mentally plan any movement step by step.

     She closed one eye so that only one mug was in her vision.

    “OK. Lift the hand out of the lap. Make sure the arm isn’t taking a side trip of its own.

     All right, aim for the mug on the right. Uncurl fingers. That’s progress. No one has to unbend and stretch ‘em.”

    The knuckles on her hand were swollen and she noticed she was thinking in third person. 

    “My knuckles, my knuckles are swollen. I have crooked fingers too.”

    She watched her arm and hand work in unison as she reached for her mug. She mentally told herself to grab as tight as she could and to slowly slide the glazed stoneware cup off the table.

    It was heavy! Was it hot? She wasn’t sure. Her temperature gauge had been slow to return. 

    Judith watched the rim approach her face. She was quite relieved when her lips met the cup lip. The swallowing exercises had begun to pay off as only a little dribble from the left side slid down her chin to plop gently on her sweatshirt. 

    She couldn’t afford to get distracted, so she watched the mug slowly inch back towards the table. 

    She saw her hand begin to shake from the exertion of keeping herself from flinging. Overcompensating as the  Occupational Therapist would say.

    “Now lift! Dammit!” as she watched.  

    She let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

    “Good  job,” she told herself and began to cry again. 

    DSBriggs continues to reside in Northern California. Dog, quilts and good friends occupy her time in between bouts of reading and writing.

    She loves writing in short bursts and with prompts.

    She has felt honored to have been published in The Write Spot Collections: “The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries,” The Write Spot: Possibilities,” and “The Write Spot: Writing as a Path to Healing. Available in print and as ereaders at Amazon.

    Marlene C

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  • September Light

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    September Light

    By Cheryl Moore

    From the terrace, over the wooden fence with its lattice trim, the hills glow golden.

    A shadow of eucalyptus stretches across, cutting off the light. Beyond, higher hills rise—these with a woodland coat, perhaps pines or other conifers, roll gently against the pale blue sky. A turkey vulture slowly circles with its ever-present eye.

    A fence running across the golden grass bisects the slope—earlier cattle grazed, gone now.

    The shadows grow—longer and longer—the glowing gold slowly dims as the sun edges lower and lower toward the earth’s rim.

    On this September day with the equinox not far away, the evening approaches more swiftly, in preparation for the long nights to come, short days of limited sun—another year passing, another year to come.

    Cheryl Moore grew up in the mid-west, went to college in San Francisco, then lived in foreign lands before returning and eventually settling in Sonoma County.

    In recent years, she lives in a house and garden where deer nibble on roses,  raccoons dine on fallen figs, and her bird feeders are busy.

    A nearby river offers opportunities to observe waterfowl.

    Seeing and writing about these miracles of nature are adventures in living.

    Marlene C

  • All In Good Time

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    All in Good time

    By Lynn Levy

    “How do you work it?” Joe finally asked.

    Agnes smiled. It was one of her rules. No cell phones in the house. Not no phones, but by the time these kids got handed over to her, less-is-more turned out to be a good starting place.

    “What’s the phone number?” Agnes asked.

    Joe shrugged, which was not a surprise. Kids didn’t memorize numbers anymore. The phone stored them.

    “Alright,” Agnes said. “The first thing you have to do is memorize the phone number here. Get it down until you can say it by heart. It’s just 10 numbers. 304-555-0058. Say it back.”

    “Three oh four,” Joe started and faltered. “Can I write it down, at least?” Joe asked.

    Agnes shook her head, and repeated the number. This first test told her a lot about the child. The reward was to talk to a friend – an important act of connection. At that age, they craved their friends even if they couldn’t say why. She watched them overcome the small hurdle, to memorize her phone number and their friends’ – which of course Agnes had. She knew all the important numbers for the kids she took in. CPS was used to it by now, and her kids did well, and often asked to stay. Not always, but more than less, so they did as she asked and didn’t argue.

    Some kids got angry at the task. You could tell a lot about someone by how they dealt with frustration. The bright kids generally had no trouble memorizing, but they might react with boredom or annoyance or curiosity, or they might be matter-of-fact about it. All of that told Agnes something.

    Joe needed about 10 minutes to memorize her number, then he had the hang of it, of remembering the short bits instead of all 10 at once, and learning his friend Gabe’s number took only a moment. It was too soon for hugs, but Agnes patted the back of his hand.

    She angled the heavy phone toward him and took the receiver off the hook. “Here,” she said.

    Joe took it, his hand visibly dipping. He wasn’t expecting the weight.

    He held it for a second, and Agnes tipped her chin at him. He put the receiver up to his ear, gingerly. “What’s that noise?” he asked.

    “It’s called a dial tone. It lets you know the phone is ready to work.” Another thing lost with cell phones, that audible connection to the machinery of it all.

    She dialed the first digit of Gabe’s number, then the second and third.

    “Really?” Joe said.

    “You do the rest,” Agnes prompted.

    He finished the number, then looked a bit relieved at the familiar ringing tone.

    “Hey,” he said when Gabe answered. He stood up, as if to go somewhere else, and then realized he was tethered. She watched the implications play across his face. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t speak freely with Agnes present.

    “I’ll just be in the kitchen,” she said.

    Being assigned to Agnes was like getting in a time machine, kids said. She had a bit of a reputation that way. Kids talked about her, but they didn’t really know what it meant until they got there.

    Agnes didn’t hate technology, not really, but she felt it made people dependent. And people who were dependent had a harder time climbing out of the mire of their own problems. So, she made her kids memorize phone numbers, so they would learn to retain important information. She made them talk to their friends, not text, so they would learn to pay attention to voices and inflection. She taught them to read paper maps, and navigate for her when they wanted a ride. And she taught them to use the typewriter, so they would slow down and think about what they wanted to say.

    Of course, eventually, they all left her, and rejoined the present, and the moment they did, they all went and got their own phones again, first thing, the thing they’d most longed for, most missed. But if they were with Agnes long enough, some of them, not all, but many, found it had changed. Found that it was easier, after all, to understand subtext in the tone of a friend’s voice than in their choice of emoji. Found that a drained battery was not a cause for panic. Found they felt more choice and control over when to attend to it, and when to ignore it.

    “You got Agnes?” the older kids would say to the younger ones. “She’s cool, but you won’t feel the same about your phone after,” they’d say.

    Of course, it wasn’t just the trip to the past, the Bakelite rotary phone and TV with 13 channels and manual typewriters that changed the kids. It was Agnes herself, and how she used her throwback world to help them reach themselves.

    “You won’t feel the same about your phone,” some would say, sagely. But the ones who really got it said, “You won’t feel the same about yourself.”

     Lynn Levy lives in Northern California with her husband, an overly familiar wild scrub jay called “Bubba,” and an enormous wisteria. She and the wisteria are in negotiations regarding ownership of the patio trellis.

    Marlene C

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  • A Simple Building

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    A Simple Building

    By Cheryl Moore

    A simple building lacking in flare

    Why am I so often drawn there?

    Roaming its shelves, tasting its wares

    A whole wide world available there

    Journeys take me around the world

    And when I no longer want to roam

    Work on gardens, on business

    On cooking and art

    And English lit and Shakespeare

    To keep me smart

    Not to mention poetry

    To suit the fussiest muse

    So much to read, no time to lose.

    Cheryl Moore grew up in the mid-west, went to college in San Francisco, then lived in foreign lands before returning and eventually settling in Sonoma County.

    In recent years, she lives in a house and garden where deer nibble on roses,  raccoons dine on fallen figs, and her bird feeders are busy.

    A nearby river offers opportunities to observe waterfowl.

    Seeing and writing about these miracles of nature are adventures in living.

    Marlene C

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  • Rock Climbing

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page

    Rock Climbing

    by Su Shafer

    Not looking down is easier

                when you’re struggling up.

    The focus is ALL up

                the next up

                            finger hold – up

                                        foot hold – up

                                                    carabiner solid – secure up.

    The hands know how to find the hammer without looking.

    Down is not in the picture.

    Up is in careful, methodical inches

                step by step

                            hold by hold

                                        the goal is ahead

                                                    edging closer and closer.

    It’s only when you get to the top

                            that you realize how far down is

                            to get home.

    The dizzy certainty is that
    INSTANT DOWN

                            is imminent

                                        and permanent.

    CHOREOGRAPHED DOWN

                            Is trying to control the Law of Gravity

                            with sweaty hands and

                                        and a heart mde of lead, thumping hard

                                                    like a cannonball to your balance.

    Realizing the top is only one long “oh shit!” moment of aloneness

                                       

                            because only Death’s hand

                           will catch you

                                       if you make a mistake

                                                   and fall.

    Su Shafer is a creative crafter, fabricating bits of writing in poetry and short stories, and other bits into characters that appear in paintings or sit on various bookshelves and coffee tables.

    She lives in a cottage on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, where the tea kettle is always whistling and the biscuits freshly baked. One never knows who might stop by to share a rainy afternoon. And all are welcome.

    Marlene C

  • To Bee or Not Too Bee

    To Bee or Not Too Bee

    By Caryl Sherman

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    What brings me comfort are the moments I sit outside, in my private little apartment garden, reading a book whose words intrigue and delight me.

    The big black shiny honey bees are flitting about my blooming flowers, sipping their nectar and laughing with joy.

    Yes, I can hear them. Maybe you can’t, but I have cultivated a special and long lasting relationship with them.

    They are my neighbors, and my friends. They fly to see me everyday. They are loyal and perpetually consistent with their love.

    I rise with anticipatory excitement as I hustle outside! Which one will I see today as I gleefully read to them aloud?

    Does it bring us comfort? Are we the same, even though we appear so different?

    We are living things. We matter! We grow intrinsically, day by day, as we flourish among the colorful and newly sprouting Spring flowers.

    I celebrate our mutual understanding. We are God’s special and intimate compatriots. We can sort out our differences at a later time!

    Don’t you think?

    Caryl Sherman is a woman of a certain age, who aspires to write, and bridge a mutual understanding between herself and her readers. This is an art form that continually grows and matures within her heart. And, when it works, she can’t think of anything better!

    Marlene C