A Dream of Peace

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I dreamt that I traversed the sands of time

to a place mysterious and sublime.

Where gigantic trees with branches stout,

safely nestled all feathered friends about,

 

providing shelter from many foe,

yet allowing freedom to come and go.

Silky soft leaves whose gentle caress

becalms restless souls, soothes with fine finesse

 

young and old alike; no bias here

where all live in peace for many a year.

Through the sands a winding river ran

giving sustenance to both beast and man.

 

Surprisingly blue with not a trace

of sinister longings upon its face.

It speaks of a sweet love; it calls to me,

“Step right in,” it says, “ and I’ll set you free

 

from all that ails; as well sin and pain.

You have nothing to lose, but much to gain.”

With tremulous step I slowly crept

into her warm, comforting arms.  I slept.

 

Or thought I did, for there soon appeared

hosts of angels. I panicked, afeared

of my demise. But to my surprise

they lifted me on high with joyous cries.

 

The night did end. My dream soon left.

The suffering world found me quite bereft

and yearning for that heavenly place

whose welcoming arms did me quick embrace.

 

One thing alone I brought home with me:

knowledge that all men could soar high and free

seeking truth, wisdom, righteousness, and grace.

making earth a truly heavenly place.

The Storm

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Thunder rocked the house while lightning danced across the sky.  Stan Ellis, a slightly built fifteen year old, stood on the front porch, watching the show.  Simultaneous bursts struck at a couple of trees on the nearby hills, sending puffs of smoke into the moist air.  He wondered where his grandpa was. He hated to think of the old man out driving in this terrible weather.

Stan’s eyes followed the gravel drive from the front of the barn, through the wooden gate that enclosed their property, and out toward the state highway that went into Bozeman.  No rusty red truck rumbling home.

A jagged bolt of lightning plunged into the field just beyond the horses’ corral.  The impact sent small rocks flying and a dust cloud filled the air.  The horses stabled in the barn screamed in fear. Stan knew he’d better check on the horses and make sure that all were safe in their stalls.

Pulling on his anorak, he ran down the steps and across the yard, hoping to beat the next bolt.  Just as he pulled open the barn door, another hit, stronger than before.  Stan held on to the door as the earth trembled, absurdly terrified that he might fall.  Eyes huge, he saw a nearby fir tree burst into flame like a forgotten shish kebab on a grill.

Stan stepped into the cool semi-darkness of the barn and pulled the door closed.  It slid easily on its well-greased track.  After dropping the latch into place, he turned to examine the animals.

Dopey and Suzy-Mae stood in the back of their stall, brown eyes as large as platters.  The stallion’s head draped over the mare’s shoulder, his nuzzle stroking her mane.  Dopey snuffled in a whisper-like voice, trying to calm his frightened partner.

Big Joe’s hooves clattered against the sides of his stall, a staccato beat that seemed to match the pounding of Stan’s heart.  The big horse’s snorts sounded like rifle shots, and Big Joe’s sides were covered in a foam-like lather.  Stan knew he’d better wipe Big Joe down before he left the stables.

Betsy and her foal, Spotter, squealed when the ground shook from another blast. They stood at the back of their stall, with ears pulled back, seeming to be listening to the pounding rain.

At the back end of the barn, Lucifer, the most gentle of the bunch, snorted, neighed, screamed, and bucked when another round of thunder shook the barn.  This would be Stan’s first target. Lucifer was his grandpa’s favorite, a horse that was bought for Stan’s mother to ride when she was young.

“Hey, boy.  Lucifer boy.  It’s OK, big boy,” he softly crooned as he approached the stall.  Whistling the stallion’s favorite tune, “Edelweiss,” he stepped closer and closer, hands outstretched in a pleading fashion.  When even with the stall door, Stan peered in over the edge.  Lucifer plunged forward, crashing into the wood, nearly cracking it down the middle.  “Calm down, Lucifer.  Calm down, boy.”

Stan picked up a handful of sweet hay, the stallion’s favorite, and held it gingerly toward the horse’s mouth.  Still whistling, the young man slithered forward at turtle speed.  Lucifer’s eyes rolled, showing white even in the gloom of the stall.  Foam dripped from the horse’s mouth, and his sides heaved and rattled.  Stan moved closer, still offering the treat.  “Come on, boy.  Easy, boy.”

When thunder sounded again, Lucifer burst through his door, shattering the wood as easily as breaking toothpicks.  Stan jumped out of the way of the flailing hooves just in time to avoid being struck a deadly blow to the head.

He cowered against the back of the barn as the terrified horse raced up and down the center.  Stan trembled in fear, leaning tightly against the door to Knight’s stall.  The giant horse suddenly stopped running and looked around the barn with terrified eyes. Taking advantage of the temporary calm, Stan took a step into the center aisle.  “Here I am, boy.  Come here, Lucifer.  Come to me, boy.”  His hands shook, but he kept his voice soft and calm.

After shaking his head up and down a few times, Lucifer allowed Stan to approach.  Sides quivering, spittle flying from his gritted teeth, Lucifer was far from relaxed.  “Let me touch you, boy,” Stan crooned.  He resumed whistling and watched as the horse’s eyes focused on the hay and the hand.  “That’s it, boy.  That’s it.”

When Lucifer took the first tentative nibble, Stan grabbed his halter.  After pulling the giant head toward his chest, Stan offered the last of the hay, and then began stroking the black muzzle.  The stallion slowly calmed, thanks to the passing of the storm and the persistent cooing and petting of the young man.

Once the horse’s eyes narrowed to a more normal size, Stan urged him forward.  They walked from one end of the barn to the next, stopping only to turn and change directions.  In time, Lucifer’s breathing took on its changed cadence.  “That’s the way, boy.  That’s the way.”  Stan wondered where to put Lucifer now that his stall door was shattered.  Not in with Big Joe.  They’d fight and get each other riled up.  Not with Betsy, either.  Lucifer hates Spotter.  He decided to put him in Knight’s stall as it was empty.  Grandpa had taken his Appaloosa into Dr. Steinway’s clinic for some kind of operation, and so the stall would be available for a few days.

Stan walked Lucifer to the stall and opened the door.  Agitated about entering another horse’s place, the stallion reared in protest.  Stan jumped out of the way of the hooves.  “Hey, boy.  No problem.  Knight’s gone for a few days.  He won’t mind.”  Lucifer instantly calmed, as if he understood every word.

“Go on, now,” Stan said.  “Step in.  Step in, boy.”  The stallion did as told, as meekly as the lamb he normally was.  “Yeah, that’s it.  You okay now?”  Stan picked up a soft cloth and rubbed the horse’s sides and neck. When Lucifer was quiet, Stan checked the food and water, and then quietly stepped outside.  He closed the door and dropped the latch into place.

Now that the stallion was calmer than before, Stan rechecked the other horses.  He spoke to them and whistled each one’s special song.  Within minutes, all were relaxed, and even Big Joe was wiped down.

Stan left the barn and headed back to the house.  His grandfather still was not home to prepare dinner, so he went into the kitchen to find something to eat.  The refrigerator light did not come on when he opened the door. The clock on the microwave was dark, and when Stan flicked the switch for the ceiling lights, nothing happened.

            He dug into the meat drawer and pulled out some sliced turkey, and then he got out the mayonnaise, some leaves of lettuce, and a slice of mozzarella cheese.  He assembled a mammoth sandwich, tossed a handful of chips on his plate, and poured himself a tall glass of water.  Stan carried his meal out to the front porch, sat in his usual chair, placed the glass on a nearby table, and balanced the plate on his lap.  As he ate, he watched lightning bolts, far off in the distance, as they zigzagged across the darkening sky.  The air had that fresh smell that always followed rain.

As night came on, Stan gave up his watch and went inside.  The electricity was still out, so with nothing to do, he decided to go to bed early.  He was worried about his Grandpa, wondering if he was safe, holed up somewhere in town, or stuck in mud out on the road.  There was nothing he could do about it, so Stan pulled off his shoes, socks, jeans and shirt, and then climbed into bed.  He stared at the dark ceiling, trying to recall if his grandfather had said anything about visiting Uncle Jack, or dropping in on his old friend, Zechariah.

In time Stan’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic cadence and his worried face relaxed.

 

            “Stan, wake up, boy.  You’re having a nightmare,” a familiar voice penetrated the haze that fogged Stan’s brain.  A rough hand stroked his right cheek while another squeezed his left shoulder.

Stan fought back, trying to escape the demon that held him in a vise-like grip.

“Settle, boy.  It’s me, Grandpa.”

Stan opened his eyes into the dark of his own bedroom.  He made out the silhouette of his grandpa, leaning over him.  “Grandpa?  Is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s me.  You’re safe now.  You’re safe.  Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he said as he removed his hands from his grandson’s shoulders, and then sat on the edge of the bed.  “You were dreaming.  It must have been one heck of a nightmare.  I’ve never seen you so scared.”

“It was terrible.  The barn was on fire and the horses were calling for help.  I opened the door, thinking there was a lion in there, but this thing…this thing came after me.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  It…it tried to kill me.  I had the rifle, but I couldn’t squeeze the trigger.”  He stared into the darkened room, seeing the creature once again.  “Grandpa, are the horses safe?”

“Yes, they’re fine.  Everything’s fine.  The power’s still out, but everything else is fine.  How about you, boy?”

Fully awake now, Stan reached for his grandfather’s gnarly hand.  Finding it, he gave it a firm squeeze of gratitude.  “I’m glad you’re here.  I couldn’t remember if you were coming home or not.  That was a bad storm, Grandpa.  It scared Lucifer.”

“Don’t worry about it, boy.  I got hung up at Becker Creek.  The darn thing overflowed its banks.  And then lightning hit a tree right in front of me.  It burst into flame like a torch.  Next thing you know, the grass caught fire and surrounded the truck.  I thought I was a goner.  The gas, you know?  But your grandmother must have been watching over me, like she always does.  The flames moved away, silently creeping back into the woods as if blown by a ghost.  Her spirit has saved my life more than once.  I sure owe that woman.”

“Next time you see her, give her my thanks,” Stan whispered.

“I will, boy.  I will.”

“Did you see anything in the flames?  You know, like an animal?”

“I was too scared to pay attention,” Grandpa said.  “Even if I had, I couldn’t have done anything but sit there and watch. You calm enough now to go back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Stan answered as he settled back on his mattress.  “Would you mind staying for a bit?”

“You want me to hold off that demon?”

“Yeah.  That would be real nice.”

Silence fell, wrapping both men in a blanket of comfort.  Soon snores echoed off the walls: Grandpa’s deep rumbles harmonized with Stan’s staccato tenor notes.  They slept.

 

 

Reasons Why You Should Join a Writer’s Group

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Let’s face it, writing is a lonely profession.  You sit in front of your computer, concentrating on what words should come next, all alone. Just you, your keyboard and your monitor.

If you are lucky, you have s significant other who will read your words and give feedback, but many of us do not.

So you work on, thinking, typing and maybe even wondering if what you are creating is worthwhile, if anyone, anywhere, would want to read it.

If your friends ask what you do in your free time, they don’t know what to say when you respond, “I write.” Maybe you’ll get a, “That’s nice. What are you writing?” before they smile and move on.

So, what do you do to get the feedback and support that you need? Join some type of writers’ group.

The following are some excellent reasons why you need to take this step:

  1. Everyone needs motivation to keep going. When you know that a meeting is coming up and that you will be expected to share newly created work, you write.
  2. Ideas have to come from somewhere. If you’re lucky, your brain is able to come up with enough new ideas to keep you going for a long time. But what happens when you get stuck? Reading and critiquing the work of others and having your work critiqued as well, gives you an opportunity to see what others are doing. You get to ask clarifying questions, share ideas to see what others think of them, and even spend time brainstorming new places to take your story.
  3. What happens when you write yourself into a dead end? Who do you turn to? That’s another advantage of belonging to a writers’ group. You can ask advice about how to move to the next point, or to choose between beginnings.
  4. There is nothing that feels as good as a pat on the back. That’s what a good writers’ group will do for you. They’ll mention specific phrases that they like, descriptions that make a scene come alive, characters that are multidimensional. Hearing praise makes us want to work on, to move into the next segment of our story.
  5. If you post your work on a blog, you, hopefully, will get feedback from an even wider audience. That helps you see what is touching others beyond your narrow circle of readers. This is especially true when writing for a target age group. Say you’ve written the next hit Young Adult novel. How else to find out if it reaches the teenager unless at least one of them reads it? You don’t have to have a blog, but you might be able to find an online group in your genre.
  6. Belonging to a group that enjoys what you do, that writes and critiques and posts work, makes you a professional. Isn’t that what all writers want to be? You can also join your local writers’ club, such as the California Writers’ Club which has branches all over the state.

 

There are probably a host of additional reasons why you should join a group. Go online and research. I’ll bet you can find a hundred more.

I hope this helps.

 

The Importance of Tone

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Tone is an important component in any piece of writing. Tone is set by conveying emotions or feelings through the choice of words. The way a character feels about an idea or concept or event, or even another person can be determined through the facial expressions that character uses, through gestures such as movement, action and arm waving, and even in the voice used.

 

The following are three examples of tone. the protagonist, Nicole, is the same in all three, but her attitude as she approaches a mundane, but necessary task is what changes the overall tone of each piece.

Version #1

 

The house was a mess.  The kids’ toys were scattered all over the family room floor, random socks hung abandoned across chair arms, and dishes in various stages of decay were piled high in the sick. Nicole looked at the mess in disgust. She knew she should do something about it, but lacked the energy to tackle the project without first taking a sustaining sip of her favorite drink: whiskey.

She poured herself a wineglass full, turned on the television, then sat in her husband’s recliner. She pushed back, sending the footrest high, leaned back and settled in for her soaps. All that television drama fortified her belief that there was no such thing as a good marriage. After all, look at her own.

Her husband, a handsome, successful businessman, left home before dawn and came home after the kids were in bed. He did nothing around the home, not even picking up his own dirty clothes. He seldom spent time with the kids on weekends, and when he was home, his phone was glued to his ear focusing on solving one crisis after another. Nicole often wondered if he was having an affair, but she was too tired to care and too terrified to ask.

When her shows were over and the whiskey long gone, Nicole began work. She flung the toys in the direction of the toy box, not caring if they actually fell within its sides. Next she tackled the socks, picking them up one by one, then tossing them out in the garage, where they landed in front of the hamper. The dishes were so disgusting that Nicole didn’t want to touch them, but she had no choice. If she didn’t wash them, no one would.

With furrowed brow, Nicole decided to tackle the dishes next. The easiest ones were on top, for they were from breakfast. She had fixed the kids pancakes which they drowned in syrup, now a sticky sludge. She scrubbed it off, sometimes having to exert a little muscle. She scraped off as much food remains as she could, then rinsed each dish before setting it in the dishwasher. It was a tedious task.

Next down were the ones from last night’s dinner. Spaghetti. Thankfully the sauce rinsed off quite nicely. Stacked next to the sink were the pots and pans. Now they were a huge mess. Crusted sauce. Hardened batter. Bits of hamburger stuck to the bottom of the skillet. Nicole kept at it until everything was either clean and put away or stacked in the dishwasher.

That was not the end of the job, however. There was dusting to do and changing of the kids’ beds. She went into the boys’ room first and stripped off the blankets and sheets. One set she put in the washer. The other she left on the floor. Back in the room, she sprayed the mattress covers with Febreeze and then ran a dust rag across the tops of the chest of drawers and around the legs of the beds.

In her daughter’s room she did the same.

Next on tap was the bathroom that the kids used. It was a mess. Damp towels in jumbles on the floor. Dried toothpaste in the sink. A dirty ring around the tub. While Nicole cleaned, inwardly she clenched her stomach, fighting the revulsion that threatened to erupt.

She loved her kids, but hated cleaning up after them. They were all of an age where they should pick up clothes and toys and change beds, but Nicole didn’t want to upset the family order. She was a stay-at-home mom with nothing important to do, so, according to her husband, she should be the one to attend to those details.

It made her so mad that somedays she thought about leaving. Considered packing a suitcase full of her favorite clothes and walking out the door while the kids were at school. She wouldn’t call to check up on them, wouldn’t come by the house to see if it still stood, wouldn’t email or text or make any attempt at contact. But where would she go? That’s what stopped her.

While she waited for the last load of laundry to dry, she poured herself another whiskey and settled in front of the television. She watched a mindless interview-type show in which brokenhearted ex-lovers aired their woes to millions. There was screaming and yelling and insults being tossed back and forth, to the enjoyment of the live audience.

Nicole would love to have the gumption to tell her husband what she thought of him. To complain about his lack of involvement in the family’s lives. To yell about all the things he does not do around the house. To slap him in the face and kick him in the shins. But that wasn’t her style.

She kept it all bottled up inside, telling no one how she felt. Abandoned. Ignored. Used. Taken advantage of. Unloved.

Nicole got up when she heard the dryer buzz. She gathered the sheets and blankets and made her daughter’s bed.

Then she went into the kitchen and began preparations for dinner. She’d just started browning a roast when her kids burst through the door. Their smiles, their energy, their hugs. That’s what she lived for. That’s what kept her going.

 

 

Version #2

 

Nicole loved spring. Birds sang out merry tunes as they built nests and prepared for the hatching of the eggs. Trees sprouted buds, harbingers of bright green leaves that would soon provide comfort and shade. The grass grew in the yard and flowers bloomed. It was a time of high energy. A time to do things.

For her, it meant cleaning. Many of her friends moaned about time wasted dusting furniture, and a few even hired housekeepers to spare themselves of the task. But not Nicole. She loved the smell of furniture polish. Loved the waxy feel on the rags. Admired the shine on the table tops and legs and the tops of dressers and vanities.

She disliked cobwebs, but loved taking her whisk into corners and across the beams, removing every trace. It felt terrific to see all remnants gone. Her walls and corners free of evidence that a spider had ever been there.

Nicole’s favorite room was her newly remodeled kitchen with its honey colored cabinets and granite countertops. She whistled as she scrubbed the doors and drawer fronts, taking time to ensure that all finger smudges were gone. Using her special polish, she worked it into the countertops, rubbing until the surfaces sparkled.

After doing all that, it was time to take a damp mop to her wood floors. There was something cathartic about erasing footprints and going over and over every inch of the floor until it shone.

Finished with that project, Nicole got the vacuum cleaner out of the closet and pulled it down the hall. Her bedroom was the only room in the house that still had carpet. She plugged in her machine and pushed it around the room, bending over to get it as far under the bed as possible. Nicole loved how the vacuum made each fiber stand up tall.

She left the most challenging rooms for last: her kids’ bedrooms. Her daughter was a tidy little thing. Her treasures were neatly aligned along shelves her husband had built and hung. Her clothes were folded and in drawers, her shoes matched under the bed. Even her bed was always made. Nicole hated to disturb her things, but dusting had to be done. She was careful to put each item back in its spot, each shoe in alignment. After washing her bedclothes, she made sure that all corners were tucked properly, the pillow fluffed and the comforter centered.

Her sons was not as organized. Their baseball mitts were tossed on the floor next to dirt encrusted cleats and grass-stained shirts. Books were piled on the floor next to each bed, the top ones with lying upside down and spread-eagled.  Nicole bent to pick up random socks and crumpled shirts left under the bed and across the floor.

She striped each bed and carried sheets and blanket to the garage. Once the washer was going, Nicole returned to her sons’ room with dust rag and polish. She cleaned all surfaces, singing to herself a little tune that she sang to her kids as she tucked them into bed each night: “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” Not a particularly childlike tune, but one her kids loved.

Nicole saved the bathrooms till last. Her husband, thankfully, cleaned all the toilets. That was something they had agreed on before they got married. He also scrubbed the shower and tub because it was easier for him than it was for her. That left the sinks and floors. Nicole didn’t mind removing the bits of toothpaste her kids and husband left behind. It reminded her of how much she loved them, how happy she was to have them in her life, how pleased she was to be there for them.

When her work was done, Nicole took one last walk through the house, looking for things she might have missed. She did find a spot of dust on the front of her husband’s chest of drawers and a cobweb high in the corner of her daughter’s room. These she quickly removed and then put away her cleaning supplies.

Finished, Nicole got herself a cold soda, turned on her computer and began to write. She composed a poem that spoke of the beauty of spring, of familial love, of commitment and devotion. She smiled.

 

 

Version #3

 

When Nicole arrived home after an exhausting day at work, the dog greeted her at the door. This was a harbinger of things to come, for the dog was supposed to have been put in the backyard right before her husband left the house. She bent over and patted the dog on the top of her head, gave her a few kisses and told her how much she loved her. And then Nicole noticed the smell.

It was an acrid stench. It seemed to be coming from all directions at once. Nicole knew what had happened. The dog, in desperation, had urinated and pooped in the house. Now Nicole had to find the deposits, remove them, and cleanse.

Tears fell. She was too tired to deal with this. It wouldn’t have happened if her husband hadn’t been distracted. He must have gotten a call from work, telling him to come immediately to put out some new fire, and then rushed out of the house, forgetting all about the poor dog.

She pulled out her phone to call him, to complain, to whine, but then realized how childish it would seem.

“Oh, well,” she thought. “Might as well change clothes first.” Nicole went into her bedroom and slipped into her work jeans and an old, sloppy t-shirt.

It wasn’t the dog’s fault, but Nicole did not want to look at her for fear of striking out in anger, so she put the dog outside and locked the door. It was like punishing an innocent, she knew, but it also made a statement as to how she felt about the mess left for her to clean up.

Then the search began. She found two piles of shit on the bathroom floor, which she scooped using a plastic bag. Then she mopped until the floor sparkled. She cussed and swore as she worked, letting the words fly with each movement of the mop.

There was more shit in the front room, nicely deposited in front of the television, in a spot that she would never have missed. It was a runny glob. The poor dog must be ill, Nicole thought. She fell into her recliner and let the tears flow. The mess. And now a sick animal.

Where would she find the time to take the dog to the vet? Her husband should have to do it. Hold up his end of the deal. She hadn’t wanted a dog. It’s not that she didn’t like them, but Nicole felt it wouldn’t be fair to leave a dog home alone long hours while they went off to work. And then the dog would have to be boarded when and if they traveled. She had protested, but her husband won the argument. He brought home a beautiful black lab puppy. All wagging tail and smiling eyes.

Cute as a tiny puppy, but too big to be trapped indoors for hours on end. Nicole had insisted that a run be built in the backyard, so her husband had hired a contractor. It was perfect. Shade. Fresh water. Shelter. The dog hated it, Nicole knew, and it made her cry to put the dog out there, which is why she left it up to her husband.

By the smell, Nicole knew she’d find more evidence of the dog’s discomfort if she could just get up and get going. Instead she turned on the television to the horrors of the evening news. She cried when she heard about the murder of a teen who was doing nothing more exciting than walking home from school. More tears fell when the news spoke of soldiers killed in a battle in Afghanistan. Again she cried at the mention of a wayward whale that had washed ashore and died on the beach. In fact, it seemed all she did was cry.

Nicole did not react when her husband came home. She didn’t respond when he called her name, nor when he bent over and kissed her cheek. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he gripped her hand in his. “Are you feeling okay? Is something wrong? Can I get you something?”

“Oh, hi,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong. I mean, the news makes me cry and I’ve no energy to finish cleaning up after the dog.”

“The dog?”

“You forgot to put her out. She made a mess all over the house.”

He stood and looked about. There was a puddle on the kitchen floor. A damp spot on the carpet near the back door and that runny pile in front of the television. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll do it while you rest.”

He busied himself about, cleaning and scouring and scrubbing and even fixing dinner, while Nicole sat and cried some more about the news.

 

 

Murder on American Idol

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Bobby Gaines knew she wasn’t the best singer in the contest and so she was terrified that this would be her last week on the show.  As the names of those who were safe were called, she became more and more sure that she was going to be the last one left. When they got down to the bottom two, Bobby sighed. The only other one left was Sandra Martinez, a sweet girl with a throaty alto that made her stand out as unique.

The host told Bobby and Sandra to come to center stage. Tears were beginning to pool in her eyes. This was it. Sandra would go on while Bobby would go home.
With a smile plastered on her face, Bobby stared at the three seated in the singers’ lounge: Dave, Curtis, and Willie. Curtis or Willie stood the best chance of winning.  Dave had limited range; he couldn’t hit the high notes with any accuracy and his low notes came out breathy and weak. Curtis sang country with a twang that grated on Bobby’s ears, but the judges seemed to like him. Willie sang ballads in the sweetest voice and with plaintive eyes that made girls weep. Bobby knew that, even if she did make it to the end, she could never beat the guys.

The emcee said,  “One of you will be leaving tonight, and the other is safe.”  He turned to the show’s judges and asked,  “Did America get it right?”

Paula Abdul said, “You are both great singers.  It’s about song choice.”

“You can’t sound like a karaoke singer and win this contest,” Simon Cowell said with a sneer.

“You got to be the bomb, baby,” Randy Jackson said, shaking his head.

“Over three million votes came in last night.  Let’s find out the results. Turn down the lights,” the host said as he tapped his right hand with a large card.

“Sandra, you sang A Hard Day’s Night, with an added country twist. Randy said it was pitchy.  Paula thought you looked beautiful.  Simon said it would be your last night.”

Then he turned to Bobby.  “You took on a Mariah Carey song.  Randy said you missed some of the high notes.  Paula said it was a big song, for a big voice.  Simon thought you would make a good wedding singer.”

After a long pause that seemed to last an eternity, he continued, “America voted.  Bobby, you are safe.”

Her eyes filled with tears.  While she didn’t really like Sandra as a person, that girl knew a lot about music, and had helped Bobby in fine-tuning melody changes that made each performance unique.  No one else had ever come forward like that, so Bobby knew she would truly be on her own from now on.

After the show was over, Bobby went back to her hotel room, following the three guys. She burned with jealousy at their joviality and seemingly endless energy.  She wished she exuded their confidence, their belief in themselves that they would win.

It had been an emotionally draining week, with rehearsals lasting long into the night.  Bed beckoned, and after coming up with a strategy to win, she fell asleep.

Shortly after her alarm went off at six, muffled shouts filled the halls. She pulled on a tank top and sweat pants, then opened the door.

“He’s dead!  Oh, my God!  He’s dead!” Dave shouted in the hall as he pulled at his mussed hair.

“Who’s dead?” Bobby asked.

“Curtis!  He’s blue around the mouth and he’s not breathing.  I don’t know what to do!”  Dave anxiously paced up and down the hall.

“I’ll call down at the desk,” she said as she ducked back into her room.  After placing the call, she walked over to her dresser and picked up her brush.  She ran it through her hair several times, and then put on her beat up flip-flops.  With a last glance in the mirror, Bobby erased the smug look from her face that would have exposed her true feelings, and then stepped into the hall.
The police had arrived.  A burly brunette ushered Dave to a loveseat near the elevators.  She indicated that he was to sit, and then she took out a notebook and started writing.  Bobby could see Dave’s lips moving, but she couldn’t hear a word.  His arms flew around in a melodramatic way, pointing down the hall, and then toward the elevators.

She walked down until she could see inside the suite.  Several officers bustled in and out, but when there was no one in the way, she had a clear view. Curtis was in the bed, with a couple of blue-clad paramedics hovering around him.

“Oh, my God!” Bobby cried.

“What’s going on?”  Willie sidled up to Bobby.  With his long legs and broad shoulders, he oozed strength.

“Curtis is dead,” Bobby said.  “Dave’s over by the elevators with a cop.”

“Who’d kill Curtis?”

“Who said he’d been killed?”

“Come on, Bobby.  Everyone hated him.  Curtis was so arrogant Dave nicknamed him King,” Willie brushed his long black hair over his shoulders.

“Do you think Dave did it?”

“Why would he?”

“Why not?  Dave was terrified of Curtis,” Bobby said.
“Who stands to benefit the most?”
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” Bobby purred as she leaned against Willie’s muscular chest. “No one would kill an opponent.”

“You would, I bet,” Willie said as he turned and sauntered down the hall.

“Hey, come back here!”  Bobby stomped after Willie.  “Don’t make comments like that and then walk away.  How dare you!”  She stopped just shy of Willie’s massive chest.  He towered over her petite five-foot frame.  “You can’t blame me for this! I had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t mean anything,” Willie said as he inserted his room key into the lock.

Bobby wasn’t one to back down from a fight, and this was an argument that she couldn’t afford to lose.  “Didn’t Dave say he’s done a lot of acting?”

“Yeah. So what?”

She whispered, “I think he’s putting on a show for the police.”

“Why would he do that?”

She giggled.  “You’re so clueless!  Dave’s gay, right?”

“Yeah. Big deal.”

Bobby said, “I bet he made a pass at you and you struck back.”

Willie glanced down the hall toward the elevators, and saw no one moving about.  “I’m not gay,” he hissed.  “Didn’t I ask you out for a drink earlier this week?  You refused, saying that you’d rather date Dave than me.”

“He asked me out, yes.  But whenever Dave was talking to me, your eyes were on him, not on me.”

“You’re one crazy woman,” Willie snarled.  He grabbed Bobby’s arm, and led her toward the stairwell.

“With Curtis out of the way, you and Dave could be roommates,” she said.  “Perfect for romance.”  As Willie pushed her through the door, Bobby cackled. “I don’t have time for kissy-face in the stairwell.  My rehearsal begins in forty-five minutes.  Let me go, Willie.” She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong.

“Shut up,” he said as he kicked the door shut with his right foot.  He slammed Bobby into the wall.  His face was a bright red, and a vein pulsed in his sweat-drenched forehead.

Bobby sneered.  “You’re in love with Dave.  I’ve seen you two holding hands when you thought no one was looking.”

Willie growled as he grabbed Bobby’s right arm. “You’re a liar, a snoop, and a troublemaker. I’m tired of you spreading rumors about people.” His face was bright red.  “Why do you think I’m gay?” he snarled, spittle sprinkling her face.

“Yesterday during the lunch break, I saw you slip your hand into Dave’s back pocket.  Then he placed his hand on top of yours, and leaned back against your chest.”

“You don’t even know what you witnessed!  You idiot!”  Willie slapped Bobby’s face, leaving a red imprint on her right cheek.  “You’re trying to ruin me.  What about Curtis?  What did you do to him?”

“Me?  I didn’t do anything to him, you moron.”

“I saw you sneaking out of his room this morning.  How’d you get the key?”

Bobby laughed.  “Dave’s the moron.  He got in late after your little tryst.  He was so loaded that he dropped his room key in the hall.  I thought I’d give it back.  Being helpful, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re as helpful as a rattlesnake,” Willie said.  He leaned over Bobby.  “You’re the murderer.  Wait until the press gets this information!”

Bobby spat in Willie’s face, and then stomped on his right foot.  She spun away as Willie reached for her.

“Watch out!” he shouted.

“No, you watch out,” Bobby took one step back.  “Curtis had to die. He would have made it to the top two.  I set Dave up.  He had to take the fall. Sure, I’m not the best singer, but I deserve to win.”

“You little brat!”  Willie leaned toward Bobby, forcing her to take another step backwards.  “You come off like a sweet little girl, but inside you’re poison.”

“You better watch yourself,” Bobby said.  “You get in my way, and I’ll do anything that it takes to win that recording contract.”

Willie slapped her again, sending Bobby staggering backwards.  Her left foot slid off the top step.  With arms whirling, and a startled look on her face, she tipped back, in horrifyingly slow motion.  Her balance gone, she fell.  Willie watched as she bounced down the stairs, and smiled when her skull slammed into the wall of the next landing.

He ran his hands through his hair, tugged the waistband of his perfectly creased jeans, and then went down the stairs.  Willie stopped by Bobby’s crumpled body.  “I win; you lose.”

 

My Opinion About Politics

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I hate politics, yet follow it faithfully. I understand that our democracy works because individuals can get on a public stage and brag about all they have accomplished and all they plan on doing, just so that the voters know who best represents their interests.

It’s like a bragging game in which the one who has the most to say, that offers the best package, wins. That person may not be the best for the smooth operation of our government, but the process has to play out.

There are those who choose not to vote as protest against the candidates, but that is dumb. Whether or not we like an individual, we have the right to mark a box for or against. Even if the one we wanted to be there is not.

This season is rampant with braggarts and bullies and haves. There are never any have-nots running for office as it takes tons of money to do so. If this is true, then none of the candidates truly represent the vast majority of Americans. None of them come from homes where food was not always plentiful and sometimes bills had to be postponed. None of them understand the life of everyday Americans, yet there are dupes who think they do.

Politics is about convincing voters that the candidate will do something for us that no other has ever done. I heard one individual from a small town saying that he was voting for a certain braggart because he knew that the candidate would reopen the bowling alley, the only entertainment in town.

I’m sorry to say, but that guy is sadly disillusioned. None of the candidates are going to reopen bowling alleys or rebuild theaters or give money to small restaurant owners. None of them are going to bring manufacturing jobs back to America as long as the minimum wage continues to rise and labor costs less overseas.

And what is even worse, as we’ve seen the last seven-plus years, is that Congress is so polarized that nothing gets accomplished. Every single incumbent thinks with the ballet in mind. Getting elected the next go-round. He/ She does not vote with Americans in mind. That we need roads rebuilt and strong education systems and jobs that offer dignity and housing to shelter our growing numbers of homeless.

None of them will do anything about the proliferation of guns because the organization that supports gun ownership has too many politicians in its pocket. Or at least in the gun sights.

I may be disenfranchised, but I still vote because it is my constitutional right to do so. If I didn’t, then I would have no right to complain about whoever wins, especially if the least objectionable of the options loses by a narrow margin. That would be my fault and the fault of every last person who fails to submit a ballot.

American politics may be a mess, but it is the best that we’ve got. This is still a democratic country where our rights are protected. We cannot let a few demigods strip away the rights that we’ve fought so hard to get. We cannot let the rich play with our money without considering the needs of the majority of Americans. We cannot let the government stay at a standstill just because politicians think with their pocketbooks.

So, get out and vote. For someone who represents what America stands for. Equality. Safety. Freedoms.

The Story of Spring

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Blessed Sun awakened, stretched,

and flew high into the sky.

Looking down on Mother Earth,

He smiled, spreading His golden

sunshine across Her mountains

with a brilliant golden hue.

 

Mother Earth smiled, reveling

in the spring-like warmth

that penetrated to the depths

of Her glorious soul.

 

To show Her gladness, She

ordered a rainbow of tulips

to burst through Her crust,

to open their buds in a

burst of color.

 

Blessed Sun bowed in thanks,

appreciation for the gift,

then slept behind a blanket

of darkening clouds.

 

Snow fell, a late-arrival,

covering Mother Earth’s gifts.

 

She called to Blessed Sun,

her friend, saying, “Arise!”

And He did, looking once

again at His lover.

 

All was well in the world.

Balance restored.

 

Mother Earth returned to work

creating new life,

while Blessed Sun came each

day to keep her company.

 

The cycle is unbroken.

All things Must End

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Dreamers navigate their way

through shadows deep and dark

searching for the light of morning,

marching across endless dry deserts

 

or searching towering mountain peaks

crowned by heavenly angels

whose glittery gossamer wings

flutter fleetingly in a gentle breeze

 

brushing the sleeper’s cheek

as lightly as mother once did,

helping to climb the ladder

of delicious dreams toward

 

a blushing sky, streaked

orange, pink, and baby blue

as the sun, ever so slowly,

rises to greet the morning

 

shirking off terrifying nightmares

of hideous monsters and demons

or relishing romantic love stories

sung by twinkling firelight

 

in a lover’s embrace,

broken most unwillingly only

to greet the dawn of day,

without thinking, without choosing,

 

unable to stop the inevitable

awakening as all must for

dreamers’ dreams must end.

Blood Red Days

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Children aren’t supposed to get sick.  Romanticized images of childhood days picture little darlings running, jumping, climbing, laughing, living life as freely as a butterfly flitting from flower to flower.  Even in prayer, when most solemn, those cherubic faces glow with rosebud color.  So it should be, forever and ever.

Unfortunately strange bugs invade, causing any possible varieties of illness.  Most we understand.  Tonsillitis, ear infections, colds, cuts, bruises, and even the occasional broken bone fall into that realm.  Kids are susceptible to germs, primarily because they play with “germy” things, and so we expect them to fall ill. But we pray that those times are few and far between.

When your four-year-old child’s urine turns the color of burgundy wine, however, the only normal reaction is fear.  So it was for my husband and I when it happened to our six year old daughter.

When it first occurred, we tried not to panic so as to not alarm our daughter. What we did do was make phone calls and tons of doctors’ visits.   We began with the pediatrician who treated the early occurrences as bladder infections, with rounds of antibiotics as a hopeful cure. When that didn’t do the trick, we were referred to a family urologist who was used to treating senior citizens who would willingly allow tubes and prodding. Not our daughter. She fought him with the strength of an army, clenching shut her legs and refusing to budge. I didn’t blame her. I thought the doctor a little too interested in seeing what was between my child’s legs

Our next doctor was a pediatric urologist/oncologist.  Imagine the fears those words triggered. Oncology. Cancer. Curable or not? We didn’t know or understand what the doctor was going to do. How he was going to make the determination, but we made the appointment and went to see him.

Months had passed by now, and the color of her urine had deepened from a subtle pink to a deep, dark red. It was frightening, to not only us, but to our daughter. Even a small child understands that urine was not supposed to be that color.

For my daughter’s sake, we put on happy faces. We attempted to disguise our deep-seated fears.  When she was out of visual range, we gathered close together and allowed ourselves to cry.  Of course, we prayed.

There were days when her urine was a healthy golden color and we tried to convince ourselves that she was cured. We wept with joy and gave thanks to the Lord.  But the space between those times slowly expanded, until it was pretty much guaranteed that we would see red, and only red.

Antibiotics proved ineffective, and so the pediatric urologist ordered x-rays to search for the still unknown cause.

Off we went to Alta Bates Hospital in Berkeley, California, one of the finest hospitals in the Bay Area.  Our daughter, now five, was placed on a cold, metal table.  She was given huge quantities of liquid to drink.  The x-ray machine was lowered until it hovered above my little girl’s lower abdomen.  She was told to urinate, right there on the table, in front of five total strangers.  She couldn’t do it and I didn’t blame her.

The next step involved the insertion of a tube which would allow the urine to flow.  Pictures were taken and analyzed.  We went home and waited, impatiently, to hear the results.  When they came, we were terrified and confused. Because of the way her bladder was constructed, it was unable to fully close.  Surgery was recommended and schedule

Within days we drove to Children’s Hospital in Oakland, just as the sun was beginning to peak over the hills.  It was a peaceful scene which helped to ease somewhat our nervousness. It was short-lived, for immediately after completing the required paperwork, she was whisked away by an efficient, yet friendly nurse.

My husband paced the floor of the waiting room, talking to himself.  I prayed, placing my daughter’s life in God’s capable hands.

This operation was a success. Her bladder now would close and allow her to control the flow of urine. However, during the surgery, the doctor discovered that her ureters did not enter the bladder at the correct angle.  Not only that, but the flaps that prevented urine from moving into the kidneys were missing.  Another operation was planned.

Despite the negative news, my husband and I eagerly took our little girl home, hoping that at least there might be some reprieve from the tinged urine.  It was not to be.

Within hours, her urine turned from a healthy golden hue to a blood red, bone-chilling liquid.  Several phone calls later, another trip to the doctor’s was scheduled.  She was again put on a regimen of antibiotics, hoping to stem off any invasion of germs that might interfere with the next operation.

Good Friday found us, once again, in the waiting room of Children’s Hospital.   My husband paced the floor while I pretended to read.  Both of us turned our hearts over to the Lord, again begging Him to watch over our only daughter.

In the midst of one of many recitations of the Our Father, I felt a gentle touch on my right cheek.  Instantly a calm washed over me, settling in my heart.  I nodded, and whispered, “Thanks.”  My eyes filled with tears of joy, and a smile burst through.  I knew, then and there, that everything would be fine.

When the doctor came to us dressed in his surgical greens, he was smiling. While he was inside our daughter’s bladder, he discovered a blood vessel that was weeping, something it was not supposed to do. He cauterized it, forever stopping the flow of blood into her bladder.

Because of the severity of the operation, she had to spend a week in the hospital.  It was scary for us. Imagine how frightening it was for her, spending nights without her parents nearby. The good news was that every day she got stronger.  Every day her urine became clearer.  Every day I gave thanks to the Lord for giving my daughter another day of life.

Those were trying times, for sure.  I had no choice but to rely on my faith, as even the most highly trained, respected pediatric urologist had had no idea what was wrong.  To this day, I firmly believe that the Lord stood by, watching, whispering advice in the doctor’s ear.  How else did he find the exposed vessel, the incorrectly seated ureters, the missing flaps, and the enlarged end of the bladder?

While the likelihood of her bleeding to death had been slim, she could easily have died of kidney failure.  If we had known about this earlier, we could have acted sooner.  For some reason, the Lord kept her alive long enough for medical science to rise to the occasion.

Faith kept me sane.  Faith allowed me to put aside my fears.  Faith was my best friend and constant companion. Thankfully that operation solved the problem and our daughter grew up to be a wonderful woman.

The Call of Books

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I love books. I love the weight of them in your hands. The way they balance so nicely, with little effort, falling only if you let it happen. And I don’t. I worship books for they take me into worlds where I will never go, into situations that I’ll never experience, into characters’ minds that, with luck, I’ll fall in love with.

I love the way a new book smells. Crisp and fresh as a spring breeze just after a storm. The pages turn with effort and often times stick together, making me work for every word. The binding, not yet creased, so that it almost squeaks when opened for the first time. The difficulty reading the syllables inside the crease…making me appreciate even more the effort the author put into the work.

I love owning books. I cannot go down the aisles of Target without stopping in the book section. I gently pick up a book, examine the cover image, imagine the story, turn it over and read the back. I open to the first page and read a paragraph. I can tell by that little encounter whether or not I’ll like the book. Whether it will speak to me, enticing me to delve in as if for a swim. I always buy at least one book, then take it home and add it to my pile.

We do not have a bookstore here, where I live, so when I am able to go into one, my eyes light up and adrenaline flows. It’s the same rush someone gets before climbing El Capitan in Yosemite or skydiving out of a plane. My eyes dart here and there, latching onto titles that are intriguing and covers that beckon. It doesn’t take me long to pick up a book and cradle it to my chest. To carry it with me through the store like a mother carrying her brand new baby.

I go from one section to the next, skipping some, stopping at others, always searching for the prize. I know that I could walk out with ten books, twenty books, maybe even fifty if I didn’t exercise self-control.

My love of books did not begin as a child, for we had no books at home and did not go to the library. My parents did not read to me and there were no relatives living nearby who took on that role. When I began school, I was introduced to reading. It did not come easily to me. Vowels made no sense and consonants jumbled together in so many different combinations that I could not formulate them into words. My teachers must have grown tired of saying the same things over and over to me, of sounding out the same words time after time.

It was not until fourth grade that it suddenly made sense. Thankfully I had a kind teacher who let me borrow books and bring them home to read over and over again. I don’t recall how many books I borrowed, but it must have been quite a few, for by the end of that year I was an excited and fluent reader. And then we moved into the country.

In order to get to school, my mother learned to drive. This turned out to be a blessing, for she sometimes took us into town to the library, where we could research topics for school as well as check out books. I began with nonfiction, reading everything I could about Native American people. From there I branched into stories about horses, reading entire collections by select authors. Back to nonfiction and biographies, where I learned about men and women who overcame odds to accomplish wonderful things.

One summer a most wonderful thing happened that forever changed my life. A bookmobile came into our neighborhood and parked a few houses down the street. At first I was only allowed to check out four books, which I easily read in the week. Soon the librarian allowed me five, and then six books as I always returned them in the same condition they had been when I checked them out.

I was hooked. Each book carried me away from my home life and into magical worlds. Worlds of real people doing marvelous things as well as fairies and monsters who battled for the salvation of humanity. I read with the abandon of an escape artist, giving my whole self to the story, enchanted until the very end. And then immediately picking up the next book and beginning a new adventure.

I don’t know what I would have done in life if it weren’t for the gift of reading that my teachers gave me. My mom had an eighth grade education and while my dad graduated from high school, he never went beyond that level. In my family, girls married at fourteen, dropping out of school to tend babies and home. And that was their life. Which would also have been mine, but through reading I discovered possibilities and opportunities that went far beyond marriage, motherhood and home.

Because of books my life is richer than it would be without them. I always have something waiting in the wings to enchant me. Something to carry me away. Something in which to immerse myself from the first page to the last.

I cannot imagine a world without books.