A verdant symphony echoes
Above, around, below,
Encompassing her free form,
A tender touch,
An ardent dance,
But an embrace that withers
When blows the cold tempest.
Life is ripped,
Their brown, broken skeletons exposed
In a forest of death.
She stops — alone —
Falls to barrenness.
The floppy rag doll tears —
The final seam undone.
My blog was featured on Writer’s Path today!
by Cynthia Hilston
There it was for probably the hundredth time on the sign outside my local library: writers group, meeting 8/18 2-4:00 PM. Okay, maybe not the hundredth time, but how many times did I drive past the library, which is about two point five miles from my house, and see that group advertised and not do a darn thing? The sign was one of those LED types that showed all the happenings at the library, from book discussion groups to story times for children. And my library had a writers group.
Of course, every time I saw that sign, I wondered, What do they do at those meetings? Do they just sit there and write? Do writing exercises? Or do they read each other’s work while there and comment on it?
View original post 1,527 more words
The infection in the house’s rickety bones began as a latent virus. Buried in the deepest marrow, the first stirrings were creaks, like a joint popping and settling. Age hid secrets with wrinkles of peeling paint and a history forgotten by a foregone mind. The disease was dismissed as the consequence of being time-worn, the house a skeleton, a dead thing sealed in a tomb.
Until the Marson family moved in.
“Ain’t she a beauty,” Tom Marson boomed in that Kentucky backroad twang he’d used to charm eighteen-year-old city gal Marcy twenty years earlier. He removed his ball cap and ran a hand through sweaty, thinning salt and pepper.
“She’s a fixer-up, more likely,” Marcy replied, her pouty lips saturated in the newest striking red her daughter so detested. She smoothed down her freshly trimmed brown bob.
Cora popped her gum and rolled her eyes. “It’s a piece of sh–”
The three-storey house was large. Cora would give it that much, but the faded yellow paint was flaking off in huge chunks on the wooden siding, revealing a non-virgin white underneath. It reminded her of a stained toilet seat. Black shutters hung on like a mountain climber clutching the edge of a cliff for dear life. The roof was balding as much as her father.
“Language, young lady,” Marcy scolded. She glanced toward her husband in the hope he’d have something to say about their only daughter’s choice of vocabulary. Ever since getting her license to kill by driving on roads without adult supervision, the entitled child had developed a larger cup size and a fully-loaded arsenal of trucker language.
But Tom was ogling the 1830s house like a scantily-clad pole dancer. He’d certainly be forking over enough dollar bills for her welfare.
Cora groaned. She thought she saw something like drool on her dad’s week-long unshaven chin.
“When are you going to have time to fix this dump?” Marcy asked. “You’re gone five days a week.”
“That’s what weekends are for, honey bunny.” Tom wrapped a thick arm around his wife and pulled her toward him, planting a juicy one on her cheek.
Maybe in spite of herself, Marcy laughed.
“So are we just gonna stand around here all day, or are we going in?” asked Cora, twirling her purple hair about her finger. Her middle finger, which was aimed at her parents.
“Let’s check her out,” Tom said.
“How about this, honey? You can pick any room you like for your bedroom. It’s a big house. There are plenty.” Marcy coated every word like maple sugar candy in the mouth.
“Yeah, whatever. Sure.” Cora followed her parents to the front porch. The railing shook when she went to hold onto it, and when she released it, she nearly stepped into a rotted place on one of the boards.
Tom fiddled with the lock and began swearing under his breath as the July sun beat down on him. Marcy knew where Cora had picked up her choice words. The door opened with a sigh, a groan.
Two storeys above, the eyes opened.
by Samantha Fenton
It happens often enough: A writer taking a day or two break, which turns into a week of not writing, then two, and pretty soon your manuscript has been pushed off the table and into a drawer. Not good. Now you’ve lost all drive to work on the thing. You’re procrastinating, and have no desire to start on it again. Let me repeat: This is not good, and you know it.
It started off innocently enough. You did actually want to work on the book, but you had a lot going on. Or maybe you had hit a rut. Still, you had other things you needed to get done. You wanted to read that new book. You were to work on that hard scene tomorrow. You just took of one night because you were so tired, and you deserved one night off after all you’ve done.
View original post 310 more words
When doubts and fears are closing in,
And I feel I simply cannot win,
Let the Lord be the only portion for me,
To clear my blind eyes, so I can see,
More deeply the plans He has for my life.
We are not guaranteed no hardship or strife,
But rather than trying to demand control,
Allow God to take on that role.
Like little children, He holds us in His arms,
Protecting us, guiding us, keeping us from harm.
So when life is a struggle and you cannot cope,
Turn to God, with whom there is always hope.