Rock-a-bye Baby

In the treetop, cradle sways,
As wind's whispers fill the leys.

Cradle rocks, fragile and light,
Bough breaks, a fateful plight.

Down they tumble, both entwined,
A tragic end, destiny unkind.

Silent lullaby, mournful refrain,
Life's fragile thread, severed again.

WINTER SETTLED DEEP into the town, slipping under doorframes and sneaking through cracks in the walls, a storm brewing.

Amy sat beside the window in Emma’s room, frost thickening over the glass and blurring outside shapes, the shawl around her shoulders no match for the cold.

A new red chalk circle on the neighbor’s door across the street had shown up—evidence that measles had taken up residence there. The laughter of children had gone quiet days earlier.

Emma was in the old cradle in the middle of the room, her little body curled under a warm blanket. Amy dropped to her knees next to it, one hand gently laying atop Emma’s hot forehead while the other gripped the cradle’s edge. Emma was breathing shallowly, unevenly, her delicate chest moving slowly up and down.

The wind went from a low whine to a howl, slamming against the house, shaking windowpanes, and pulling on the naked arms of the old oak outside.

Then suddenly, a sharp crack split the air. A weak branch broke free and crashed into the wall.

The cradle rocked violently.

Amy’s heart leapt as the spindly legs trembled under Emma. The cradle tipped to one side, but Amy managed to catch her daughter just in time, careful arms closing around Emma’s small body.

The cradle slammed to the floor next to them, wood splintering in a crash that echoed through the room.

Emma’s breathing faltered. Amy kissed her cheek and held her closer, singing softly, fingers shaking.

Outside, the storm softened. Inside, lullabies faded and silence settled, thick and heavy.

Then, Amy keened, a raw, feral sound that shattered the silence.

Little Miss Muffet

What a cruel surprise—
Little Miss Muffet's demise!
On her tuffet she sat,
Curds and whey, just like that.
A big spider appeared,
Her heart filled with fear.
Frightened, she fled,
In its web, she's now dead.

JO MUFFET PERCHED on a stool, which creaked beneath her as its crooked legs pressed softly into the garden dirt. The bowl of oatmeal next to her remained neglected, steam dissipating into the brisk morning air. Her fingers traced a gold ring, worn smooth with age. It had been given to her by her mother, one afternoon when the sun pressed warm against the windowpanes, an hour that felt ordinary and yet important at once. The ring didn’t have any profound significance; it was simply something to grasp, a bit of home.

She didn’t know what was on the outside of the garden then, just that it was something she wanted, something restless in her chest that wouldn’t be tamped down. The branches overhead whispered in the wind, and Jo’s eyes strayed beyond their reach, out to a world she longed to explore.

The years spun by, each one faster than the one before. One day, Jo sat in a courtroom filled with faces, some hopeful, others jaded or bored. She nervously twisted her ring as she stood and spoke for a family clinging to their home, her voice worn from long hours. Hope, fragile yet defiant—that's what she saw in their eyes. When the judge finally nodded, the weight of that win hung in the air, brief and bittersweet.

Behind the scenes, deals slipped through fingers, rules stretched until they broke. Jo watched as some lawyers smiled too readily after losing and others spun yarns to make their pockets plump. And every time that Jo tried to stand firm, invisible strings grew tighter, tugging at her decisions, a reminder of where the real power lived.

One night, her mentor found her in a dark hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing above.

“Look, Jo,” he said, in his rough voice, “your good intentions won’t take you very far around here. If you want to move, you gotta do it their way.”

He thrust a red folder into her hands. “This one’s messy. Real estate, lots of gray. It might unlock things—but it’s not clean.”

Jo turned the pages, the red color from the folder smearing her fingers. She pictured the faces she fought for, small victories and losses that would never leave her. Her heart thudded, a jumble of fear and something other than fear.

Her hand trembled as she signed.

Time continued to pass, but did not smooth things out. Now, Jo was in an office with glass walls, the city spread out below her. She sat with her hands clasped on the desk, one finger rubbing her ring. A letter sat on the desk, edges crisp. Across from her, a partner of the law firm leaned in, his smile taut and cool.

“I’ve been watching, Josephine. You’ve got what it takes to be a partner,” he said, pushing the letter closer. “A senator’s embroiled in a real estate scandal. High stakes, big names.”

He held her gaze, waiting.

“This is your chance. You’ll be on your way if you accept.”

Jo’s hand curled around the pen, knuckles pale. The faces, the tired ones—the ones she’d promised to keep safe—rose in her mind, their voices raw and low. She looked into his eyes and felt the pull, the web that she hadn’t wanted but now couldn’t escape.

Her hand moved.

Little Boy Blue

little boy blue's slumber deep,
      amidst the meadow secrets keep.
sheep wander, cows graze away,
      he’s in the haystack, lifeless they say.
silent dreams, eternal rest,
      little boy blue, a soul now blessed.

UNDER A PALE morning sky, fields stretched wide. Blades of grass bent in a light breeze.

Luka propped himself up on a haystack, the fraying fibers of his blue jacket glistening in the soft light. He loved this patch of pasture: the swath of open sky, the rolling hills, the steady bleat, bleat of sheep. The river far away sparkled like a silver ribbon, with unspoken promises. The ground held the scent of fresh hay and wet dirt.

Luka took a deep breath and felt the calm settle into his bones as the sky slowly changed color, clouds drifting lazily.

Then everything changed.

Boots struck the ground, heavy and sure. Dark forms materialized along the edge of the field, clad in camouflage uniforms that melted into the tall grass. All that could be seen were their sharp, cold and unreadable eyes as they hid their faces behind black masks.

They slipped in like hunters, each step calculated as they closed the gap. The grass flattened beneath their boots, the muffled thuds heralding their approach.

Luka’s breath caught and his chest constricted as if the heavens were leaning close. He stumbled toward the river’s distant gleam, his lungs aflame with each ragged breath. Behind him, the boots crashed ever closer, scattering haystacks, seizing workers, crude voices that seemed to speak specifically to him.

He threw himself behind another haystack well before he got to the river, heart hammering, lungs gasping for air that would not come. He battled the knot in his chest, feeling the rough stalks scrape over his skin.

Hands grabbed at his jacket. A voice hissed, Little boy blue, no one’s coming for you.

Luka did not see or feel the steel boots that kicked him in his back and stomach. He did not hear the laughter that ensued.

His final breath slipped away under an indifferent sky.

I first posted the dark nursery rhymes (poems) in June 2024. You can read others in Part 1.

Author’s Note

This week I decided to lean into despair, just for a moment.

These three stories take inspiration from familiar nursery rhymes, reshaping their simplicity into darker reflections of today’s world. Each tale draws on real struggles beneath the surface.

Amy’s quiet vigil captures the fragility of life amid an outbreak made worse by gaps in public health and social support. Per CNN Health: The US surpassed 1,100 measles cases in two months. Expect more deaths next. Jo Muffet’s path shows how ambition can slowly erode one’s values when faced with the pressure of power. Luka’s experience shines a light on the harsh realities of ICE raids, where fear and injustice fall heavily on those caught in the crossfire, where identity becomes a risk, and justice feels out of reach regardless of legal status.

By weaving these narratives, I wanted to capture how shadows can stretch from childhood memories into the challenges people face now—how innocence meets harsh truths in unexpected ways. These stories aren’t just retellings; they’re calls to notice the human lives behind headlines, to feel the weight of choices made by individuals and systems alike, and to remember that beneath every name is a story.

Upcoming…

• A poem about nurturing love:

  Heartbreaks, 14 March 2026

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Refer a friend

Love is an action, never simply a feeling.—bell hooks

Claire and Tom

“Hot chocolate from scratch again?”

Claire’s voice held laughter as she pulled out a chair at the kitchen island.

Tom balanced two mugs, steam swirling upward like tiny clouds. The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon and pine from the wreath she’d hung.

“Hey, you know I don’t do instant,” he said with a lopsided smile, setting the mugs down.

She took hers, warming her hands on the chipped ceramic. Outside, snow muffled the garden, and birds flitted from bush to bush, searching for dried berries.

“Why the fuss every Valentine’s?” Claire asked as she hovered over her mug, allowing the steam from it to warm her face.

Tom shrugged, raising his mug in a small salute.

“Because it’s worth it.”

They shared the silence, the rich scent of chocolate filling the room, as they gazed at the wintry scene outside their window.

Harold and Jaime

“Okay, my boy. Ready for the next chapter?”

Harold’s voice was low and tender as he pulled the chair close to Jamie’s bed, avoiding the thin lines tethering his grandson to the machines.

The sharp scent of antiseptic lingered faintly. Cool air brushed lightly against Jamie’s skin, a sharp contrast to the heavy blanket tucked securely around him.

Jamie’s puffy eyes fixed on the worn copy of The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring in Harold’s hands. Its pages, worn and softened by time, carried the faint hint of dust and quiet adventures.

Jamie nodded, pulling the blanket up under his chin. Harold’s fingers lingered on the book’s cover before he began reading.

His voice softened, and he cleared his throat more than once as he read the part where Frodo offers to carry the ring alone. One of Jamie’s small hands gripped the blanket tighter, as if holding onto the quiet bravery that filled the story.

Outside, the steady sounds of the hospital continued—the distant footsteps, the muffled voices—but soon faded as the rhythm and timber of Harold’s voice harmonized with the humming of the machines.

Jamie’s other hand found Harold’s, squeezing once, twice.

Jack and Mary

The familiar tin of tea tucked behind the cereal boxes made Jack laugh.

“Hmmm. Still hiding your favorite blend.”

Mary smirked, lifting the kettle as she filled two delicate teacups.

“Well…you always borrow it without asking.”

With the warm cups in hand, they stepped onto the porch where autumn leaves twirled in a soft breeze; the afternoon light wove through the trees, casting the porch in shadow.

Mary’s attention shifted as a cool breeze brushed past, and she set her cup on the porch railing.

Her fingers found Jack’s scarf, tugging it a little tighter around his neck, the wool soft beneath her touch.

Jack caught her hand, his grip steady and warm.

Ellen and Grace

“Hey, remember the first time I made your toast like this?” Grace asked without looking up.

She spread butter in circles over one side of the toast, transforming it into a gleaming golden color.

A rich aroma rose between them, filling the kitchen as Grace handed Ellen a cup of coffee.

Ellen lifted the cup slowly, cradling the warmth, before taking a small sip. Then, with a smile, she reached for the toast.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you fixing my mornings, luv.”

Margaret and Richard

“Look at us,” Margaret said, holding up an old photo with curled edges and faded colors.

In the image, they stood side by side, flushed and sweating under the afternoon sun, their hair tousled by the wind.

Richard leaned in, tracing the curve of her smile with his finger. His eyes lingered on the smudge of dirt on her cheek—a mark she hadn’t bothered to wash off that day.

“Girl, you still have that streak,” he said.

Margaret glanced at him.

“Yep, that’s my motto. Never give up.”

He chuckled, voice warm but low.

“Yeah, climbing that last ridge was tough, but you kept going, even when your legs begged for a rest.”

She let the photo settle on her lap, fingers tracing a jagged edge.

George and Sam

The sun dipped below the trees, shadows stretching long across the porch.

George’s weathered thermos, in his hand, showed scratches from years of use.

“I can’t believe you still laugh at my tent poles story,” he said.

Sam’s grin was wide, eyes bright.

“Hmm, you bet I do. I still laugh ‘cause you were more focused on chopping wood than getting that tent set right. Reckon those stakes would've come in handy.”

George’s chuckle was husky and vibrant as Sam’s hand settled on his wrist, fingers firm and calloused from years of hard work, the familiar texture causing George to drop his shoulders, relax.

“Uh-huh, that’s the time that tent blew right over before we even got our stuff inside. I swear, I was ready to chase it all the way to the lake,” Sam said, shaking his head with a big grin.

Author’s Note

This collection is a quiet invitation to notice the subtle ways love shows up in our lives. It’s in the soft rhythms we build with another person, the shared routines that become anchors, and the comfortable silences that feel like home.

The quote by bell hooks, the Black American feminist, cultural critic, teacher, and writer, was my inspiration. I wanted these stories to remind us that love lives in those actions—in the unspoken care, the gentle touch, and the everyday moments where two lives meet and hold steady.

Thank you for stepping into these spaces with me.

Upcoming…

• A poem of love and loss:

  A Haunting, 14 February 2026

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Refer a friend

SHE SETTLED ONTO the cold wooden bench, a sudden tightness curling in her chest as the winter air seeped through her coat. Her breath caught for a moment, and she hugged her arms close, as if bracing against something invisible.

The winter solstice was here—the longest night of the year—and with it came memories that drifted in like fading photographs. Her mother’s soft laughter, the last wave of a friend disappearing down an airport corridor, the empty spot on the floor where her dog used to curl up. Each one left a quiet space that stretched a little wider every year.

She exhaled slowly, watching the bare branches tremble against the gray sky. Her fingers traced the rough grain of the bench as a faint ache settled somewhere beneath her ribs.

Her phone buzzed against the bench beside her. A message from Sarah, a friend she hadn’t seen in months.

Hey, are you free tonight? There’s a gathering at Branford Hall to mark the solstice. You should come.

She stared at the screen, hesitating. Crowds always felt overwhelming—too many faces, too much noise. But something in Sarah’s message nudged at her. Maybe tonight could be different.

When she arrived, the warmth inside the room hit her like a gentle wave. Soft lighting spilled across faces filled with stories, each one marked by struggle but shining with quiet strength. Sarah stood close, her familiar presence a steady anchor as they both cradled warm cups of hot chocolate. Around them, people gathered in clusters.

An older man with kind eyes and a gentle voice, his hands calloused from years of hard work, spoke of losing his home in a storm, but finding new roots (and new lodgings) because of the kindness of neighbors.

Nearby, a woman with a bright smile and a small scar near her cheek shared how she fought through illness, her laughter ringing clear despite the hardships behind it.

A young artist with paint-stained fingers showed sketches of verdant forests, tree-lined roads, open parks, lakes, and waterways in cityscapes, each line a promise of something better ahead.

She listened; these stories and more wove into her heart, stirring feelings she had tucked away. Here was a room of people who believed in something more.

Then she caught the voice of a child just a few feet away. A boy no older than seven stood with his parents.

“Why is today so special?” he asked, eyes wide and curious.

His father smiled. “It’s the winter solstice. It’s when night lasts the longest and day the shortest.”

The boy tilted his head, thinking. “So the sun is sleeping longer than usual?”

“That’s one way to see it,” his father replied.

The boy’s grin grew as he bounced around his father. “I know, it’s like the sun’s birthday?”

His mother chuckled. “In a way, yes. It’s to celebrate light coming back.”

“Can we light candles to help the sun feel less lonely in the dark?” he asked.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” she heard his mother say.

“Will we see more stars tonight because the night is so long?”

“If it were clear, yes. But tonight the clouds hide them,” the father said.

There was a pause, then the boy stopped bouncing and spoke again, quiet but sure. “I think the cold and dark are earth’s way of getting ready for spring.”

His mother nodded. “Exactly. The earth rests and gathers strength, just like we do.”

The boy smiled. “I like the winter solstice. It’s like a promise that light will come back.”

The boy’s words settled inside her like a small ember, warming a place she hadn’t noticed was cold.

She stepped closer, catching the boy’s eye, and said, “I like that promise too.”

Surprised for a moment, his smile widened.

Snow drifted down in soft flakes as she walked home. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she didn’t pull her coat tighter. Instead, she slowed her pace, watching the snow gather on branches and sidewalks. Her breath rose in soft clouds, steady and calm.

At her door, she paused, fingers brushing the smooth wood. For a moment, she let the night fill her, not with its usual heaviness, but with something lighter, as if the dark was making room for something new.

Her phone buzzed. Another message from Sarah:

Glad you came. See you next year?

Her fingers hovered, then typed back. This time, the words felt like the first step across a bridge she’d thought too far to cross.

Yes. Next year.

She pocketed her phone and stepped inside, the quiet stillness wrapping around her like a promise she was finally ready to keep.

The longest night unfolds without a sound,  
And stillness settles deep across the land.  

We watch as shadows stretch and fold around,  
While distant light prepares to take its stand.  

A pause within the turning of the earth,  
A quiet breath before the coming dawn.  

The Sun, though hidden now, begins rebirth,  
Its journey back to life not far withdrawn.  

We gather close to honor this return,  
To mark the moment when the dark grows thin.  

From cold and silence, warmth and light will burn,  
A new year’s promise rising from within.

Author’s Note

When I wrote this story, I wanted to explore how the darkest times can feel overwhelming, but also how small moments and connections can shift that feeling. The woman’s loneliness at the beginning is something many of us have felt—carrying a weight that makes even familiar places seem colder.

I chose the winter solstice because it naturally represents a turning point, the longest night before light begins to return. It felt like the perfect backdrop for a quiet change inside someone. It is a time to pause and reflect on cycles beyond ourselves. In many cultures, this day holds deep meaning, a chance to honor the Sun’s journey through darkness toward light.

At Midwinter, we recognize how even in deepest night, life holds a promise. The Sun, though hidden, begins a new cycle, ready to rise again. This rebirth brings hope and a fresh start; a reminder that growth and renewal follow times of rest and quiet.

Rituals often center around welcoming this return, lighting fires or candles to celebrate emerging light. These acts connect us to rhythms of nature and to one another, fostering a sense of renewal and belonging.

Thank you for taking the time to read the story and the subsequent poem. I hope they offer a bit of comfort or light when you need it most.

Upcoming…

• December’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 17 December 2025

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt: BRIGHT LIGHT. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the prompt. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 17th!

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

The fog rolled thick and heavy over the lonely stretch of road, swallowing the beams of Allie’s headlights as she drove.

Allie wasn’t used to this road. It was a quieter route she took only when she wanted to avoid the usual traffic. Tonight, she left the city after a long day at work, one with meetings and tight deadlines, leaving her drained.

She had been thinking about a recent project, wondering if she had done enough, if her ideas had landed as she hoped. The weight of those thoughts clung to her as she drove, making her feel uneasy. The city lights fading behind her only seemed to deepen that feeling, as if the quiet darkness ahead held its own kind of uncertainty.

She wasn’t exactly sure why. Maybe it was the silence that followed the city’s noise, or the way the fog seemed to press close against her car, blurring what lay ahead. Whatever it was, Allie hummed softly, trying to calm the fluttering in her chest as she moved forward into the night.

Then, a shadow darted across her path. Before she could react, a thud echoed in the stillness.

“Oh no!”

Allie slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop. Her breath caught; she shifted, looking in her left side mirror, and spotted a deer, fallen, beside the road. The deer’s fur looked white in the swirling fog. Its body shivered.

She stepped out of the car, her heart pounding.

“Please, no. Please be okay,” she said, rushing to the deer’s side. Its soft bleats echoed in the night air as she knelt beside it, cradling the delicate creature’s head in her arms.

“Shh, it’s okay, little one,” she said, stroking its white fur. “Please don't be afraid. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

The deer’s wide eyes met hers, and for a moment, everything fell silent. Then, unexpectedly, she felt a warmth radiating from the animal, a strange energy gathering within her.

Why are you sorry? A voice echoed in her mind. It was soft, ethereal, yet unmistakably clear.

Startled, Allie pulled back, her heart racing.

“Did you just… speak to me?” she asked, looking down at the deer.

It was not your fault. The voice continued, calm and soothing. I was not paying attention.

Allie blinked, trying to comprehend.

“You can… talk to me?”

Yes, in a way.

She heard the deer’s thoughts, its voice weaving through her consciousness like a gentle breeze.

I have a gift for you.

“A gift?” she asked, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

The deer explained, its eyes shimmering with an otherworldly light.

You will hear beyond ordinary sounds; hear the whispers of the forgotten. It is a gift based on your empathy, your understanding.

“What do I do with this gift?” Allie asked, feeling a mix of fear and curiosity.

Use it to heal the world’s wounds.

The deer’s thoughts grew stronger and resonated within her.

You must guide the lost. You’ll see. Your heart will tell you.

Tears welled in Allie’s eyes as she stroked the deer’s fur.

“But how? I’m just one person.”

You will know when the time comes. Trust in yourself.

The deer’s voice faded like the surrounding mist.

I will always be with you.

As the deer’s breathing slowed, and its eyes closed, Allie felt overwhelming sadness. But along with it came a flicker, a spark ignited by the connection they shared in those fleeting moments.

“I promise,” she whispered, cradling the lifeless body. “I will listen and help.”

Allie’s fingers gently brushed over its soft, white fur as she laid its head back on the ground, a profound sense of gratitude settling within her.

The fog lifted, revealing the road ahead in clearer focus. Despite the darkness, a sense of possibility pulsed through the air.

Stepping into her car, Allie found her breath becoming calm and steady, mirroring the rhythmic beat within her chest.

A few days later, Allie found herself in a small park near her home. Evening shadows stretched across the benches and pathways. The air held a faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves, mingling with the distant hum of traffic. On one of the worn wooden benches sat a young man, his coat pulled tight against the chill. His eyes were tired, his hands restless in his lap.

She didn’t know why exactly, but she sat beside him and simply listened as he shared his worries. She learned his name was Marcus. In recent months, he had lost his job at a small company and was struggling to make ends meet. His voice trembled as he spoke about spending his money on medical care for his mother, who had recently died, his almost empty fridge, and the shame that made it hard to ask for help.

The crunch of leaves under a passing jogger’s feet, the soft rustle of branches in the cool breeze, even the distant bark of a dog seemed to fade into the background. All that mattered was the space between them, filled with quiet understanding.

Although there was no grand solution, Allie’s quiet attention seemed to ease the weight he carried. She offered a few gentle words and walked with him to a community center where he could get a warm meal and information about other resources.

That encounter with Marcus would remain etched in her memory, reminding her that the gift she received wasn’t about magic or spectacle—it was about opening her heart, paying attention, and being present when someone truly needed it most.

Author’s Note

In Scottish stories, the white deer is a rare and mystical creature that often symbolizes purity and mystery, a gentle guide from another world. People think it guides those who are open to discovering new paths or a deeper understanding of life. In my fable, the white deer acts as a silent messenger, inviting Allie to look beyond what’s immediately visible and to truly feel the pain and hope that others carry inside.

Empathy is a value we all carry within us, but sometimes it needs a little nurturing. Life and our experiences teach us how to listen more carefully and care more deeply for those around us. Sometimes though, we all need gentle reminders to slow down and really SEE the people in our lives.

As we enter a season where many are facing harrowing challenges—losing jobs, struggling to find food—opening our hearts becomes more important than ever. In each small act of kindness and in each moment we choose to reach out, we can help each other bear these burdens. Even the simplest gestures can make a world of difference, helping to heal wounds and shed light in places shadowed by hardship.

Upcoming…

• A poem about the improbability of existence:

  A Miraculous and Precious Gift, 15 November 2025

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Refer a friend

Grace felt a deep, painful emptiness as morning light seeped into her kitchen.

She’d buried her mother only weeks earlier. Now, in this quiet space, she could hear her mother’s laughter echoing like an old tune woven into her memories. The tune faded, giving way to a deep weight pressing upon her chest.

On the counter, a bowl of overripe bananas sat ignored, their bright yellow skin now spotted with brown. Today, they were harbingers of loss, reminders that time shifts and cedes nothing to grief.

In a corner, an empty dog bed sat where Katy, her black Labrador retriever, once slept soundly. Her leaving had opened up a hole in her heart she could not understand. Only a week ago, they’d spent lazy afternoons together, her big brown eyes sparkling with unconditional love. Now, Katy’s devotion was a wraith, haunting her with the specter of wagging tails and joyous barking.

One corner housed an aged, dry easel, brushes, and palette. Grace seized a paintbrush, whose bristles were stiff from dried-on paint. It had been years since she’d painted; her artistic impulse buried under the weight of duties.

Now, something stirred within her. Was it the enormous need to communicate without speaking?

“Because things matter to us, we suffer,” she murmured. She’d recently read an article about grief and suffering. Those words echoed in her head like a repeating drumbeat.

She washed her brushes and loaded one with a bright blue that reminded her of wide open skies, summer, laughter with her mother, walks with Katy through sun-dappled woods.

As she stroked the canvas, a flood of emotion poured out; each brush stroke was a desperate effort to turn sadness into something beautiful. The colours spiralled upwards and then danced across the canvas's surface, reflecting her agitated emotions.

Stroke by stroke, she made her bid for release: paying homage to the ones she lost, making a place for them and holding them close.

She lost track of time. When she came out of her trance, she saw a profusion of blooms reaching upward toward the sun, as if it shone just for them. Among the blooms sat a black dog with its nose in the air, and a silly look on its face.

As she looked around the quiet kitchen littered with fragments of all their lives, Grace realized her heart would always have room for those she loved.

Through painting, she’d found a bridge, a route through her grief that would keep the spirits of her lost loved ones alive. In her own sorrow, she’d found a route toward healing, a means to honor her love.

Author's Note

My flash fiction was inspired by recent personal events and by a friend asking me to join her in an art class.

I have a confession: I've been leaning a lot on my older poems and prose that I wrote months and even years ago. It's been nice to revisit those feelings and the words I created back then. Honestly, I found it a bit easier to share those pieces rather than starting something fresh. I struggled. The past month was a breakthrough of sorts. I actually wrote some new pieces! So you'll get to see a mix of both old and new work from me moving forward, which I'm really excited about.

Also, I’ve decided to be a little kinder to myself this October. Instead of focusing on writing poetry or prose, I’m planning to introduce some amazing guest authors. Stay tuned for more on that—I can’t wait to share it with you!

Upcoming…

• A poem about hope:

  Tomorrow and Tomorrow, 27 September 2025

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Refer a friend

Lila floated in the radiant embrace of the Caribbean Sea, the warm sun showering its brilliance upon the water’s surface, transforming it into a breathtaking tapestry of glimmering diamonds. Beside her, her sister, Mia, swam with fluid grace, their laughter bubbling up like the gentle waves that lapped around them.

Grand Cayman: a paradise where time dissolved into the ocean’s rhythm. Below them, the stingrays glided, their graceful forms weaving through the vibrant blue depths, emanating an aura of serene wisdom.

“Look at them, Lila!” Mia said, her voice ringing with delight. “They’re so stunning!”

Lila nodded, entranced.

The stingrays approached with an enchanting ease, their wide, flat bodies flowing like soft clouds against the water.

Lila reached out, her fingertips brushing against one as it glided past. A shared understanding beyond words filled that moment.

Mia’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Let’s swim with them!”

They dove beneath the surface without hesitation, bubbles erupting like tiny stars into the shimmering water. The world transformed into an underwater dreamscape where Lila felt weightless and alive. She and Mia swirled in joyous harmony as the stingrays danced around them, their gentle movements casting a tranquil spell.

Then, a sudden splash shattered the serenity.

A figure stumbled into the water nearby, laughing raucously—a man, drunk and oblivious to the beauty surrounding him. The stingrays, sensing danger, swiftly retreated to the deeper waters.

Panic gripped Lila as she turned to find Mia, her focus thrown into chaos. She felt a sharp pain pierce her chest, a visceral shock that jolted her from the serenity of her dream.

With a gasp, Lila awoke, her heart racing.

She was back in her bed, drenched in a cold sweat, the remnants of her dream clinging to her like a damp shroud. The dawn was breaking, painting the horizon in stunning hues of gold and pink. Lila felt an unsettling weight throbbing in her chest, as if the stingray’s barb had truly found its mark.

Mia’s warm, concerned voice drifted from another room.

“Lila? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a strange dream.”

Lila grimaced as the heaviness in her chest persisted. Her limbs felt strange, numb and tingly at the same time.

She stretched out in bed, feeling her chest, then her arms and legs. Her skin felt velvety smooth. She felt her face. That felt smooth too and tingled at her touch.

What was happening to her? Was she sick? That would be horrible! She didn’t want to ruin their time together.

Lila thought about her life in Toronto. She had almost finished her bio-research studies at Vic (Victoria College). What came next? Graduate school or a job? She knew she had to decide soon.

Today, she knew one thing: the sun-kissed beaches of this Caribbean island drew her in.

Lila thought about how lucky her sister was to work on the island. Mia had recently landed a promising role as an assistant manager at a bank in Grand Cayman, opening doors to fresh beginnings and thrilling possibilities.

When Lila announced a two-week visit from Toronto, Mia eagerly planned her own vacation. She dreamed of exploring the island’s riches with her sister.

Theirs was a joyful reunion, brimming with laughter, discovery, and treasured moments.

As they wandered along pristine beaches and marveled at the kaleidoscope of marine life beneath the waves, their bond grew even stronger, bridging the distance that once kept them apart. They basked in sun-drenched days, swimming, dining, and sharing hopes for the future, cherishing every moment.

Now, Mia stood in the doorway of Lila’s room.

“What do you think about heading back to the beach? It looks like another gorgeous day!”

Although the ocean inexplicably pulled at her spirit, Lila hesitated before answering.

“Yeah, okay, I need some fresh air.”

Her voice sounded distant to her, as if caught in a dream.

The salty breeze tousled Lila’s hair as they drove to the beach, awakening something deep within her.

The strange tingling in her limbs, combined with the sea’s enchanting pull, washed over her as they neared the beach.

Lila remembered her dream, the way her body felt weightless, yet alive in the water. She remembered one stingray after another brushing against her, welcoming her.

They left their towels and bags on the sand and walked into the clear shallow water; Mia ahead of Lila. The undulating waves were hypnotic. Lila’s legs gave way beneath her. She sank to her knees. She felt her body shifting, floating.

“Mia, I—” Lila said, but her voice faltered.

The world around her wavered and blurred, colors melting together in a surreal dance.

She saw Mia ahead of her, giggling at a school of fish weaving around her legs.

Lila tried to reach Mia but found herself submerged.

She felt the cool, welcoming caress of the water envelop her like a silken blanket, its hypnotic whispers lulling her body as she gave in to the transformation.

Her limbs elongated and flattened, her senses sharpened; each flick of her new tail sent her spiraling through this vibrant aquatic world.

Schools of fish darted past, their scales shimmering like shards of glass, and she reveled in gliding among them.

Meanwhile, Mia stood scanning the horizon, her heart racing with fear as she called out.

“Lila!”

Anxiety gripped Mia as she walked the beach in either direction, searching the vast waters, but it was as if the ocean had swallowed her sister whole.

Mia’s frantic search for Lila then turned to urgent phone calls to local authorities declaring her sister missing.

Armed with snorkels and diving gear, they plunged into the shimmering sea. Their voices called out Lila’s name into the vastness, wishing for even the faintest reply.

As the days blurred into an agonizing blend of worry and despair, Mia sought the wisdom of local fishermen, plastered flyers across Grand Cayman, and reached out to tourists, desperately hoping for a soupçon of hope or a whispered sighting.

Each sunset deepened the ache in Mia’s heart, yet Lila remained stubbornly elusive, a bittersweet mystery lost to the depths.

Beneath the waves, the rhythmic pulse of Lila’s heart synced with the ocean’s, and for the first time, she felt free; free from the limitations of who she had once been.

As she moved through the crystal-clear waters, Lila marveled at the kaleidoscope of colors that danced around her. Coral gardens bloomed like underwater rainforests, each crevice teeming with life that beckoned her closer. The warmth of sunlight filtered down in golden beams, illuminating the sandy floor below, where shadows played like far-flung memories.

With each undulating movement, she embraced her new identity. The water responded to her every thought and intention, making her feel both powerful and serene. Lila realized she had not just transformed; she had become a part of this rich world, a creature of the sea, where joy flowed as freely as the waves above.

She was a stingray now, gliding through the water with a grace she had never imagined. This underwater world pulsed with life, exceeding the land’s brightness.

Freed from the constraints of her former life, she reveled in the beauty of her newfound existence.

Daily life involved exciting adventures: finding delicious treats, basking in warm waters, and playing in calm waves.

As her past worries faded away, she found herself immersed in a deep connection with the sea, where she could flourish as a joyful and serene soul.

Author's Note

This is a story I began writing several decades ago during a period of personal upheaval. It’s not surprising that I dreamed of transforming into a creature without the burdens that threatened to overwhelm me. My therapist (at the time) and I had great sessions with that analysis!

Anyway, no cockroaches or any other kafkaesque transformations here!

I do have one very short creative nonfiction piece involving a cockroach that stars my father and an arch nemesis.

One more thing, swimming with stingrays is an exciting and safe adventure at Stingray City in the North Sound of Grand Cayman. This beautiful sandbar is where southern stingrays hang out and are used to friendly encounters with people. Guided tours allow you to swim, feed, and interact with these fantastic creatures in their natural habitat.

Upcoming…

• A prose poem read aloud:

  Last Run, 16 August 2025

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The rolling hills of rural Maryland cast long shadows across the fields in the soft glow of the evening light. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming wildflowers, a fragrance that danced around the tiny figure darting between the rows of corn.

A child, no older than ten, moved swiftly, her pale skin contrasting sharply against the vibrant green.

Her name was Amy, and she was not just any child; she was a vampire, lost and searching. A girl, whom her mother called her imaginary friend, had bitten her in these very fields as they stretched their bodies flat among the corn, making corn angels.

“Mom! Where are you?” Amy called, her voice echoing in the stillness.

The crows cawed their good nights, and the crickets responded with their evening song, but her mother did not answer. A flutter of panic twisted in her chest. She had been alone for too long.

As she ventured into the woods at the cornfield’s edge, memories of her mother flooded her mind. The soft lullabies, the warmth of her embrace, and the sweet scent of her hair haunted her thoughts.

“I need her,” Amy murmured, her small hands clenching into fists.

After what seemed like forever, she found herself in a clearing illuminated by the fading sunlight.

There, standing by an ancient oak, was a figure she recognized instantly. Her heart raced. It was her mother, Sarah, with her long, wavy hair cascading like an amber river. She looked as beautiful as Amy remembered, though time had etched worry lines on her face.

“Mom!” Amy said, stepping forward.

Her instincts surged within her, a primal urge she had fought against for so long. Her hunger extended beyond food; she longed for her mother’s familiar comfort.

Sarah turned, her eyes widening in disbelief.

“Amy?” she said, her voice exhaled in a breath. “Is that you?”

Amy hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. She stepped closer; the warmth radiating from her mother drawing her in. That warmth ignited a sharp hunger. The familiar thirst roared to life, and Amy’s fangs tingled with anticipation.

“I missed you so much,” she said, the words laced with longing and desperation.

“I thought I lost you,” Sarah said, tears glistening in her eyes. “I’ve searched everywhere.”

The conflicting emotions churned within Amy. She wanted to throw herself into her mother’s arms, to revel in the safety she felt as a child. She felt the hunger and the dark lure of her power.

“Mom, I—I need you with me. Forever,” Amy said, her voice trembling.

“Amy, please,” Sarah said, sensing something was off. “What’s happened to you?”

“I can’t be alone anymore!” Amy cried, the desperation spilling over. “I just want you back!”

At that moment, Amy made her choice. She lunged forward, her fangs grazing her mother’s neck. Time slowed as she felt the rich and inviting warmth of her mother’s blood.

Sarah caught and held her, then gasped, shock mingling with confusion.

“Amy, no!” she managed, but it was too late.

The bond of blood was strong, and Amy’s desire overpowered her instinct to resist. She bit down, the sweetness of it flooding her senses, wrapping around her like a comforting blanket.

As Amy cradled her mother’s frail form, she felt the warmth seeping away, the once vibrant pulse slowing beneath her fingertips. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the edges of her vision as her heart tightened like a fist in her chest.

Yet, the familiar scent of her mother’s hair wrapped around her like a beloved blanket, drawing her deeper into a haze of comfort. A fierce, conflicting desire surged within her, momentarily drowning out the whispers of guilt that clawed at her mind, leaving her both anchored and adrift in a storm of emotions.

With Sarah’s strength failing, Amy embraced her, feeling the warmth leave her mother’s body as they crumpled onto the mossy floor. Panic surged through her, a suffocating wave of realization. The horrifying reality of her actions shattered her desire to reunite with her mother and feel complete.

“Mom, please!” she said, shaking her gently, desperate for a sign of life. Only silence answered.

In her anguish, Amy felt the darkness creeping in, the isolation that had defined her existence returning with a vengeance. She believed biting her mother would ease her loneliness, but it only intensified her isolation.

Her refuge—the fields and surrounding woods—was now a prison. The weight of her actions pressed down on her. She placed her mother beside a huge root and sank to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks, mingling with the soil beneath her.

Just then, a soft breeze rustled the leaves above as if nature itself were mourning with her. Amy’s gaze lifted skyward; twinkling stars resembled distant memories.

She needed to leave, escape the clinging guilt. With a heavy heart, she cradled her mother’s lifeless form one last time, a mixture of grief and determination swelling within her. Amy resolved to seek others like her who could teach her control so she would never again feel so utterly alone.

With one last look at the clearing that had witnessed her joy and tragedy, Amy turned away, ready to face the uncertain path ahead, carrying the weight of her mother’s love and the shadow of her choice.

Author's Note

So, I have a lot to unpack here, but I’ll only touch on a few things.

I wrote a few posts ago about being unable to write horror. That still stands, as I don’t firmly put this story in that genre.

Two weeks ago, this story popped into my mind without a reference point (or so I thought). It clamored in my head, demanding I write the words.

I now believe the recent passing of my mother-in-law and my mother’s loss eleven years ago inspired me to tell this story of a young vampiress searching for her mother. At night, when the settling house was the only sound, memories of them brought sadness, yes, but also comfort, revealing the layers of love and loss I felt. Writing this story became my way of connecting with the mothers I wish were still in my life.

Grief isn't linear; it ebbs and flows, intertwining sorrow, anger, and guilt. Initially, their absence consumed me, but I eventually recognized that my grief reflects the love we shared. I confronted the void through rituals—planting flowers they loved, surrounding myself with memories, and conversing with them in my thoughts. Writing became my release and tribute, allowing their essence to thrive.

As I created the young vampiress’s journey, I saw my longing mirrored in her search—an exploration of love that persists beyond death. This story embraces the grieving process as a step toward healing, reminding me that grief signifies strength and deep love.

In seeking my mothers, I recognize their memory shapes my life and art. The young vampiress’s quest illustrates that every step taken in pursuit of understanding is evidence of enduring love, lighting the way through the darkest nights.

Upcoming…

• A poem about self-love and acceptance:

  Otherness, 14 June 2025

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Maplewood was a small, quiet town tucked between cornfields and rolling hills. A quaint little shop, Curiosities & Crafts, sat near the town’s center.

The store contained unique items, from hand-painted mugs to mysterious trinkets.

The owner, a middle-aged man named Harold Miller, had run the shop for nearly twenty years, living a simple life filled with routine.

One rainy afternoon, as Harold cleaned and rearranged a shelf of dusty books, he stumbled upon an ancient-looking tome bound in cracked leather. Two worn ceramic gnomes held it in place. Curious, he pulled it out, a cloud of dust swirling around him. Faded gold letters embossed the title, Secrets of the Arcane.

“Who on earth would put this here?” he said, flipping through the pages filled with strange symbols and sketches of mystical creatures. He chuckled, thinking it was just an old fantasy novel, but something about it felt different.

As he returned the item, he felt a jolt of energy—like standing at the edge of a storm, where the air crackles with electric anticipation. It began in his core as a sudden spark, igniting his senses, sending waves of warmth surging through his veins and spreading through his chest. His fingers tingled. Harold blinked, staring at the book and then around the shop. Everything seemed brighter, more vivid.

“Hey, Harold, you in here?”

Soaked from the rain, Liz Jenkins, the town librarian, called out as she opened the door with its little bell.

“Yeah, just found something interesting,” Harold said, forcing a smile.

Liz wandered over, her grey curls tucked under the hood of a worn raincoat.

“What did you find? Another gnome?”

“Something like that.”

Harold chuckled, trying to shake off the strange sensation.

“Just an old book.”

“Better not let it get too dusty,” she teased, eyeing the tome. “I’ve got a feeling there’s more magic in those pages than you think.”

Harold laughed lightly, but as Liz turned to peruse the hand-knit scarves, he felt the urge to explore the book’s contents further. He flipped to a page with a strange diagram and read aloud words in another language. The words rolled off his tongue like a melody he never knew he could sing.

Liz glanced back, her brow furrowed.

“Harold, what are you doing?”

“I—uh—don’t know,” he said. “Just reading, I guess.”

Suddenly, the lights in the shop flickered. Harold’s heart raced. Was it a power surge? But as he looked around, he noticed the shelves shimmering, a soft glow surrounding the items.

“Harold!” Liz said, her eyes wide. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know!” he said, panic rising in his chest, although deep down a spark of excitement danced in his belly.

While concentrating on a dusty old lantern overhead, he imagined its glow lighting up the room. It flickered to life, to his shock, casting a warm glow across the room.

“Did you just do that?” Liz said, her voice trembling with awe.

Harold’s mind raced.

“I think I did. But how?”

“Maybe the book,” she said, her eyes darting between the tome and Harold. “It must have some sort of spell in it.”

Emboldened, Harold experimented, his voice gaining confidence as he recited more phrases from the book. With each phrase, items around the shop responded—knick-knacks danced, a nearby broom swept, and the old radio crackled to life, playing a soft tune that seemed to echo his newfound powers.

Liz clapped her hands in delight.

“Harold, this is incredible! You’re like—a wizard!”

He couldn’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the music. “A wizard in a small-town shop,” he said, looking around at the wonder unfolding before him.

But as quickly as the excitement built, uncertainty washed over him. What did this mean? What could he do with such power? Would it change him? Change the town?

Liz, sensing his hesitation, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You have a gift, Harold. Just be careful how you use it.”

Harold always felt a pull to venture beyond, to explore. Could this book be his passport to other worlds? He glanced at the book.

“Well, I guess I have some decisions to make. Meanwhile, let’s keep this between us.”

“Of course, Harold. Just remember, every magic comes with a price.”

With a nod, Harold took a deep breath, feeling the moment’s weight. The possibilities stretched before him like an uncharted road.

As Liz left, Harold stared out the window at the rain-soaked streets of Maplewood, the world suddenly full of color and promise. He knew he had the power to change everything, but the question lingered in the air: would he, should he?

With that thought hanging like a spell, the shop filled with light, waiting for Harold to decide how to wield his newfound magic.

As days passed, Harold wrestled with the idea of his new powers—the ability to read the grimoire’s words and phrases, to cast spells.

In the shop’s quiet, he contemplated the book of spells, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him.

“What if I’m not ready for this?” he muttered, glancing at the dusty shelves filled with trinkets. The thought of causing chaos loomed large in his mind.

One morning, after a particularly unsettling dream, he opened the grimoire with trembling hands. The aura of his dream still enveloped him. It had been a dark dream about using his powers to seek revenge against those who had belittled and overlooked him, to make them fear him.

That afternoon, Liz visited, sensing his turmoil.

“You seem troubled, Harold. What’s going on?”

“I found this magic, but I fear what it could unleash,” he said. “What if I hurt someone?”

“Magic can be a double-edged sword,” she said thoughtfully. “But it can also heal. You have the power to choose.”

“Choose how?” he asked, feeling lost.

“Focus on the good, Harold. Use it to uplift, to bring joy, not fear,” she urged gently.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded slowly.

“You’re right. I'll focus on the good, but I must be careful.”

After a restless night, Harold awoke with the sun filtering through the windows of his apartment above the shop. Determined to embrace his magic, he brewed a pot of coffee and flipped through the grimoire.

“This is my chance to do something meaningful,” he said to himself, excitement bubbling within him.

That morning, he filled pots with potting soil, sprinkled various seeds in each, and placed them around the shop. Then he gathered a few townspeople, including Liz Jenkins, at the shop.

“I have something special to share,” he announced, heart pounding. As he showed a simple spell that made flowers bloom in winter, the pots he had placed all around the shop filled with the smell and vibrant colors of summer flowers. Gasps of wonder filled the room.

“Wow! You can really do that?” Pete Weber, the florist, asked, his eyes wide with amazement.

“Yes! And I want to share more.”

Harold hosted enchanting gatherings over the next few weeks, where laughter and joy flourished alongside his magic. Children danced as he conjured glowing orbs of light, and the townsfolk marveled at the surrounding beauty.

“You’ve turned this place into a sanctuary,” Liz said one evening, her voice warm and welcoming.

Harold smiled, feeling a sense of belonging he had never known. He realized his powers weren’t just about magic—they were about connection, community, and spreading joy, lighting up Maplewood in ways he had never imagined.

Author’s Note

When I started writing this fantasy a year ago, I envisioned weaving a tale steeped in horror or speculative fiction.

Fast-forward to today, and I have a confession: I’m struggling to dive into the darker corners of my imagination. While my poetry flows freely, often feeling like it originates from a realm beyond my reach, conjuring scenes of horror and darkness feels like an arduous task.

Perhaps it’s the weight of my emotions that has me yearning for lighter themes. I’ve been wrestling with something I can’t quite name—could it be anticipatory grief? Some days, the harsh realities of the world are suffocating.

In part, I mean the current turmoil by the U.S. regime. Still, on a more personal level, I’m navigating the heartbreaking decline of my mother-in-law, a vibrant woman whose spirit is dimming under the shadow of illness.

As we watch her transform from a lively presence into a fragile figure ravaged by cancer’s cruel grasp—whittled down to painful grimaces, succumbing to the indignities that come with being bedridden—it feels like a slow-motion loss.

My husband and I mourn her transformation and the remarkable person she once was. We opted for in-home hospice care. With that, we hope to relieve her pain and ensure she is as comfortable as possible in familiar surroundings.

Yet amidst this heaviness, nature offers me a sanctuary. As I wander along the edges of the woods, I find solace in the rhythmic dance of fern fronds, the intriguing shapes of various mushrooms, and the delicate blooms of tiny plants, like the five-spot and ghost plant, that are just revealing themselves. I also tread carefully to avoid disturbing the little frogs and toads. In this setting, I feel a connection that momentarily eases my burden.

Why did I tell you this? I wanted to take a moment to share something personal with you. I’ve been a bit quiet lately when it comes to engaging with Substack subscriptions and comments, and I sincerely apologize for that. I truly appreciate your patience as I navigate through this challenging time. Your understanding means the world to me, and I’m looking forward to catching up with all of you soon!

Upcoming…

• May’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 21 May 2025

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt is SEIZE THE MOMENT. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the prompt. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 21st!

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Bear and Bella is more than just a story; it’s a poignant reminder that our bonds are never truly broken, regardless of the distance that may separate us.

After reading Bear and Bella, I would love to hear your thoughts! Please share your comments below and tell me what you liked about it.

If you find this story getting cut off in your email (like in Gmail), don’t worry! Just click on "View entire message" to see the full content right in your email app. You can also read it by clicking “View in browser.” Enjoy the story!

BEAR AND BELLA, two spirited dogs with coats that shimmered in the sunlight, were members of the Nelson family. They thrived in the lively chaos of San Francisco, where Emma, a passionate artist, roamed the vibrant streets, her eyes sparkling with inspiration from colorful murals and eclectic neighborhoods. Her devoted husband, Liam, spent long hours as an engineer, often lost in his work while the city buzzed around him. Their two children, Zoey and Roman, were bundles of curiosity and energy, forever exploring the world with wide-eyed wonder.

Boxes stacked in the living room hinted at the change coming their way. The air in their cozy home crackled with mixed emotions as the moving day approached. Liam’s new job in Maryland promised a slower pace and more family time, a bright light of hope after years of long commutes. Yet, as he packed the car, a thoughtful frown creased his brow, revealing the weight of his decision.

A mix of excitement and bittersweet nostalgia filled Emma’s heart as she gazed out the window at the city’s coastal skyline, which had inspired her creative work. Leaving her art community was hard. However, the dream of a spacious home where Zoey and Roman could play freely and she could find her muse filled her with anticipation.

Zoey and Roman, caught between thrill and trepidation, hovered by the door, glancing back at their favorite park and the ice cream shop down the street. The thought of leaving their friends behind sent ripples of uncertainty through them, even as their imaginations painted pictures of fresh adventures.

Bear and Bella, sensing the shift in the air, bounded around the living room, tails wagging, bodies wiggling, their excitement infectious. They could sense the family’s energy, which sparked their own thrill for the journey ahead.

The Nelsons transformed their move into a grand road trip to ease the transition, planning to explore America’s diverse landscapes.

On the morning of their departure, the car overflowed with boxes, snacks, and the dogs’ bowls and treats, each item a piece of their life along for the ride. As they drove through the winding roads of California, laughter filled the car, blending with songs and games that echoed their bond.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania, they stopped to stretch their legs as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Damp earth scents filled the air, and excitement crackled as Bear and Bella darted into the grass. Suddenly, a deer appeared, graceful and unaware, and instinct instantly took over. With a burst of energy, the dogs were off, racing into the woods, the thrill of the chase overwhelming their senses. They dashed forward, oblivious to the laughter and warmth of their family fading behind them, lost in the hunt's thrill.

IN THE HUSHED moments just before dawn, Bear and Bella stood at the edge of an unfamiliar forest, their silhouettes framed against the soft glow of the rising sun. Pine scent filled the crisp morning air. Their family’s laughter faded, carried away on the breeze like a forgotten dream.

What started as an exciting exploration, promising discovery, was now weighed down by uncertainty.

Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy above, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.

Bear, with his coat of faded brown and wise amber eyes that seemed to hold the weight of experience, turned to Bella, his spirited companion, whose fur gleamed like polished obsidian in the soft light.

“We must find our way back,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.

Bella nodded, her heart racing, a mix of fear and excitement swirling within her. She glanced nervously at the towering trees, their gnarled branches stretching skyward like skeletal fingers.

“But how?” she whimpered, her voice a whisper against the stillness of the forest.

They pressed forward, weaving through the tangled undergrowth, their paws padding against the damp earth. Instinct guided them, their noses twitching as they caught fleeting scents that hinted at familiar paths. They navigated through thickets that clawed at their fur and leaped over babbling brooks, the soft murmur of water a constant reminder of their solitude.

As time went on, they supported each other, comforted by shared memories of sunny days, joyous laughter, and gentle caresses. With every step, their bond deepened, a flicker of hope igniting in the depths of their uncertainty.

SUNSET’S MUTED GRAYS replaced the vibrant sky, leaving the Nelson family in somber shadows. An oppressive silence replaced the joyful laughter from their journey, only broken by distant crickets.

Somewhere in the expansive Pennsylvania woods, Bear and Bella got lost, and the gnawing uncertainty of their fate clutched at the hearts of Emma, Liam, and their children.

After the initial panic settled into a heavy stillness, the family sprang into action. Their voices rose in urgency as they called out for their beloved dogs, their cries echoing through the trees.

“Bear! Bella!”

The forest swallowed their words, leaving only the rustle of leaves in reply. Zoey and Roman, hands clasped together, searched alongside their parents, tiny hearts weighed by worry.

Emma’s mind flooded with memories: Bella nuzzling her while painting and Bear sitting protectively beside the children. Her throat tightened, tears threatening.

Beside her, Liam’s usual calm demeanor cracked as tears slipped down his cheeks. He clenched his fists, an ache blooming in his chest—a mix of fear and helplessness that felt suffocating.

Despite their frantic efforts, time slipped away like sand through their fingers, twilight fading into the embrace of night. Reluctantly, they returned to the car; the headlights casting long shadows that danced like specters among the trees. Emma wrapped her arms around Zoey and Roman, their small bodies trembling against her.

“What if they can’t find their way back?” Roman’s voice quavered, the words heavy with dread. Zoey nodded, her wide eyes glistening with unshed tears, as she conjured images of their beloved dogs lost in the dark.

With dawn breaking, the family rallied, contacting local shelters and plastering flyers across the area, each call for help echoing their desperation. As the day wore on, hope stalled. Each unanswered callout of Bear and Bella’s names was like a dagger twisting deeper into their sorrow. Emma and Liam exchanged glances filled with unspoken fear, silently grappling with the growing realization that they might have to move forward without their furry companions.

Gathered together, they shared stories that danced between laughter and tears, reminiscing about the joy Bear and Bella had brought into their lives.

Yet, the weight of reality pressed down upon them. Liam’s new job awaited him, and the family needed to settle into their new home.

With hearts heavy and resolve wavering, they faced the agonizing decision that loomed before them. Emma’s voice cracked as tears streamed from her eyes.

“We have to go. We have to think of the kids.”

Liam nodded, the sting of grief sharp in his chest. “Bear and Bella wouldn’t want us to be sad. They’d want us to find happiness.”

With their last belongings loaded into the car, they set off to complete their journey, but the memory of Bear and Bella lingered like a shadow in their hearts.

As they drove away, the weight of loss settled over them, knowing their lives had irrevocably changed, yet holding onto the hope that one day, they would see their beloved dogs again.

DAYS MELTED INTO a tapestry of distant rustling leaves, a hawk’s sharp cry slicing through the air, and a rabbit darting through the underbrush. Bear and Bella trudged onward, their bodies straining against steep hills and sudden storms that drummed against their fur. Hunger gnawed at their insides, forcing them to pause and recall the warmth of their cozy home, the laughter of children echoing like sweet music in their minds.

As they leaned into the brisk wind, their noses flared, catching the familiar fragrances that wrapped around their hearts—Emma’s floral perfume mingling with the subtle scent of paint, Liam’s earthy cologne, and the vibrant energy of the children, sweet and playful. With renewed determination, they leaped through the tall grass, pushing through the dense thickets, their hearts racing with anticipation, each run fueled by the promise of reunion.

Yet, as they followed the scent trail deeper into the woods, the landscape morphed around them. The comforting aromas faded, swallowed by the thick, chaotic air of the forest. A sudden shift in the breeze stole away the last remnants of their family’s presence. Bear halted, his ears pricking at the silence, a tight knot of unease coiling in his chest.

“Bella, do you still smell them?”

His voice trembled, laced with desperation.

She inhaled deeply, but the comforting scent evaded her, fragrance notes fading into the air.

“I thought I caught a whiff, but now it’s… it’s vanished.”

They exchanged glances, worry etched on their faces, the weight of uncertainty settling over them like a heavy fog. They pressed on, resolute but burdened, each moment stretching into eternity, the chasm between them and their family yawning wider.

With every turn through the dense thicket, doubt crept into Bear’s mind. Their paws snagged on brambles that tugged at their fur, leaving behind marks of their struggle.

As they ventured deeper, the surrounding scents transformed into strange new aromas, earthy and unfamiliar, the vibrant trail of hope slipping further away, a fleeting dream just beyond reach.

Bella whimpered, her voice trembling with anxiety.

“What if we never find them? What if they’re lost, too?”

Bear nudged her gently, summoning the courage he felt waning.

“We can’t think like that. We have to believe they’re looking for us too. We must keep trying.”

They forged ahead, though their resolve flickered as days bled into nights.

One night, as darkness wrapped around them, they stumbled into a clearing, the towering trees standing like silent sentinels, watching over their plight.

At that moment, the weight of their reality crashed down. Home felt like a distant dream; the laughter and love that had guided them were now shadows, absent in the vast wilderness.

The scent trail that once ignited their hope faded to a mere whisper, lost in the endless expanse of the forest.

Curling up together in the cool grass, the chill of the night seeped into their bones, and for the first time, fear wrapped around them like a cold blanket.

“We will find our way,” Bear said, though uncertainty lingered in the edges of his words. Bella pressed closer, seeking warmth in his presence.

“Together,” she said, a flicker of hope igniting in her spirit. As stars twinkled above, they closed their eyes, dreaming of the family they longed to reunite with, ready to confront whatever challenges lay ahead.

ONE EVENING, AS dusk draped the sky in warm oranges and deep purples, Bear and Bella paused, their senses tingling. The air filled with an intoxicating blend of scents—familiar and comforting—that stirred something deep within them, a longing they had almost forgotten.

With hearts pounding, they pushed through the dense thicket of trees and emerged into a clearing bathed in the soft glow of twilight.

There, silhouetted against the fading light, stood a house, its windows glowing like welcoming beacons. Beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient oak, they spotted familiar figures—Emma, Liam, Zoey, and Roman—gathered around a picnic table, their faces illuminated by warm lantern light.

Time seemed to stand still as joy surged through Bear and Bella, flooding their senses with relief and excitement. They exchanged a glance, a silent declaration that they were no longer lost.

Without a moment’s hesitation, they sprang forward, their sore paws pounding against the earth, barking jubilantly as they raced toward the sounds of their names ringing in the air.

“Bear! Bella!”

The calls floated toward them like a sweet melody, drawing the dogs closer. As they approached, the children leaped from their seats, eyes wide with disbelief and delight. Zoey squealed, arms stretching out toward them, while Roman’s laughter filled the air, wrapping around the dogs like a warm embrace.

The reunion exploded into a whirlwind of affection as Bear and Bella dashed into their family, tails wagging furiously. Emma knelt, tears of joy shimmering in her eyes as she pulled Bella close, burying her face in the soft fur of her neck.

“Oh, my sweet girl! We were so worried!”

Her voice trembled with emotion, each word a testament to her love.

Liam joined them, enveloping Bear in his arms, relief washing over him like a soothing tide.

“You had us scared to death! Where have you been?”

As the initial shock of reunion settled, the family formed a tight circle, laughter and tears mingling in the warm evening air. The dogs reveled in the affection, barking their joy, their hearts swelling with love.

They were home. The worries of their perilous journey faded, replaced by the comfort of family.

After lapping cool water from their familiar bowls and nibbling on their favorite treats, Bear and Bella went around, collecting hugs and showering their humans with sloppy kisses.

Under the vast, starry sky, the family shared stories, laughter dancing around them. After a warm bath, Bear and Bella nestled between the children, their eyes sparkling with contentment. The joyous sounds of family filled the air, and the dogs felt an overwhelming sense of belonging.

No longer just animals chasing ephemeral scents, members of a family they had fought to find, who cherished them.

As the night deepened, they settled on their dog beds in the new living room, the comforting smells of home wrapping around them like a soft blanket, lulling them into peace. Bear and Bella exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them.

Their homecoming was more than a return to a physical space; it was a journey back to the hearts of those who loved them. Their perilous adventure had woven a tale of courage into the fabric of their lives.

As the house settled into the stillness of night, Bear and Bella slept soundly, enveloped in familiar, safe smells. They knew that love would always guide them back, no matter how far they roamed.

Author’s Note

• My award-winning book of poetry and prose, The Edges, is available in digital and paperback formats at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, Google Play, and Kobo.

Upcoming…

• A poem about insomnia:

  Countdown, 8 February 2025

Immigrant Dreams is Here—Be Part of the Experience!

Immigrant Dreams, a collection of 33 poems celebrating the resilience and hope of those who dare to dream beyond borders, is now available in digital, paperback, and hardcover formats.

Order Now!

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Apple | Tolino | Vivlio | Smashwords | Fable | Palace Marketplace | Everand | Tertulia | IngramSpark | Google Play

• Details and information on signed and free copies are available here.

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Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind. — Rudyard Kipling

Magical Syllables

TWO WIZARDS FACED off in the heart of the enchanted forest.

“Your wordplay is weak, Kael!” boomed Cedric, his charmed staff crackling with energy.

Kael smiled. “Weak? Or perhaps imbued with magic you've never encountered?”

“It’s said that words are the most powerful drug humans use,” Cedric sneered, invoking fire.

Kael whispered to himself, “Then I’ll be the dealer.”

In that instant, the air shimmered with swirling letters. They wrapped around Cedric, binding him with enchanted syllables.

“Release me!” he shouted, panic rising in his voice.

Kael smiled. “Only if you admit it—words can hold more power than mere magic.”

Right Words

MAX LEANED AGAINST the doorframe.

“Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?”

“Words can be heavy, you know?” Jess said, biting her lip. “What if I ruin everything?”

“Or what if you don’t say anything and lose your chance?” he countered.

“Yeah, but what if…?” she hesitated, glancing down.

“Listen, words have power. They can build bridges or walls; you owe it to yourself, to be honest.”

Jess took a deep breath.

“You’re right. I just need to find the right words.”

“Then go,” Max smiled. “You’ve got this.”

With newfound courage, she set out to find her.

Love Story

“WHY DO YOU write so much?” Liz asked, watching Rob scribble.

“Because every word is a step toward understanding,” he said, glancing up with a smile. “Words can change hearts.”

“But can they change the world?” she said, her brow raised.

“Perhaps not the world,” he said, “but they can change our little corner of it.”

“Then tell me,” she said, leaning closer. “What do your words say about us?”

“They say… you are my muse,” he confessed, a blush creeping across his cheeks. “With every line, I fall deeper into your story.”

Liz smiled. “Then let’s write it together.”

Word Power

Words are our bridges, our anchors in time,  
Connecting souls that wander through this world.  
In the melody of laughter and tears,  
We find our solace, we find our rebirth.  

Language, a river that flows through our veins,  
Binding us closer, a shared symphony.  
In life’s cadence, we discover our truth,  
That our power is words, our legacy.  

Possession

THE OLD HOUSE loomed in the moonlight, its tower resembling a gnarled finger pointing accusingly at the stars.

Inside, the air was thick with decay, and the walls whispered secrets of the past.

“Don’t listen to them,” Clarice shivered, clutching her friend’s arm. “They want to ensnare you.”

“Just words, Clarice,” Jude scoffed, though his voice trembled.

The floorboards creaked beneath their weight, simulating bleats of baby sheep.

A cold breeze brushed against them, carrying faint, desperate cries.

“Stay… hear our story,” they beckoned, a siren call that tugged at their souls.

Clarice turned to run, but Jude hesitated, entranced.

Serpent’s Tongue

Lurking deep in the garden of thought,  
Temptation charms with honeyed embrace.  
Words coil like serpents, twisting through minds,  
Filling hearts with their venomous grace.  

Innocence falters, stories unfold,  
Echoes of laughter mingle with pain.  
Sparks of rebellion ignite in air,  
Tongues tangle in dangerous games played.  

Each phrase, a poison—sweet, bitter pill,  
Carried softly on breath, drifting wide.  
Mankind, entranced by speech’s power,  
Dances closer to shadows that bide.  

Author’s Note

• In our current political climate, the manipulation of language has reached alarming levels. Misinformation spreads rapidly, distorting truths and creating divisions within communities. The tools we use to express our thoughts and beliefs can be wielded as weapons, turning dialogue into discord. As we navigate a landscape filled with deception, let us remember Kipling's words and strive to use language as a means of connection and healing rather than a source of conflict.

• My award-winning book of poetry and prose, The Edges, is available in digital and paperback formats at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, Google Play, and Kobo.

Upcoming…

• A poem about suppressing negative thoughts:

  Stifling Negativity, 25 January 2025

Immigrant Dreams is Here—Be Part of the Experience!

Immigrant Dreams, a collection of 33 poems celebrating the resilience and hope of those who dare to dream beyond borders, is now available in digital, paperback, and hardcover formats.

Order Now!

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Apple | Tolino | Vivlio | Smashwords | Fable | Palace Marketplace | Everand | Tertulia | IngramSpark | Google Play

• Details and information on signed and free copies are available here.

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

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Solstice Dreams

Dreams move softly through night, like threads of light woven from stars,  
Solstice brings gentle warmth, stretching days wide in soft, calm embrace,  
Under skies that turn slow, stars guide hearts toward quiet and peace.

Nature holds its breath, stillness settles deep within the air,  
Magic weaves light and shade, blending moments in gentle dance,  
In this quiet place, we find ourselves beneath glowing skies.

The Fox’s Watch

As evening settles over the forest, a fox lowers itself close to the ground, its breath forming little clouds in the cold air. Snowflakes drift down gently, catching what little light there is.

Each careful step presses against the crunchy snow, a quiet reminder of the chill beyond its shelter. Winter’s calm surrounds the fox like a soft blanket, but hunger tugs at its stomach.

Far off, the faint rustle of leaves signals a rabbit nearby. The fox’s pulse quickens.

Tonight is a night to hunt. The longest night holds a promise of returning light, but before that, the fox must answer the call of darkness.

Snowflakes and Dreams

A child stands by the window, eyes wide with wonder as snowflakes drift gently down from the sky. Each one is a tiny wonder, delicate and different, moving softly in its own way.

With a happy squeal, she runs outside, arms stretched wide, mouth open, catching flakes on her tongue. The world around her becomes a chilly playground filled with her laughter in the crisp air.

She rolls snow into a snowman, giving it a carrot nose and dark eyes made of coal—bright spots against the white snow.

Her mother watches nearby, smiling quietly, remembering that today marks the solstice, a day when dreams seem to float gently in the winter sky.

Solstice Skies

In the heart of night,  
Winter's solstice whispers soft,  
Stars in crisp, dark skies.

Snowflakes weave their spells,  
Each one a tiny secret,  
Holding dreams of light.

Children gather round,  
In the glow of crackling fire,  
Stories wrapped in warmth.

Evergreen adorned,  
Glistening with hopeful cheer,  
Nature's bright embrace.

Moonlight paints the world,  
A silvery tapestry,  
Magic fills the air.

Solstice's sweet breath,  
Promising the sun's return,  
Life cycles anew.

With joy in their hearts,  
They dance in the falling snow,  
Under starry skies.

A Heart’s Memory

In her quiet room at the nursing home, the 93-year-old woman looks toward the empty chair next to her bed. It’s been a while since anyone stopped by. Outside, the wind moves through the trees, a sharp reminder that she’s alone.

She pulls a worn quilt around her shoulders, its fabric carrying the warmth of past days filled with laughter and comfort.

The cold of the winter solstice settles deep in her bones, but the soft glow from her bedside lamp brings a small comfort. It calls to mind family gatherings, the fresh scent of pine, and the feeling of being loved.

She takes a slow breath and quietly offers a prayer, hoping someone might hear her wish for connection.

Beneath the Overpass

Underneath the overpass, a homeless teenager curls into himself, the cold cutting deep into his bones.

Winter feels harsh and unrelenting, turning everything around him into a frozen, empty place.

Above, the city buzzes with warmth and laughter, but down here, shadows stretch long and heavy. He pulls a worn blanket tighter, pretending it can protect him from the world’s hard edges.

The winter solstice feels distant; something joyful he can only watch from the outside.

In a quiet moment, he looks up at the clear night sky and spots a shooting star. His lips, pale from the cold, move softly with a wish—an urgent hope for a better way forward.

Author’s Note

• My book of poetry and prose, The Edges, is available in digital and paperback formats at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, Google Play, and Kobo.

• Preorder my new book of poetry, Immigrant Dreams.

Upcoming…

• Prose and poetry about the cosmos:

  Star Gazing, 28 December 2024

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Today, amid expectations of historic female voter participation, here is a short CNF about a woman whose vote had an impact.

On a brisk November morning in 1872, the air buzzed with anticipation and trepidation.

It was Election Day, and for Susan B. Anthony, a relentless advocate for women’s rights, it was the moment to make a statement that echoed far beyond the ballot box.

She stood in the dimly lit polling place, her heart pounding with a fierce resolve. Today, she would cast her vote, a bold act of defiance against a system that deemed her unworthy of participation.

The weight of history bore down on her as she made her choice. This election involved more than just selecting a president. Her vote would show that women, whom society had kept silent for so long, also held a valuable voice.

The exhilaration of empowerment was short-lived. Within hours, the authorities descended upon her.

“You are under arrest for voting illegally,” they announced, their tones dripping with disdain.

Anthony met their gaze with unyielding determination.

In the ensuing trial, she stood before the court and proclaimed, “This is the greatest outrage history ever witnessed.”

Her words, laced with indignation, were a call to arms for countless women who yearned for equality.

Convicted and fined $100, Anthony’s spirit remained unbroken.

“I will not pay,” she said, the defiance in her voice igniting the hearts of many.

That election passed, but its consequences reverberated through time. Anthony’s rebellion became a cornerstone in the ongoing struggle for women’s suffrage, inspiring generations to rise and fight for their rights.

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Ethan set out on the Appalachian Trail, searching for solace amid nature’s embrace.

Early morning sunlight pierced through the leaves, creating shadows, as every step brought a minor triumph over life’s disorder.

He had slammed out of the house, angry over his mother’s questioning.

With his backpack slung over one shoulder, he could almost hear her voice echoing in his mind, urging him to enroll in college, to pursue a path that had never felt like his own.

She had pleaded with him again, her hands gesturing wildly as if trying to grasp the future she envisioned for him.

“Why can’t you just try, Ethan? You’re doing so well at the store; imagine what you could achieve with a degree!”

Success at the supermarket meant shackles to him, but his mother saw it as potential, a stepping stone to more success in a regular job, whatever “regular” meant.

The local supermarket had become his refuge, a place where he had earned recognition and respect, yet it was never enough to fill the void of dissatisfaction growing inside him.

Employee of the month plaques lined the break room, a testament to his hard work, but they felt like hollow victories.

Frustrated, he snapped back.

“I don’t want to go to college! I don’t want to be like everyone else!”

The words hung heavy in the air, sparking an argument that had spiraled into chaos.

His mother had called after him, her voice tinged with worry.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here!”

He had shouted at her; the words escaping him before he could catch them.

Now, as he gripped the breakfast bars he had snatched from the kitchen counter, the crinkling wrappers reminded him of the comfort he sought in the chaos. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the world outside, fresh and alive.

He had driven his car to the start of the Apple Orchard Falls Trail. He knew it crossed the Appalachian Trail at Sunset Field Overlook.

Once on the Appalachian Trail, he planned on hiking it for a few miles. He needed the solitude of the fresh air and trees.

As the day wore on, the familiar path faded from view, swallowed by dense underbrush and towering trees.

I must have taken a wrong side path, he thought.

He glanced at his phone and realized he hadn’t charged it last night.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him he had eaten the breakfast bars hours ago.

By the time dusk blanketed the forest, a creeping unease coiled in his gut. Hunger gnawed at him, sharper than the cool air that settled around his shoulders.

He had lost track of time and direction, and the gentle sounds of the forest transformed into ominous murmurs.

Ethan pressed on, convinced the Trail was beyond the subsequent rise, but the night quickly swallowed the fading light.

Panic fluttered in his chest, and he realized how utterly alone he was.

That’s when he heard a rustling, low and deliberate, breaking the stillness that had settled like a thick fog around him.

He turned, heart racing, and caught sight of a massive figure moving between the trees. It was dark, hulking, and almost glowed under the moonlight.

Ethan blinked, half-expecting it to vanish like a mirage, but the creature remained, its eyes glowing faintly in the night.

Despite hearing stories and whispers about Sasquatch in these woods, he never believed.

“Is this real?” he said aloud, his voice trembling.

With a gentle grace, the creature stepped forward, its massive frame looming above him.

It looked at Ethan with curiosity and concern, as if comprehending his situation.

Then, to Ethan’s shock, the Sasquatch turned and moved with surprising grace, plucking ripe berries from low bushes and unearthing tubers from the earth.

Ethan watched in disbelief, feeling the hollow ache in his stomach intensify. The creature returned, its palms filled with the forest’s bounty, and offered it to him.

“Thank you,” Ethan said, taking the food. The berries burst with sweetness, starkly contrasting the raw fear that had enveloped him. He chewed the tubers slowly, savoring the earthy flavor.

Though, when the Sasquatch presented a small animal—a rabbit, still warm from the forest—Ethan recoiled, shaking his head.

“No, I can’t eat that. Not raw!” he said, a wave of nausea rolling through him.

The creature contemplated his words, tilting its head as if evaluating his uncertainty. After placing the rabbit down, it calmly returned to the underbrush and resumed foraging with a serene determination.

With each morsel of food, Ethan felt strength returning to his limbs and clarity in his mind. He followed the Sasquatch deeper into the woods; the creature guiding him with unerring instinct.

As they walked further, the shadows thickened, and the air grew colder.

Then a piercing shriek shattered the quiet night. A cry of despair and rage, belonging only to something otherworldly, echoed from the forest’s depths.

Ethan’s heart pounded, and he felt an icy grip of fear coil around his spine.

The Sasquatch turned sharply, its eyes wide with alarm, before it dashed into darkness.

“Wait!” Ethan called out, but the creature vanished, leaving him alone in the oppressive stillness.

Panic surged within him, and he backtracked, desperately trying to find his way to the Trail. The once serene woods now appeared dark and labyrinthine.

He heard a rustling. It was different this time, caused by something more significant than Sasquatch. Soft, guttural growls and the unmistakable sound of footsteps accompanied it, approaching.

Ethan’s breath hitched, and he turned to see glowing eyes emerging from the dark.

No question. It wasn’t the Sasquatch.

The creature that stepped into the moonlight was a grotesque parody of the forest. It had elongated and sinewy limbs covered in matted fur, but its face resembled a twisted mask of malice, with eyes burning with an insatiable hunger.

Ethan stumbled backward, fear clawing at his throat as he realized that the stories of Sasquatch were only the beginning of the horrors that lurked in these woods.

The creature lunged, and in that fleeting moment, Ethan understood the truth: super-predators continued to exist. The Sasquatch had not been his savior; it had been a diversion against the forest’s real horrors.

In the encroaching darkness, Ethan screamed, a primal sound devoured by the night, echoing the fate of those who dared venture too deep into the wild—lost, alone, and hunted.

Author’s Note

• Check out other Halloween/horror-themed posts at the Halloween link

• My new book, The Edges, is now available in digital and paperback formats

AMAZON

BARNES & NOBLE

APPLE BOOKS

GOOGLE PLAY

KOBO

Upcoming…

• A poem about winged symphony:

  Monarchy, 2 November 2024

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Seduced

I met him, a creature of the night, in the moonlit garden where roses bloomed with thorns like jagged dreams. His eyes, like pools of midnight ink, reflected the torment of a thousand lost souls.

His curse, a tempest within him, denied him the sun's warmth. His skin, pale as moonlight, concealed an unquenchable thirst. He was a creature of perpetual hunger, forever yearning for the warmth of life's elixir.

His touch, like velvet against my skin, whispered secrets of a forbidden desire. As he drew me into his nocturnal embrace, I succumbed willingly, entwining my fate with his, my heart both fearful and intoxicated by the promise of eternal nights.

Cursed

The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the ancient trees, whispering secrets of forgotten sins.

In a meadow edged by this dense forest, the vampire, Lucien, found himself ensnared in a web of his desires. Maddened by his insatiable hunger, he had grabbed and tried to bite a maiden the night before.

How was he to know she was one of those angels that walked among the ordinary people?

Before he could sink his fangs into her neck, she had glowed. Her eyes stared at him, burning white. He had dropped her and ran into the forest.

“You should have known better, Lucien,” a voice said, echoing through the shadows, resonating with authority.

Lucien’s crimson eyes widened as he beheld the figure emerging from the darkness. It was none other than Ezrael; the archangel known as The Punisher, his piercing gaze cutting through the vampire’s very soul.

“I was foolish,” Lucien said, his voice heavy with regret. “He promised me eternity and pleasure, but it was all a trap.”

Ezrael’s expression remained stoic, his wings unfurling majestically behind him.

“Your punishment is to remain here in this meadow, bound by the forest you sought to hide in. You will learn the consequences of giving in to temptation.”

As the archangel’s words hung in the air, the forest tightened its grip around the meadow; the branches twisting into dark, thorned shackles. The vampire’s heart filled with dread as he realized the depth of his folly.

“Please, show mercy,” Lucien said, pleading as desperation laced his voice.

Ezrael’s gaze softened, a glimmer of compassion flickering in his eyes.

“Mercy is not mine to give. Redemption lies in your own choices, Lucien. Choose wisely.”

With a final, solemn nod, Ezrael faded into the shadows, leaving Lucien alone in his forest prison.

The vampire’s cries of anguish mingled with the whispered symphony of night noises in the forest.

Tempted

One summer, on the meadow’s edges, vibrant with the scent and color of wildflowers, Lucien prowled under the pale light of a new moon. His eyes, the color of blood, glowed with otherworldly intensity. Lucien could soar through the night with the grace of a predator, his whispers chilling the bones of those unfortunate enough to hear them.

Tonight, Lucien sensed a presence, a human one. He was so tired of consuming the blood of creatures that ventured into the meadow, and this human’s blood vibrated in his being, young and fresh, an innocent no less.

He followed the whispering breeze to where a young woman stood, her heart pounding in fear. Her name was Lilith, and she had stumbled upon Lucien’s hunting ground. The lantern she carried flickered in her trembling hands as she realized her grave mistake.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed, hunger consuming him. He could smell her fear, taste it on the tip of his tongue.

“Ah, my lovely. I’ve been alone for such a long time.” Lucien felt an overpowering thirst.

He advanced slowly, relishing in the terror that emanated from Lilith’s every pore. But as he drew closer, something unexpected happened.

Lilith summoned all her courage, determined not to meet her demise without a fight. With a sudden burst of strength, she swung the lantern toward Lucien. The lantern’s glass shattered, flames licking at his face, and the vampire recoiled, hissing in pain. The glow of the fire startled him, momentarily weakening his supernatural abilities.

Lilith took that opportunity to sprint through the meadow, desperate to escape. Lucien enraged, chased after her, but at the meadow’s edge, he stopped and roared in despair. He could not leave. The thrill of consuming a young innocent’s blood had driven all thought of the curse from his mind.

Resigned

Lucien roamed the meadow, trapped by the unbreakable curse.

The memory of almost sinking his fangs into Lilith’s tender neck haunted him. It was a maddening hunger that gnawed at his very being.

“I should have had her,” Lucien said, muttering to himself, his voice a mix of sorrow and longing.

As he paced the perimeter of his verdant prison, he beseeched The Punisher.

“Ezrael, have pity on me. Release me from this torment!”

A pale, shimmering light descended, revealing the majestic figure of the archangel Ezrael.

“Lucien, you have two choices,” Ezrael said, his voice echoing through the forest. “Face eternal damnation in the fiery pits or endure another century in this earthly prison.”

A heavy feeling settled in Lucien’s chest as he considered what to do.

To dwell in the fiery pits meant ending this existence. Spending another century in the meadow felt like an unbearable punishment, a never-ending torment of unfulfilled longings.

With his head lowered, Lucien pondered before raising his gaze to meet Ezrael’s solemn look.

“I choose to remain on earth,” he said, his voice filled with resolve.

“Why?” Ezrael inquired, his eyes searching Lucien’s soul.

“I choose to endure,” Lucien said, his tone laced with determination. “For in this prison, there is still a sliver of hope, a chance for redemption. I’ll persevere, hoping to find redemption in my suffering.”

“Understood,” Ezrael said, blending into a moonbeam.

So Lucien, the vampire, resigned himself to another century in the meadow, his heart filled with the distant dream of freedom.

Author’s Note

• I knew I wanted to rewrite two pieces (some of you might recognize them). I wrote the Lilith section last year constrained by the word count of a writing prompt. I expanded that piece. I wrote the opening section in April. I also knew that I wanted to give Lucien a backstory. Anyway, the two new sections flowed from that intention.

• Check out other Halloween/horror-themed posts at the Halloween link.

• My new book, The Edges, is now available in digital and paperback formats.

AMAZON

BARNES & NOBLE

APPLE BOOKS

GOOGLE PLAY

KOBO

Upcoming…

• A narrative poem about a witch’s revenge:

  Aldergrove, 23 October 2024

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He lurked in the shadows of the evening, his heart pounding in his chest.

A cool breeze whispered through the narrow alley, as if urging him to reconsider his choices.

The call of his addiction drowned out any rational thoughts that tried to penetrate his mind.

He was a thief, a desperate soul whose existence revolved around opioids.

Tonight, he had targeted a house, one he had been observing for days. The owners, an ordinary couple, were about to leave for an evening out. It was the perfect opportunity to strike.

With trembling hands, he pulled his ski mask over his face and adjusted the gloves on his hands, ready to break into their world and gather the merchandise he needed to sell for his next high.

As the minutes ticked by, his anxiety grew. Every passing second felt like an eternity. He stood outside their house, hidden in the shadows, waiting for them to leave. Finally, the front door swung open, and the couple stepped out, laughing and oblivious to the danger lurking nearby.

His heart raced with anticipation, an addiction by itself.

Once they were out of sight, he swiftly moved toward the house, his footsteps silent against the pavement. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he bypassed the security system and slipped through a slightly ajar window.

He found himself in their living room, a space filled with comfort and warmth, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness that consumed his life.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for valuable items to steal. He could feel the weight of his addiction pushing him forward, urging him to find something valuable enough to fund his next fix. He moved with practiced precision, his fingers delicately touching the objects in the room, searching for something worthy of his efforts.

Just as he was about to make his way upstairs, a sound pierced the silence. His heart leaped into his throat as he froze, his senses on high alert. Panic gripped him as he thought he heard the couple returning home earlier than expected. Frantically, he looked for a place to hide, his eyes landing on a sunroom next to the living room.

He dashed into the sunroom and crouched behind a large, exotic plant. Its vibrant green leaves cascaded down, providing the perfect camouflage.

As he caught his breath and observed his surroundings, he noticed something unsettling.

The plant was unlike any he had ever seen before. It resembled a Venus Flytrap, with its deceptive beauty and dangerous allure.

The plant seemed to sense his presence, its leaves slowly creeping toward him.

Fear welled up inside him as he realized the dire situation he had unwittingly placed himself in.

He tried to move away, but his body felt sluggish. A sickening realization washed over him—the plant was not just an ordinary decorative piece; it was a carnivorous creature, capable of trapping and devouring its prey.

Desperation consumed him as he struggled to break free from the plant’s paralyzing grip.

It was futile.

The more he fought, the tighter its hold became.

The plant’s jaws closed around him, its sharp teeth piercing through his flesh. Pain shot through every nerve in his body as he became trapped in its deadly embrace.

As he gasped for breath, his mind raced with regret. He had become a victim of his own addiction, lured by the false promise of euphoria. In his pursuit of temporary relief, he had lost everything—his freedom, his life, and any chance of redemption.

As the darkness closed in, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the fate he deserved. A thief, a slave to his cravings, forever consumed by the very darkness he had embraced.

In the end, the Venus Flytrap-like plant ingested him whole—clothes and all, erasing any trace of his existence.

Author’s Note

• Check out other Halloween/horror-themed posts at the Halloween link

• My new book, The Edges, is now available in digital and paperback formats

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Upcoming…

• A narrative poem about confronting the past:

  Ghost Riders, 12 October 2024

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Refer a friend

The storm raged outside, fierce and unyielding, but within the confines of the old mansion, a different tempest brewed—one of sorrow and longing.

I glided through the majestic halls, my transparent fingers grazing the dusty furniture, each touch igniting a memory. I was the ghost of Eliza Monroe, bound by a curse that had shackled my family for generations. Forbidden love had given birth to the infernal curse.

With my heart racing and the rain drumming on the roof, I whispered to James on the night we eloped.

“Do you think they’ll ever find us?”

“We’ll make it, Eliza. Just you and me, far away from here,” he had said, his dark eyes glistening with hope.

The car was a rickety thing, but it was our vessel to freedom. We’d driven for mere minutes, the lightning illuminating our path, but fate had other plans.

The sudden thud of a flat tire shattered our dreams.

“Damn it!” I said, the words echoing in the storm's stillness. “What are we going to do now?”

“Stay calm,” he said, his voice steady even as the wind howled outside. “I’ll change it. We’ll be back on the road in no time.”

I couldn’t sit still in the car, my anxiety would not allow it. I told James I could help and exited the car holding my rain poncho against me to prevent the wind from ripping it away.

That night, the universe conspired against us. I stood by James holding wheel nuts while he changed the tire. Two men, my uncle and cousin, emerged from the shadows, their faces twisted with rage.

“What are you doing with that girl?” my uncle spat, the weight of our family’s hatred heavy in the air as he grabbed my arm. Wheel nuts flew in the air.

“Let her go!” James said, stepping before me, his love a shield against their hate.

That moment transformed love into tragedy. I remember the glint of metal, the flash of anger, and then darkness enveloped us, snuffing out our dreams.

The world believed we eloped, escaping under cover of darkness. My family knew the truth. They knew why my spirit remained tethered to this mansion, condemned to wander its halls, waiting for James, forever waiting.

The curse was insidious; it claimed that anyone in my family who dared to love would meet a tragic end before their thirtieth year. I had become the harbinger of that fate, my sorrow seeping into the very foundation of our lineage.

As the years passed, whispers of my ghostly presence filled the mansion, tales of a forlorn spirit yearning for a lost love. I watched as my family grew distant, love becoming prohibited, each member fearful of the curse that shadowed our bloodline. I cursed my family for their hatred, for their inability to embrace love in all its forms.

“Why can’t they see?”

I lamented to the empty rooms, my voice echoing through the vastness.

“Love is not a sin. It’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

One day, workers came to dredge the lake, looking for a drowned teenager’s body. They pulled the car and our remains from our watery grave, and my heart surged with anticipation. Could it be? Would they finally discover the truth of our tragic end?

The spreading news brought a refreshing shift in the air.

The townspeople’s eyes widened in shock as they uncovered the truth about our love story.

My spirit soared. Was I finally free? Would the world learn of our love that had defied our community’s and my family’s beliefs?

Then, miraculously, I sensed his presence—James—lightly touching me like a soft breeze, as if the universe had heard my prayers.

“Eliza,” he said with a whisper, his voice resonating in my heart. “I’ve waited for you.”

“James!” I cried, my spirit intertwining with his. Finally, we could be together. Our once-forbidden love blossomed anew as our ethereal forms embraced. The curse’s weight lifted, its darkness dissolving.

That embrace broke the curse, rewriting our tragic fate in the annals of time. We were no longer just memories of a curse, but characters in a sad love story.

“Together, always,” he promised. Together, we drifted into the unknown, our souls united at last. The haunting ended, replaced by a love echoing through eternity, breaking chains of hatred and despair.

Author’s Note

I remembered this prompt a day before the deadline, so I could not complete my story in time. This was the prompt from the :

Your prompt:

Your protagonist is a person in love who is also a ghost

Your story must include a family curse

And you get a bonus if you include “flat tire”

Read another Halloween-themed post:

By the way, my new book, The Edges, is now available in digital and paperback formats.

AMAZON

BARNES & NOBLE

APPLE BOOKS

GOOGLE PLAY

KOBO

Upcoming…

• A story about addiction:

  Oh, Venus, 9 October 2024

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Refer a friend

We were young and foolish. We were teenagers: a group of neighborhood girls, inseparable most days.

We had to lose weight for an upcoming event in a few months.

The diet we chose was the Ice Cream Diet. Instead of eating three meals a day, we had ice cream for a month—for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and any snacks in between.

It started great!

We persuaded our parents to get our favorite flavors. Rocky Road, Cherry Garcia, Pralines and Cream, Rum Raisin—we got them all.

We weighed in every week and lost between three and five pounds each in the first week. We were so excited! Perhaps one pound each in the second week. By then, we hated ice cream.

By the end of our fourth week, at least one of us vomited at the sight of ice cream, and she was the only one who had maintained the weight she had lost that first week.

Devastating!

Years passed before I saw ice cream as a treat.

The thought of all that ice cream still triggers my salivary glands, but not in a good way.

It doesn’t help that I’m lactose intolerant.

As the warm hues of fall painted the landscape in golden tones, my college roommate, Nancy, invited me to spend a weekend at her family’s farm, about an hour away.

Despite shorter days and cooler weather, the weekend’s forecast predicted temperatures of 80°F or higher.

I couldn’t wait to visit a real working farm, meet my roommate’s parents, and see all the animals she had talked about.

I eagerly accepted the invitation, looking forward to the adventures that awaited me.

Upon arriving at the picturesque farmhouse, the sights and sounds of rural life greeted me. The sweet melodies of chirping birds filled the air, and the gentle mooing of cows resonated in the distance. Nancy’s family warmly welcomed me, inviting me to immerse myself in their way of life for the weekend.

The next morning, Nancy’s mother, a gracious woman, guided me to the barn to teach me the art of milking a cow. Through her patience and skill, I learned the rhythmic movements of milking, feeling a deep connection to the earth and gentle cows.

However, the highlight of the weekend turned out to be my undoing.

Nancy’s mother, a masterful cook, presented a delectable treat at the end of the meal—slow-churned peach ice cream, made from the freshest peaches harvested and bottled on the farm.

My heart sank as I remembered my past encounters with peaches (that’s another story for some other time), the love-hate relationship I had with ice cream, and my struggle with lactose intolerance.

With a gracious smile, I accepted the bowl of peach ice cream; my mind conflicted with gratitude and apprehension. As I took a hesitant spoonful, the creamy sweetness melted on my tongue, bringing a flood of contradictory emotions. I savored the flavor, trying to ignore the warning signs my body was sending.

Despite my best efforts, my body rebelled against the rich dairy indulgence. I excused myself, retreating to the tranquility of the airy farmhouse porch.

There, shaded from the warm autumn sun, I listened to my stomach rumble and reflected on the bittersweet experience, grateful for the hospitality and love of Nancy’s family, yet rueful because of my own limitations.

As the weekend came to a close, I bid farewell to Nancy’s family, carrying with me memories of laughter and a newfound appreciation for the simple joys of farm life.

So it was with my stomach in turmoil, I returned to college, forever altered by my weekend on the farm.

Author’s Note

• It will NOT surprise you to learn, the Ice Cream Diet is not a good diet.

• This all happened before I could take Lactaid pills before eating dairy. If I have the pills on hand and if I remember to take one, I can enjoy a bowl of ice cream or an ice cream cone.

• I sometimes wonder if I still have the muscle memory to milk a cow.

Upcoming…

• A poem about a school shooting:

  Why?, 11 September 2024

• My new book of poetry and prose, The Edges

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Refer a friend

Once, in a bustling city filled with towering skyscrapers and busy streets, there lived a wizard named Alaric.

People knew Alaric for his wise counsel, magical prowess, and his ability to bring light into the darkest of situations. All who knew him loved and respected Alaric, and he used his powers to assist those in need.

One sunny morning, as Alaric was preparing his potions and casting spells in his cluttered study, he noticed an unusual occurrence.

He struggled to recall a simple incantation that he had known for centuries. His mind, once sharp, now felt foggy and uncertain.

He shook his head, hoping it was just a momentary lapse, but the feeling persisted.

Alaric’s heart sank as he realized that something was wrong. He sought the counsel of his closest friend and fellow wizard, Seraphina.

Everyone knew Seraphina for her vast knowledge of magical ailments, plant medicinals, and her compassionate nature. Seraphina greeted Alaric with a warm smile, but her eyes filled with concern as she noticed the turmoil on his face.

“Seraphina, something’s not right. I can’t seem to remember spells like I used to. But how can that be? I’ve spent centuries mastering spells and incantations.”

Alaric poured out his fears, describing the gaps in his recollections and his growing confusion. Seraphina listened, her heart heavy with empathy.

“It pains me to say this, my dear friend, but you may have dementia. Dementia is a cruel condition that affects the mind and ability to remember.

Alaric’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Dementia? But... but I’m a powerful wizard. How can this be happening to me?”

Seraphina’s voice was soft, yet firm. “Dementia does not discriminate, Alaric. It can affect anyone, even the most skilled magic practitioners. Fear not, there are ways to ease the burden and slow down its progression. It can be a formidable foe, but remember, you are a wizard. You have faced countless challenges before, and you will face this one with strength and courage.”

Alaric nodded, his eyes filled with determination.

Together, Alaric and Seraphina devised a plan to help him manage his illness.

They created a magical journal that would serve as Alaric’s’s memory aid. In this diary, he would record his thoughts, experiences, and important information that he feared might slip away.

Seraphina also compounded herbs and other plants into a tincture for Alaric.

As the days turned into weeks and months, Alaric’s state worsened. The vibrant colors of his memories faded, and the once-familiar faces became blurred.

Through it all, he clung to his diary, the lifeline that connected him to the person he once was.

One day, while going through his handwritten diary, Alaric discovered an entry from a moment of clarity.

It read, “Though my mind might falter, my spirit remains strong. I am still the same wizard who brings light to the darkness. Dementia might deprive me of my recollections, but it will never steal my essence.”

Motivated by his own words, Alaric committed to making the most of his remaining time with his magic. He employed his fading memories as a source of inspiration rather than a cause for despair. He embraced each moment, knowing that it could be his last.

As word of Alaric’s struggle spread throughout the city, the people rallied around him. They organized a magical festival in his honor, celebrating his life and legacy. Wizards from all over came to pay tribute to the brave one who battled dementia.

Alaric stood before an appreciative audience at the festival, thanking all well-wishers.

His eyes scanned the crowd, seeing familiar and forgotten faces, all brimming with love and admiration. In that moment, Alaric understood the true power of mankind’s connection and the resilience of the human spirit.

“My dear friends,” Alaric started, his voice filled with both sorrow and joy.

“I may have a clouded mind, but my heart remains clear. I am forever grateful for your support and love. We’ve showed that resilience and grace shine through challenges.”

The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers echoing through the city streets. Alaric smiled, feeling a sense of peace wash over him.

As time went on, Alaric’s condition continued to deteriorate. The once-vibrant city he called home became a labyrinth of confusion and uncertainty. Simple tasks turned into monumental challenges, and the world around him seemed to blur into a haze of indistinguishable shapes and sounds.

Even during his struggle, Alaric found solace in the companionship of Seraphina and a few close friends who refused to let his dementia define him.

They became his guiding lights, helping him navigate the ever-shifting landscape of his mind.

Another day, as Alaric sat in his study, surrounded by the relics of his magical past, he stumbled upon an ancient grimoire. Although worn and yellowed with age, the pages of the spell book still held a spark of power in the words they contained.

With a surge of determination, Alaric decided on one last quest.

He gathered his friends and shared his plan.

“My dear friends,” Alaric said, his voice trembling, “I have a plan that may help restore what I have lost. We shall embark on a journey into the heart of the enchanted forest to find the mystical Fountain of Memories.”

Gasps and murmurs filled the room as Alaric’s friends exchanged uncertain glances.

Seraphina stepped forward, her voice steady and reassuring. “Alaric, venturing into the enchanted forest is no small feat. It is a place of great mystery and danger. Are you sure this is wise?”

Alaric nodded, determination shining through his clouded mind. “I have read about it in an old spell book and seen glimpses of the fountain in my dreams, Seraphina. I believe it holds the key to unlocking the memories that have slipped away from me. Together, we can face whatever challenges lie ahead.”

One wizard spoke up, his voice tinged with concern. “But Alaric, what if we encounter dark forces or traps along the way? The enchanted forest is filled with unknown magic.”

Alaric placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Fear not, my friend. With our combined skills and wizardry, we can overcome any obstacle. The Fountain of Memories is our goal, and we shall not rest until we find it.”

Seraphina spoke. “We will support you, Alaric, in this quest. Let us prepare ourselves and gather the supplies for the journey ahead. Together, we will face the wonders of the magical woods and seek the fountain that may hold the key to restoring your lost memories.”

And so, with hearts full of determination and magic crackling in the air, Alaric and his friends set forth on their quest into the depths of the enchanted forest, ready to confront whatever challenges awaited them in their pursuit of the Fountain of Memories.

Alaric’s heart swelled with a mixture of hope and trepidation as he followed the winding path deeper into the unknown.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as the group faced countless trials and tribulations. They encountered treacherous beasts, riddles that tested their wits, and illusions that threatened to lure them astray.

Through it all, Alaric’s determination never wavered. He pressed on, fueled by the belief that somewhere within the depths of the forest, his lost memories awaited him.

They reached the forest’s heart, after what seemed like forever. There, in a clearing bathed in ethereal light, stood the fabled Fountain of Memories. Its waters shimmered with a kaleidoscope of colors, promising the restoration Alaric sought.

With trembling hands, Alaric cupped the water in his palms and brought it to his lips. As the liquid touched his tongue, a surge of energy coursed through his body.

He closed his eyes, allowing his memories to flood back into his consciousness.

In that moment, Alaric relived a lifetime of magical adventures, friendships forged, and lessons learned.

He recalled the faces of loved ones, the taste of victory, and the sting of loss. Most importantly, he remembered who he was at his core—a wizard whose spirit remained unyielding in the face of adversity.

When Alaric opened his eyes, his friends surrounded him, their faces filled with a mixture of awe and relief.

As the friends began their return journey, they saw the trees and undergrowth grow into a thick, verdant shield, hiding the fountain. Behind them, once visible pathways became choked with bushes and small trees.

With newfound clarity, Alaric returned to the city, where life continued to move at its own relentless pace.

With his regained memories, he confronted each day with a fresh sense of purpose and appreciation.

Alaric became an advocate for those living with dementia, using his own experiences to promote understanding of the struggles they faced.

He worked to raise awareness, funding research, and providing support for both individuals and their families. His legacy extended far beyond the realm of magic, touching the lives of countless people who found solace in his story.

Author’s Note

I feel compelled to share with you the genesis of this narrative. My dear sister’s poignant struggles with dementia served as the inspiration. Through her eyes, a world emerged—familiar, yet strange, memories slipping, like sand.

Through the veil of her condition, I found myself drawn to a fantasy world where the boundaries of reality blur. I sought a realm where hope shines through darkness.

Apologies for not elaborating on the quest for the Fountain of Memories. I’ll leave that for another story. I condensed and summarized most of that section into a paragraph.

Upcoming…

• A poem about finding and sharing life’s delights:

  Joy, 17 August 2024

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Refer a friend

In a different world and time, humans and elves coexist, while troubadours sing in praise of female warriors’ triumphs.

In the heart of a thick and ancient forest, where the mist hung like a shroud, two formidable women warriors stood facing each other.

“You have been chosen by your companions to settle the boundary dispute between Lithilorn and Elenathar with swords. Captain Aria, your company has overwhelmingly voted to maintain the current boundaries with Lithilorn. Captain Lyra, your company voted to expand Lithilorn by controlling some of Elenathar’s land and peoples,” said Queen Guiniva as she raised her right arm in the air.

“Your battle will begin!” The queen said as she brought her hand down.

She, the group of women warriors, and elven escorts stood around a clearing where the trees had formed a natural ring about 10 meters wide.

As the chosen warriors raised their swords, droplets of water from the mist slid down the blades. The charged atmosphere crackled with tension as they circled one another, their gazes locked in steely determination.

Aria, with the eyes of a seasoned warrior, exuded confidence and skill, her movements as sharp as the blade she wielded.

The other warrior, Lyra, was a mysterious fighter rumored to possess dark magic, her every move infused with an otherworldly grace that hinted at the power she commanded.

Their rivalry burned like an unquenchable fire. It had been that way since they met at the training academy.

The clash of their swords and their grunts reverberated through the forest, a symphony of metal meeting metal, their grunts acting as counterpoint to their strikes as they engaged in a fierce dance of combat.

Aria’s strikes were precise and calculated, each movement executed with deadly accuracy. However, she struggled to keep up with the enigmatic and unpredictable movements of her opponent. Despite her skill, she felt the weight of the enchanted sword’s power bearing down on her, its dark aura enveloping Lyra as she fought.

In an unexpected twist, Lyra disarmed Aria, sending her sword flying to embed itself in the soft earth under a nearby tree.

Aria, bracing herself for the final blow, saw a flicker of doubt cross Lyra’s face, a moment of vulnerability.

With a forward lunge, Aria wrested the enchanted sword from Lyra’s hand, feeling its heft and dark magic course through her as she held it aloft. Her eyes blazed with a fierce light.

In a swift and decisive motion, Aria brought the sword down, its metallic song slicing through the air as it found its mark.

Lyra, her eyes widening in shock, realized the betrayal of the dark magic that had once empowered her. With a shuddering breath, she fell to the forest floor, her body lifeless.

Aria stood panting over her fallen rival, the enchanted sword still clutched in her hand.

At that moment, the mist lifted and beams of sunlight illuminated the clearing, with glistening motes casting an ethereal glow over the scene.

A mix of jubilation and sorrow flickered in Aria’s eyes as she gazed upon Lyra’s lifeless form.

“You have triumphed.” Maira, her second, said as she moved into the clearing.

Captain Lyra’s company turned and walked away into the forest, muttering.

“It was rigged,” said some as they left.

Other women warriors and their elven escorts started forward, but parted as Queen Guiniva and her retinue of elven guards made their way to Aria.

“My queen,” Aria said, taking a knee and holding the enchanted sword tip down, by the hilt with her right hand as the queen approached.

“Arise, Captain Aria. You have proved yourself and won the dispute. My proclamation of the boundary will include your victory. Celebrate this day and I will see you at court in two days.”

Then Queen Guiniva and her retinue turned and left the clearing.

Aria crouched, released the sword, laying it on the ground with difficulty. Even after standing, she felt her hands and arms tingle from the magic.

She rubbed her hands and arms as she turned and addressed Aurielindë, her elven escort.

“We must bind the magic and bury the sword forever.”

“As you wish. In the mystical realm of elvish enchantments, where light and darkness dance in an eternal struggle, I shall craft an incantation to bind the dark magic to the sword forever, bury it miles below the earth’s surface, and seal its malevolent power,” Aurielindë said.

She turned, her gaze sweeping through the company. “You must all step behind the trees.”

Everyone moved out of the clearing as Aurielindë stood near the sword, raised her hands and whispered words that flowed like a soft breeze through the trees.

By the light of the stars,
Forged in fires of kings,
Guarded by the forest spirits,
Sleep deep beneath the earth.

Eternal guardians,
Celestial protectors,
Darkness fades away.
Hope of the elves shine.

Dark blade of destiny.
Enchanted in evil,
Eternal protectors,
Sleep deep beneath the earth.

May this incantation bind the dark magic to the sword forever, preserving its malevolent power within the depths of the earth’s embrace, where it shall rest buried miles below, safeguarded by the ancient spirits of elvish lore.

While Aurielindë whispered her incantation, the sword glowed and sank into the earth. The leaves stirred as the incantation finished, and the sword disappeared.

Aria, Maira, and the rest stepped once more into the clearing as sunlight faded and mist again crept through the trees.

Aurielindë turned to face the warriors and their escorts.

Aria moved forward and grabbed Aurielindë’s hand, bringing it to her lips.

“Thank you, Aurielindë. Now,” she said as she smiled and turned to face her company, “Let’s dig Lyra’s grave. We’ll setup camp near the river and drink our thanks to the goddess.”

As the warriors and elves left the clearing, echoes of the intense and fateful clash between Aria and Lyra would forever linger in the forest and haunt Aria all her days.

No one saw the mote-sized fairy queen and her court glide into the clearing as sunbeams again parted the mist.

Author’s Note

This is a straightforward fantasy that I wrote long ago inspired, of course, by the Lord of the Rings books. I updated and added sentences here and there, but my story is mostly intact from years ago. Look for another short story with some of these characters that I need to revise before posting.

Upcoming…

• Flash fiction in less than 600 words:

  Embers, 13 July 2024

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Refer a friend

“One must stay, one must go."

They knew their twin-bond would be shattered forever.

The reflection in the old mirror showed Ella and Mia holding hands.

A bony hand reached through the mirror.

“I choose you.”

Bony fingers grabbed Mia’s hand from Ella’s.

“No!” Ella screamed.

“Fine. Two for one.”

Author’s Note

This little horror was inspired by a prompt from

THE FICTION DEALER

Microdosing - 50mg of Twins

Today on Microdosing our prompt is TWINS! Write a story in 50 words! Don’t forget to tag me if you follow along with the challenge. My face stared back at me from the casket, flooding my mind with an avalanche of memories. Everything since birth has been lived by two souls, and when one got snuffed out, the other went, to…

Read more

2 years ago · 22 likes · 12 comments · Miguel S.