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Much of this post was taken from an earlier post of the same title, which can be read here. Since walking the Camino de Santiago, I have had additional thoughts about Mary, and wanted to share something slightly different about her this Christmas. One of my favorite Christmas albums was recorded by Roger Whittaker, and
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Who were you, Gramma Garlets Before the photographs were packed away Stored for safe keeping in a banker box Which smells as old as what it holds When I lift to lid, to wonder? What stories would you tell me If you were here with me Instead of these leftovers Papers and folios and snapshots
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I lost my father-in-law during the advent season in 2023. His absence from our life is still poignant. There are times when my husband and I look at one another and say “I wish Ron was still alive.” A man like my father-in-law leaves a huge hole when he is gone, one that is hard
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How does one remain soft when Out of necessity She has had to yell into the face Of a fellow pilgrim on the journey “To hell with you” While they both continue to walk Towards the same Heaven? How does she not let the heart-hardening of Pharaoh Become her bread and butter Drinking the gall
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This is the last post for now of my unfinished stories. I think all the characters I’ve shared here have a bigger story to tell. I hope you’ve enjoyed wondering what else might happen to them. Katherine Amelia Herrington has a mantra that she says everyday as she brushes her hair. She stares at her
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This is the second of three short scenes from stories that aren’t fully written. Some of these scenes are part of a larger work that remains unfinished and some of them are from tales that haven’t come to me…yet. “Lydia Agnes,” the shepherd called. I snapped by head up, fully at attention, though I had
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For the next few weeks, I’ll be posting short scenes from unfinished stories. Some of these scenes are part of larger works that remain unfinished. Others are a solitary, a single scene from a story that hasn’t come to me in any shape or form…yet. The cup sat on the table before him, and he
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I like to think that he is you Though his red crest is unlike your gray curls And his feathered wing is not like your fragile hands But he sings and chirps and flutters as he feeds And it makes me think of you laughing While we do nothing, waiting for supper For the night
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Days came and went. Months came and went. Summer came and went. The start of school came and went. Thanksgiving, and then Christmas, came and went. Steven and I heard nothing from David and Marian. Despite invitations to barbeques, birthdays, holidays and celebrations. Their silence was a cold stone in my belly. I blamed myself
The Quick and the Dead
Short stories. Creative experiments. Ideas that might not pan out.
The Quick and the Dead 