Gazehound's Animal Communication » Short Stories

A Gift For Ashley (A Gift For You)

Gayze — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 18:18:39 +0000

Charles settled into the giant, ornate throne, trying not to think about how hot the old Santa suit had become. Years ago, he’d handled the heavy garment better. Now that he was in his eighties, though, it had become fairly uncomfortable.

Well, he thought to himself, At this point in your life you’re always either too hot or too cold. He geared himself up for the first day of his favorite time of year. There was a bright smile beneath his bushy white beard: Let’s do it for the kids!

His favorite Elf, Lucy, who was an aide at the retirement home where Charles now lived, called out, “Merry Christmas!” and took the chain off the entrance aisle.

Charles and Lucy had been doing the Santa gig together at the local mall for over twenty years. For the past ten, the beard had even been real. The local residents said that Charles was the best Santa the mall had ever had, and he lived all year long looking forward to this event.

He looked out along the line of happy faces waiting to see him, grinned his best Santa grin, and shouted, “Ho Ho Ho!”

His third “Ho” rather fizzled out, though, because the large dark eyes peering up at him from the first child to climb the stairs were filled with tears. The little girl stood silent as the tears leaked out and ran down her already-streaked cheeks. She pulled a crumpled tissue out of her left mitten and wiped her nose before it started leaking as well.

“Well hello, young lady, what’s your name?” Santa-Charles asked, and reached out his arms to her.

“Ashley,” she said shyly, as he lifted her into his lap.

Unused to kids who arrived to see him in such a sad state, Charles wasn’t sure what to do. The child’s tears continued to fall. He glanced over at the Mom, who stood off to the side, looking worried.

The woman shrugged slightly and mouthed, “Sorry about that—“

Charles smiled through his beard, and patted the little girl’s back.

“Would you like to tell Santa what you want for Christmas, Ashley?”

She nodded. “I want my Chloe back,” she said, her little voice dipping into a whisper. She sniffled, and wiped her nose again with what was left of the tissue.

Lucy rushed over to hand the little girl a fresh Kleenex.

Charles glanced at the mom, but her eyes were closed, and she looked defeated.

“And who is Chloe?” Santa-Charles asked quietly.

“My kitty. She disappeared on my birthday and I want her back for Christmas.”

Charles had no clue what to do or say, so he asked, “And when was your birthday, honey?”

“Three days before Halloween,” Ashley said, and wiped her nose again. “Santa, can you find her and bring her home for me for Christmas?”

Now Charles started to worry he might cry, too. He caught the mom’s attention and motioned her up onto the dais.

“We thought bringing her to see you would cheer her up,” Ashley’s mommy whispered as she approached. “Finding Chloe is all she’s thought about for months. We couldn’t even get her to write a letter to San… to you, because she became upset when we explained that Santa brings toys, not lost kitties.”

“But Santa’s magic, Mommy, I keep telling you! You can do it, can’t you, Santa?”

Charles glanced toward Lucy for help, but she had her back turned to him and to the crowd, and he could hear her sniffling.

He gave the child a hug. “Honey, some things even Santa can’t promise. “

“Won’t you even try?”

“Well,” he said, choking up as the child’s tears grew larger, “Of course I’ll try, but—“

“Oh, thank you, Santa!” Ashley threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

All the rest of that day, despite the dozens of happy children who crossed his lap, all Charles could think of was Ashley.

When he got back to the home that evening, Charles went right to the home’s computer room. He found the local free-press paper’s website, and sure enough…for many issues back there was a running ad about a missing cat. It included a photo of a pretty shorthaired calico, and the ad said that Chloe was fourteen years old and had escaped through a door which was inadvertently left open. It had been a cold, wet Autumn, and there had been snow. The hopes of a fourteen year old cat surviving in that….

Charles didn’t want to think about it. That evening, he took a stroll out in the garden of the retirement home. There was snow drifting down, like sparkling diamonds from the heavens. Charles had not been much for praying most of his life, but he said a few prayers that night, his heart haunted by little Ashley’s giant tears.

On the way back in for bed, the wind picked up and the flakes increased. He stopped just outside the door, surrounded by such a sudden wild squall, that he was disoriented. He could see nothing but the snow, hear nothing but the wind in his ears. It whistled and whispered like voices in the white-out blindness, soft voices, high voices, like angels singing.

As his vision and his thoughts cleared, Charles shook his head and rushed through the door into the warmth and light. He was losing it in his old age—he must be! He scowled as he walked slowly to his room. He could have sworn he heard those snow-angel voices say, “Santa is magic.”

***

December Twenty-fifth. Charles sat in front of the fire in the retirement home great room, his feet cozied up in brand new wooly slippers his grand-daughter had given him. His belly was full, his heart mostly happy. Family had visited all afternoon, taken him out for a wonderful dinner, and Charles was feeling fairly content.

It had been a good Christmas…except….

For the last few weeks, a dozen times a day, the face of little Ashley had come back to Charles’ memory. He couldn’t help wondering what her Christmas morning had been like. Had her Mom and Dad bought her new dolls, a shiny bike, a video game? And had she turned away, weeping, because her beloved kitty was not under the tree?

He sighed as the clock struck seven, and returned to the book in his lap. Another Christmas gift from family, a murder mystery by his favorite author, but Charles hadn’t been able to get past the first page.

He tried to read a few lines, and gave up, closing it to stare quietly into the fire. It was bright and warm, sending soft crackling sounds to surround him like a lullaby.

“Charles?”

He started awake. Lucy was smiling down at him. She had tears in her eyes, but they sure looked like happy tears.

“Huh? What’s up, Lucy?”

“You have visitors,” she said, and stepped aside.

He looked past her, and gasped. There was the mom from the mall, and a handsome, tall man standing beside her. They had broad smiles on their faces, and Charles immediately knew why.

Before them stood Ashley, her face bright with smiles. She held in her arms a cat: an old cat, a happy, purring calico cat. The kitty wore a harness and leash, old and worn, which had obviously had a lot of use over the years. Charles had no doubt that it was the same cat whose photo had been in the newspaper ad.

“Thank you so much, Santa! But I didn’t know you lived here! I thought you lived at the North Pole!”

Charles was speechless, but Lucy giggled. “This is just a rest stop,” she said, sending Charles a wink.

“Oh! I knew you could do it, I knew you could find Chloe for me for Christmas! Mommy and Daddy kept telling me not to get my hopes up, but I told them Santa was magic!”

“Where did you find her?” Charles asked, and reached out to stroke the purring kitty. She was skin and bones, but obviously happy.

Ashley blinked, “Why…right where you left her, of course! Under the little pine tree with the lights on it, by our front porch!”

“Um, well, I—how wonderful!”

Lucy pulled chairs up and the family sat close by, where they could talk about Chloe and Ashley’s reunion.

“It really is a miracle,” Ashley’s mom said, as the little girl stroked the cat in her lap. “Ashley got a new sled for Christmas, but of course there was no Chloe under our tree—“

“Our inside tree!” the child interrupted.

“Yes, under our inside tree. It took some convincing to get Ashley to agree to go outside to try her new sled. She was trying to be happy but—“

“I thought you couldn’t find Chloe.”

The father continued, “Then, as we finally went out the front door, we heard this hoarse meow.”

“And there she was!” Ashley picked the cat up, hugged and kissed her, and settled her back into her lap.

Chloe squinted her eyes at Charles, purred, and began kneading the child’s knees.

The dad chuckled. “So, we’ve spent the rest of Christmas Day at the emergency vet. Chloe’s been pronounced in surprisingly good health, though she’s gone hungrier than she really should. The vet thinks she should be okay, though, after some recovery time. We sure wish we knew where she’s been!”

“We were going to take her right home once they were done,” Ashley’s mom said, “But Ashley insisted on stopping at the Mall to see if Santa was there. We just couldn’t dissuade her.”

The dad laughed, “The mall office told us where we could find you. When this child makes up her mind about something–”

“Yes,” Charles said, and scratched Chloe’s head. “Yes, I can see that.”

***

No, Charles really wasn’t much for praying, but that night he prayed quite a bit before he went to sleep….

…and every prayer was a Thank You.

Creature Thoughts, December 2011

Daylilies, Knitting, and Stuff

Gayze — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 17:37:37 +0000

Life has been, well…life. That should pretty much cover the range of ups and downs, shouldn’t it? I’m sure by now you’re all sick of hearing about my books (and if you’re not, you can find them on the Writing Page). So I thought I’d post a general update today, and go back to a couple of the more pleasant topics I’ve enjoyed blogging about in the past.

Daylily Season has just begun here in upstate New York. In the spring, I began moving some of my daylily collection up here to Pop’s house, where we moved after his death. Our other house, where my daughter and her partner now live, was the long-time victim of my obsession with Hemerocallis, the lovely Daylily. I had over eighty varieties, and probably close to a hundred actual clumps, planted down there. I managed to get about twenty-something moved before my health fell apart again. Gladly, those twenty seem to be doing well (better than their Mom, LOL), and are beginning now to bloom. So, below, I’m going to begin sharing pictures for your enjoyment.

Getting photos has been a chore, as thanks to the leg and the fact that the leg threw out my back, until today I haven’t been able to get down the deck stairs to get decent photos. Thus, a lot of these were taken from the deck with a telephoto lens! Today, however, I did manage to make the arduous four stair climb to the yard, and H. Primal Scream, H. Demetrius and H. Siloam Double Classic (which opened it’s first flower as a single bloom) had their pictures taken from several angles. Primal Scream’s first flower didn’t open in full splendor–that is one of my all time favorites, and when opening in its normal state, it’s a gorgeous, huge spider-like UFO form. Still, I love it, and love the colors, so couldn’t resist getting some shots of it.

I’ve been doing some cleaning up of the website lately, because a recent WordPress update (which runs this website) broke several of the plugins I have used for a while. One of those was the image gallery plugin, which I’ve not been able to fix no matter what I do. Therefore, I’ve had to uninstall that photo gallery viewer, and have been going through old posts, finding spots where I’d used it, and replacing photos using WordPress’s internal image gallery function. It’s not as fancy-schmancy, but at least people get to see the pictures.

In the process of those edits, I came across a number of my knitting journal posts, and realized that, due to one thing and another, it’s been quite a while since I picked up my needles. That led to the thought that it’s July, and I had promised myself during last year’s rush to get stuff knitted for Christmas that this year I was going to knit all summer long and stockpile home made gifts.

The best laid plans….

The thoughts got me itching to knit again, though. I’m most likely going to start by getting out the sock pattern I like so much, and brushing up on the process of knitting socks. I hope the old muscle memory kicks in before I mess up too many pairs!

Maybe I’ll post some pictures as I go along. It was fun looking back at my earlier efforts.

I hope everyone is enjoying their summer so far, and that my U.S. friends had a nice Independence Day yesterday. Devon and I spent the day home, due to me not getting around all that well quite yet, but Joe, Jess and Chris were at two different fireworks celebrations, and had a great time (even though Joe was working). We did catch the Macy’s show here at home on TV, though.

Dragon’s Hound Tales now on Barnes and Noble

Gayze — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 14:33:36 +0000

Now Also on Barnes and Noble for Nook/Nook Apps! The Dragon’s Hound Tales

Now on Barnes and Noble

Don’t forget … you can read The Dragon’s Hound Tales even if you don’t own a Kindle or a Nook. Both Amazon and Barnes and Noble have free apps for PC, Mac, Iphone, Ipad, Blackberry, Android and perhaps other devices as well. Links to install the free readers are right on the item pages of all Kindle and Nook books.

The Dragon’s Hound Tales

Gayze — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 00:53:59 +0000

New for Kindle! The Dragon’s Hound Tales

From Amazon’s item page: “There are many stories about dragons out there, but this collection of three short stories gives the theme a new twist. The main characters and hero(s) of the stories are Greyhounds. In “Willow and the Dragon”, readers will meet Willow, as she first encounters the Old One, a great golden dragon which is terrorizing her master’s kingdom. In “Dragonsbreath”, the second encounter with this great beast occurs, with an unexpected outcome. “Blackdragon” follows the story into the next generation. “

“Willow and the Dragon”, the first of three short stories that comprise The Dragon’s Hound Tales, was written many years ago, and a special favorite of my very dear friend, Judy Simpson. When Judy was working to create Lost Bard Books, shortly before she passed away, she’d encouraged me to get out “Willow” and its sequel “Dragonsbreath” again, and to write a third, for good tales always come in threes. I did so, and she loved “Blackdragon”, but sadly did not live to see it published.

I truly believe in my heart that Judy’s smiling down today, because I’ve followed through with her desire to make these stories available for the world at large. The Dragon’s Hound Tales is now available in e-book format on Amazon.com (as well as Amazon UK and Amazon DE), for $2.99 (and equivalent). Very soon, “watch this space”, as they say, for it will also be available on Barnes and Noble for the Nook.

As with Through Their Eyes, The Nature of the Beast and The Corpse That Wasn’t There e-book version, you do not need a Kindle or Nook to read this book. Both Amazon and Barnes and Noble have versions of their reader for PC, Mac, Iphone, Ipad, Blackberry, Android and possibly other readers as well. There are links to the free reader downloads of your choice on each of the project pages.

I hope you enjoy reading these little stories as much as I enjoyed writing them!

St Peter and the Dumpster

Gayze — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 15:01:42 +0000

Peter sat at his desk and removed his glasses (not that he really needed them, he just liked the scholarly look they gave him). It had been a long day, but mostly a good day. The morning had started out with some animal rescuers, and a gal who’d done medical missionary work in the African bush. He smiled from his lips to his tired eyes as he remembered the look on their faces, as they were lovingly greeted by all the souls they’d helped in life who’d passed on before them.

That hospice worker, though; she’d brought happy tears to his eyes. She’d wept as she was hugged and kissed in gratitude. It was terribly sad that she had not received the love and care at the end of her life that she had so generously given to others. He almost looked forward to the day that she would have the privilege of confronting those who could not give her a fragment of their hearts, and asking them, “Why?” For now, though, she would have a long, beloved rest, and enjoy all the rewards she had earned in her hard-working life.

And then, the end of the day, and he had to face those who always made his head ache. He tapped a few keys on his keyboard, to see who was next. Ah. Larry. Peter sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose before replacing his glasses. He always hated this kind.

Standing, he stretched and arched his back, working out the spiritual kinks. Then, sitting on the edge of his desk, he tapped the intercom button. ”Send The Dumpster in.”

A moment later, the office door opened, and a man entered. His eyes were dull and cloudy, his nose slightly red with blood vessels that showed beneath the thin skin. He wore a three-day stubble and dirty green work pants with a torn tee shirt covered in grease stains. As he spotted Peter on the desk, he smiled a broken-tooth grin, removed his ballcap with the left hand, and strode forward with the right outstretched. ”Saint Peter, good ta meetcha, sir!”

Peter just folded his arms. ”Have a seat, Larry.”

The man looked startled for a moment, but obeyed the Saint, hiking up the legs of his green workpants as he did so. The act revealed old boots with the soles peeling away, and socks that didn’t match. Peter pretended not to notice.

“Now, Larry,” he said as he picked up his tablet PC and scanned the casefile briefly, “Every one who goes through this process, before sentencing is revealed, has to look into the eyes of their accusers….”

Larry shot to his feet. His mouth flew open, and he stammered a moment before saying, “Accusers? Sentencing? I’m a Christian man! I even went to church … once in a while, tho’ Louise was the one that would go at least one Sunday a month. Sometimes, I’d go with her, if….” he faltered there.

“… Yes, yes, it’s all here, ‘If you weren’t too hung over’,” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. ”Larry, it’s not about what we call ourselves, you know. It’s about what we do in life, how we treat others, and….”

“But I never hurt no one! Okay, maybe I blacked a few eyes and bloodied a few noses in bar fights, and I did run them Jehovahs off my property with a shotgun. But it wasn’t loaded, I swear!”

Peter sighed. ”Let’s just get on with this, please,” he hated these cases, and really would love to find a way to get them over with quickly. ”Please sit down.”

Larry, no longer looking quite so sure of himself, did so, and swallowed hard.

Peter stood and walked across the room. There, suddenly, in the bottom half of the office door, appeared … a cat flap.

Peter held it open, and said, “Come on in, sweethearts.”

Mewing happily, purring, rubbing against his legs, entered a dozen or more cats. There was a little calico and white girl, a boy sleek and black. Several tabbies, including a quartet of kittens with matching mittens and a handsome thick-jowled tomcat almost as big as a lynx. A tiger and white pinto-cat with frightened eyes followed, and hid behind Peter’s ankles, staring out at Larry cautiously. Two other spotted kitties, black and white, with shining coats and a healthy gleam in their green eyes entered and sat, together, just in side the door. The cats kept coming, young and old, longhaired and short, male and female. As they gathered they would rub against St. Peter’s legs and then sit, out of arm’s reach, but looking Larry directly in the face…all except for the tiger and white boy, who still hid behind Peter.

Peter leaned forward and picked that cat up, and the kitty’s purr sounded softly through the room.

“The day you dumped Pony here,” Peter said, his voice breaking slightly, “The lady in the nearby house tried to talk to him, but he was so terrified that he ran into the woods across the street. That evening, coyotes found him. They were teaching their cubs to hunt, and the cubs tore him apart…alive, Larry. Ripped him up alive. That’s why he’s so scared. The others? Some were rescued and found homes. Most died of disease, or starved, or were killed in a more efficient way by predators, or crushed by cars. Vagabond, there…he pointed to the tiger tomcat, who blinked up at him and purred…the same lady who tried to help Pony fed him, trapped him, got him the shots and vet care that you never had the decency to provide, and he lived for a while as her outside kitty till she found him a loving home.”

Larry, staring in fear at the cats, opened his mouth to speak, but Peter interrupted.

“Don’t you dare say you did the right thing by dumping this cat just because he finally found a home. You took YOUR responsibility–with him, and with every one of these cats that you dumped over the years–and tried to pass it off on other people. Kinder people, better people than you, Larry. Don’t you know, that when you accept the care of an animal, you are soul-bound to see to that animal’s welfare for its life? If you pass along that contract, it must be to a party who takes on the responsibility willingly and with love. You don’t just throw away living souls like trash, Larry!” Peter’s face had flushed, his eyes shining with anger. He took a few breaths to calm himself, and said, “Now, look into every one of their eyes.”

It was a command, and from the look on Larry’s face, it was one “the Dumpster” had no choice but to obey. As his bleary gaze met that of each cat, he trembled a bit more, for this was not just a meeting of eyes. It was a meeting of souls. Each look showed him the soul of that being, the pure spirit inside, and each look played out that cat’s lifetime in a way that Larry knew, in an instant, every pain, every day of hunger, every night without shelter, every moment of disease and injury, and every death. Of the dozens of cats in the room, only a small handful had known happy endings.

“But, but,” Larry began, as the spell was broken and he was able to pull his eyes away from the last kitty’s face, “They’re just cats!”

Peter’s face hardened. ”That was your moment,” he said, setting his jaw firmly, as he brushed his beard against Pony’s soft fur. “That was your chance to plea bargain, Larry, to earn a lighter sentence. Since you chose pride over remorse, however, you’ll now be taken to your fate.”

Larry’s eyes grew wide with terror. ”What…what fate?”

“You shall now wander in a field of sensation and emotion. Surrounding you shall be only pain, fear, hunger. You’ll experience cold winter nights with nothing but the bushes overhead to shelter you. You’ll experience the agony of feline leukemia, of distemper…and even rabies. You’ll know starvation, you’ll know what it feels like to be preyed upon and eaten, you’ll feel the impact, again and again, of speeding tires crushing your body as you try to flee from the busy highways. You will experience every pain, every illness, every moment of torture the cats you dumped knew in their poor lives.”

Larry’s voice was practically a scream, as he asked, “Forever?!”

“For the span of the cumulative lifetimes of every animal you ever abused, Larry,” Peter said, his voice softening. ”And then, you will face a test. You will not know it’s coming, you will have no warning. What happens next depends on how you respond.”

Hope glimmered in the dull eyes for just a moment. ”And if I get the right answer?”

“You’ll have a chance to return to a new lifetime, so we can see if you’ve learned anything.”

“What if I get it wrong?”

“Let’s deal with that when and if the time comes,” Peter said, “As the answer to that question will vary depending on circumstance.”

“What…what if I say I’m sorry now?” Larry looked at the cats. As his eyes fell on each one, it turned its back on him, sitting strong and tall.

“They know you don’t mean it,” Peter said, and added, more softly, “Yet.”

Larry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, two angels entered the room with a giant cat carrier, grabbed him by the scruf of the neck, and stuffed him into it.

He screamed, “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

“Why,” one of the angels said, as they dragged him out of the room, “To dump you in the woods, of course!”

===============

I apologize for indulging my frustration. This story is an expression of that, as yet again, we’ve entered “dumpster season” up here on our little Middleburgh mountain. A few weeks ago, someone dumped a kitty, who’s described above as “Vagabond”, in our yard. He’s still here, and we’re trying to figure out what to do with him. He’s been provided with food, and is using our car port and porch as shelter. Money is scarce, and most of my veterinary reserves are going to our seventeen year old Siamese, who is in kidney failure. I’d put an ad in our local free shopper paper, and the morning after the ad came out, there was suddenly a second cat, “Pony”, as described above, in the yard. No doubt the low-life who dumped “Bond” saw the ad, figured “good, some sucker’s feeding them”, and then threw away another of his (or her) responsibilities onto me. That cat, however, fled across the road when I went out onto the porch to try to speak to him. That night a coyote was barking close to our house across the street. (If you are friends with me on Facebook, you may have heard the video clip of the barking ‘yote.) I don’t know for a certainty if the coyotes got that cat, but I haven’t seen the kitty again since. “Bond”, however, is still here.

As a bird rehabber, I cannot, of course, release vulnerable hand-raised songbirds where a stray cat is hanging around. If I have birds now, which I do (five of them currently), I will have to find another rehabber who can release them for me. As someone with limited financial resources, to trap/capture, neuter, and get shots for Bond will mean other bills don’t get paid, my own pets resources are tapped, and our burden is increased considerably. All because some “Dumpster” shirked his own responsibilities. We don’t know how we’re going to manage it yet, but we know that it’s going to have to be managed somehow. It’s not the poor cat’s fault, after all.

The story is a means of venting … and a hope that, some day, when that person passes through the veil, they find something similar waiting for them. To all the Larry’s out there … you will earn the rewards of your actions somehow, some day. Karma, as a friend of mine is fond of saying, can be a bitch. (And apologies to all of the good, kind-hearted, decent human beings out there named Larry. The name was just a random choice and has no reflection upon anyone living or dead.)

No related posts.

Announcement: Lost Bard Books dissolved

Gayze — Sun, 11 Apr 2010 14:46:28 +0000

Update: The Corpse That Wasn’t There has been re-adopted by a new publisher,
Fehrman Books, and is due for release in paperback format in the summer of 2010!

This is just a brief announcement to let everyone who has been so kindly inquiring as to the status of my books know:

I received word today that, after the death of my dear friend Judith Simpson, who was also senior partner of Lost Bard Books, the surviving partners have decided to dissolve the company. All rights of contracted work are being reverted to the authors and artists. My thoughts and thanks are with them, I know this has been a difficult time for all of Judy’s friends.

As of this time, my Junior Handlers Mystery Series, and the trilogy of short stories, The Dragon’s Hound Tales, have been orphaned by the publisher. I will be seeking other homes for both projects, and will update the website when a new home is found.

Thank you again, everyone, for asking.

Six Days To NaNo, and a Goal Achieved

Gayze — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 17:57:24 +0000

Six Days. Only six more days.

On the first of November, the 2009 round of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) launches, and I leap into frantic first-draft mode. My story will be a sequel to a mid-grade mystery novel which was written a number of years ago. It made a feeble attempt at being an e-book, and now a new publisher has decided they want it in their line up. Not only that, they want to make it a series.

A series. Thus, when I actually found out about NaNo in time to enter this year, it seemed like synchronicity was striking again. My recent return to the Artist’s Way has reminded me to always listen when coincidences like that happen because, of course, there is no such thing as coincidence.

I’m excited. Can you tell?

The countdown to NaNo has done something else for me. The same new publisher has shown interest in a pair of short stories I wrote in the late 1990s, and has asked for a third, as a mini-collection. The pressing date of November 1st spurred me into getting that story out of the way before diving into the novel. This morning, I sent the whole set of three, final edits complete, in to the editor. Done! That story has been sitting for several months, partly done, on my hard drive. Once I set a focus on the writing, which I totally enjoyed, it was finished in no time at all.

It’s been a long time since I did any serious fiction writing. Although I write blog posts all the time, it’s not quite the same thing. Now, between The Artist’s Way‘s reminders about allowing the inner child out to play, and trusting the Universe to help with the magic of creation, and finally signing up with a writing challenge that I’ve watched from the sideline for years, I’m back in the swing.

… and loving it.

Although those who believe in the Law of Attraction know that it’s primarily thought that brings our realities into manifestation, it’s also important to do little things to act as if your dreams are already achieved. Setting little goals, and finding the inspiration to step toward them, is a key component to creation. For me, it was opening the book, and signing on to NaNoWriMo, that opened the floodgates. The magic has just started to flow, and I am excited to see what the future brings my way.

Have you taken little actions, only to find that things just start to flow together for you? I’d love to hear your story!

Related Posts:

Links of interest:

NaNoWriMo Official Website

Short Story: Monologue

Gayze — Mon, 04 May 2009 18:35:25 +0000

Some people equate hell with an eternity of fire–that bottomless lake of flame and torture reserved for the minions of the devil. Personally, I think going to hell is like drowning in rice pudding. You think everything is sweet and creamy until you try to take a breath and suck a raisin up your nose. Everything just goes downhill from there.

Another misconception about hell is its sense of place. Hell isn’t a place at all, but a state of being. It’s the ancient Hebrew SHEOL– translated hell, translated death. Eternal death. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? A pitiless state of unbeing. Yeah, awful–but as bad as it sounds I’m still in a quandary over which I’d prefer: “sheol”, or what I am–have always been–shall always be.

I spoke ancient Hebrew once. And Mesopotamian and Sanskrit; Germanic; Gallic; Latin. . . . I’m sure some day I shall speak Venutian or Alpha Centauran–it’s all the same. I’m getting pretty sick of it all, really–not that I have a choice.

I’ve never had a choice. It’s been this way for as long as I can recall. One persona after another, going on and on and on. Sounds like a chipper existence, doesn’t it?

Eternal life? Oh–I see I’ve misled you. Sorry. No, hardly that. That would be too simple–like “Insert Tab A into Slot B”, you know? No, my existence doesn’t piece together quite so easily. Oh, don’t get me wrong–there are plenty of those wandering this earth. What, you didn’t know that? Why, sure–the eternal lifers, the ones who come back again and again to set things right for mankind. They’re the ones who make all the wonderful new discoveries, cure the diseases, benefit the human race over and over. There are legends about them, statues erected in communities that range from Atlantis to Manhattan. Of course, nobody realizes all those statues are of the same guy.

My kind don’t get the statues and honorary places in history. Oh no–instead of statues we get entire communities bent on destroying us forever. They burn our abodes around us and hang garlic on their front doors. Instead of carving our names in stone, they want to gouge out our hearts with sharpened sticks.

Eternal death–eternal life; neither label fits our kind. Undead? No, that doesn’t work, either. I’ve been dead plenty of times. I just don’t seem to stay that way for very long.

You know what the worst part of this is, though? The food. The same old thing meal after meal. Matter of fact, my stomach’s growling right now, so I’m going to have to cut our conversation short and hit the streets. Wonder who’s on the menu tonight?

Kids’ Story: Twinklestar

Gayze — Mon, 04 May 2009 18:34:01 +0000

The first day of pixie-school was a disaster. Twinklestar’s father had been transferred from the far side of the forest, and she and her parents had just moved in. Twink kicked at the fluff of a dandelion, and a shower of tiny white umbrellas danced on the wind.

“I hate it here–all the other kids just stared at me.” The corners of her lips pulled her whole pixie face into a frown. The sight of her wing-tips caught her eye.

“Why did I have to be born with blue wings, anyway?” she grumbled to the dragonfly that buzzed toward her. It hovered in front of her and looked sympathetic, although it didn’t seem to have any answers. “Why can’t mine be clear and normal like everyone else’s?”

The insect’s beautiful clear wings carried it away. Twink sighed, and tears clouded her vision.

Crying and flying don’t mix very well in a busy forest. Twinklestar didn’t see the web until it was too late. She tried to back-wing but she was too close. Twang! Her tiny body was stuck fast.

Fear replaced the sorrow in Twink’s round blue eyes. She held her breath. If she struggled, the spider would feel the vibrations and the pixie would wind up as someone’s lunch.

It was a matter of moments before the strands began to move. The spider had felt her hit its trap. She could see its long, jointed legs as they moved closer. Twink was in big trouble.

* * *

The first day of second grade was a disaster. Mickie gave a disgusted sigh as the doors of the school bus closed behind him. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, and didn’t turn to wave as the big yellow bus pulled away. There was nobody to wave to.

“I hate being the new kid,” he complained to the dragonfly that buzzed around his head. He raised a hand to give it a swat, but changed his mind. “Hey, I’ll take any company I can get.” The dragonfly flew away.

“You, too, huh?” He watched it disappear in the direction of the pond.

Mom had promised that this was their last move. Dad had a great job in a town not too far away, and the family was happy with their little plot of country land. All summer long things had gone great. Their vegetable garden had been a huge success. For the first time in his life, Mickie enjoyed eating broccoli–after all, he had grown it himself.

School was another story. Being the new kid in school was bad enough, but his small size and large glasses made him stand out. He always had a hard time making friends.

Mickie could have walked up the lane from the bus stop, but the forest was cooler. He had explored its paths all summer and knew every twist and turn. He decided to check on the huge spider web near the old stone wall. Mickie had watched it grow from a tiny silver circle to the size of a wagon wheel. The spider that spun it was huge and brown and hairy, but Mickie wasn’t afraid of spiders.

“Oh, wow! A butterfly!” The boy pushed his glasses up his nose again and took a step toward the web. “What beautiful blue wings!”

The delicate creature was caught in the spider’s trap, and the web’s hungry owner was approaching. Mickie knew all about the balance of nature and that spiders had to eat–but there was something special about this butterfly. He decided to rescue it–let the spider feast on flies. There certainly were enough of them to go around.

How could he free the pretty insect without destroying the spider’s summer-long work? He reached out a cautious hand–and stopped.

“Whoa! That’s no butterfly!” Mickie bent over the web and stared.

The butterfly had the body of a tiny girl! Her eyes were filled with fear. “Get me out of here! Quick!”

Mickie had no idea what he had found, but he didn’t hesitate. He plucked the miniature human from the web, and the tattered strands floated to the forest floor. She sat in his palm, breathing hard, and he brushed the sticky stuff from her brilliant blue wings.

“Who . . . what are you?”

“Thanks! My name’s Twinklestar.” Her musical voice was almost too small to hear. “I’m a pixie–and I’m new around here. Otherwise I’d have known about that web.” She pouted, angry at herself.

Mickie grinned at the look on her face.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I just think you’re . . . cute. I never met a pixie before.” He lifted her closer to get a better look. “I’m new, too. My name’s Mickie.”

Twinklestar reached out a tiny little hand, and Mickie stretched the tip of his forefinger toward her. Her fingers tickled as they shook, and both faces lit up with beaming smiles.

“Hey, Mickie,” the pixie said, her head tilted hopefully to one side. “I don’t suppose you need a friend. . . . ”