I'm a wife and mom, and this is my creative outlet. I am experimenting with lots of different writing styles and topics, so some of it is garbage, and I'm totally fine with that - writing is cheaper than therapy. Thanks for stopping by!
The Witch of Blackbird Pond and Me
All of us writers have our childhood favorites when it comes to books, don't we? I was a voracious reader from a very young age. My Granny was my babysitter during the day while my mother worked, and as a former teacher, she spent hours teaching me to read and write when I was just four years old. From the time I picked up my first book and read it from cover to cover on my own, I was addicted. By five, I was stapling blank paper together to write and illustrate my own picture books. By seven, I was consuming long chapter books, classics like The Wizard of Oz, The Hobbit, Little Women, and Jane Eyre. I LOVED the Nancy Drew series and read several of my favorites over and over and over again.
Calling Charlotte Brontë: We Need To Talk About Wuthering Heights
Calling Charlotte Brontë, from wherever you are. Could you seriously not let Heathcliff and Catherine be together? Your prose: gorgeous. The setting: haunting. The characters: complex. BUT THE STORY IS JUST SO DAMN SAD. Get yourself back here from the great beyond, and give us the love story we deserve.
Still-Gate: How a Five Letter Error Made Me Question Everything
Last Friday, August 11, I logged into my email to make sure I wasn't missing anything glaring at work while enjoying a Florida beach vacation with my family. I was surprised to find two comments of congratulations from my fellow writers on a poem I had submitted to the Short and Sweet Challenge. It was a surprise because the challenge winners were supposed to be announced on Thursday, August 10. Even though I never expected my poem, "On Marriage and Summer Squash," to place, I had scanned the winner announcements on Vocal dutifully that Thursday and experienced a brief second of disappointment that I wasn't listed there before reminding myself I have yet to crack poetry and that I could try again another time. Then it was back to the beach with my family for some much-needed sun, salt, and sand.
On what could very well be one of Earth’s last Saturdays, Etta Elizabeth McCranie packed a picnic basket for two. It wasn’t much to be sure, just what she’d been savin’ up by way of canned goods. Whole tomatoes and stale saltine crackers. A block of Velveeta cheese, its ubiquitous orange color never seeming to go off no matter how many years passed them by. Her second-to-last pouch of shelf-stable milk. And her personal pride, a sleeve of lemon Biscotti cookies she’d sealed up in her mother’s vintage FoodSaver before it all went to shit back in ‘55.
- Top Story - August 2023
The Devil's WomanTop Story - August 2023
Imogene Keene turned the witch’s bell over in her hands, running a chewed fingernail along the rim. Her other hand gripped the riverboat railing as lightning flashed in the distance. It was just a small thing, that bell, but Imogene thought it could change her life.
- Runner-Up in the Short and Sweet Challenge
- First Place in Unexpected Uncovering Challenge
Crossing PathsFirst Place in Unexpected Uncovering Challenge
Christian Brown is not an erratic man. He always considers his decisions. He makes lists. Pro. Con. Sometimes he makes Venn diagrams when he thinks his ideas belong somewhere in between. As he speeds north on the highway in his dead father’s pick-up truck, all he can think about is the fact that his decision to be on this highway, heading north, has nothing to do with lists and diagrams. It’s love, pure and unconditional, perfect and aching. Christian Brown is not an emotional man, but his wet eyes blur the exit numbers and motel signs now.