writing

Binding

She pulled out her blue journal full of crazy thoughts and dreams. She was crushed, and awake, finally, after months of being in a dreamland. She needed to separate what was fantasy from reality. She tore out the most revealing pages from the journal, that beautiful leather bound journal.

Tears rolling down her face, she crumpled them and threw them in the fire. Her words went up in flames. She looked at the tattered book. Its first three signatures in shambles. What to do with it now? The journal was too nice to just throw it away.

She looked at the book. She’d only written on less than 40 pages. There were over 200 pages remaining. She decided to just start over. She found where the signatures were bound to the spine and carefully cut the three damaged sections from it. She tossed the scribbled pages into the fire. May as well start fresh.

Less than a quarter-inch of the interior of the spine was now revealed. Painstakingly, she adjusted the new first page to line up against the interior cover to mend the gap. The book could be mended more easily than her mind or her heart.

She wanted her pages back, but there was no retrieving them from the ashes after the flames consumed them. Now what remains, a blank journal, sits in her bag, beckoning her to come back again.

It was an act of desperation. The thoughts were raw, felt real, creative, and sentimental. She’d grow to regret its destruction, but it was the best she could do at the time.

writing

Brunch at the Bay

PING! The ball goes flying, straight for its target.

PLUNK! That one was a total dud.

Red, Yellow, Green. Keeping the goals easy today.

The sun is shining on this warm summer day.

Your turn, now your turn, now your turn again.

Awkward conversation after a fight a month earlier.

Over our brunch, but laughter and smiles by the end.

Mending a family relationship, and a nice start to Sunday.

poetry, writing

Plumeria

Tender plumeria blossoming in the late-spring heat.

Their five-petaled flowers slowly unwind and spread out like the sun’s rays.

Yellow and white and pink and orange line our walkway.

Their delicate blooms dance in the afternoon drizzle,

the raindrops roll down the massive leaves.

As the rains grow heavy, the flowers yield,

falling to the ground leaving an aisle of heady fragrance,

With nothing more to do until another round of buds come in.

writing

Summertime

I’m “fresh” from a brief vacation to the mountains and I’ll be spinning up some things about Summer here on the site for the next few weeks.

In Florida, meteorological Summer started on June 1st. Really, we only have a few weeks out of the year it isn’t summerlike, but that’s why a lot of people live here. But officially, our Summer begins our rainy season and is when everything gets that lush and tropical feeling.

Cocoa Beach awaits later this month and I can’t wait to stick my toes in the sand and relax. Now that we’re coming out of the pandemic and our crew are all vaccinated, a weekend out at the space coast is just what I need!

Summer may not have arrived wherever you are yet, but I wish you sunny days ahead.


What are some of your favorite summertime activities?

writing

Cloud Watch

Some silliness to get me through the day. Inspired by the clouds outside my window.


Sweet puffy clouds drift high above my head. I pause a moment, watching them float by. Relaxing, I want to let my imagination flow.

I see Mickey, headed over to Orlando. Oops, he’s late for work!

There’s a dolphin coming into view, splashing about. I hope he catches his fish over there.

More puffy clouds, indistinct, but they shield the sun from my eyes.

Look, it’s Abraham Lincoln missing his classic stovepipe hat. He looks serious, doesn’t he?

Off in the distance, the clouds are turning dark. My imagination evaporates as work calls me back.

That was a nice break.

writing

Running on Empty

Her frozen stare sees nothing but space. No focus, no confusion, only emptiness. Her chest hurts, but she doesn’t know why.

She’s drained, although she’s freshly back from vacation. A week away should have left her rested, ready to dive back in.

The chest pain fades by the day as she busies herself, consumed by work, but returns at night. No scars, no trauma. Just pain, as if someone has ripped it out.

Her creativity is hindered; she finds it hard to work on photos, or crafts, or even write these days. Nothing good comes when it is forced.

She looks inward. No tragedy, no heartbreak of which she knows. Her husband holds her hand after they climb into bed. Her cats climb up and cuddle.

Finally she succumbs to sleep. Hopefully, tomorrow will be different.

writing

The Spiral Staircase

Slowly she ascends, dressed in white, spiraling up, towards the light.

Her wings glisten in the rays. From her eyes, she no longer sees a haze. Her vision is clear for miles and her heart is full.

But the skies above darken, the wolves below begin barking. She loses her footing and plummets down through the spiral, her wings slamming into the rails, falling nonstop. She no longer has control, spinning and spinning until she hits the marble floor.

Her blood spills, turning her pure white dress to red. She reaches up, betrayed, but surviving the fall.

Grabbing the rail, she begins to climb again. Her broken wings scrape the walls, becoming dirty and grayed as she climbs.

The wolves ascend, starting their chase. She knows she cannot stop their advance. But she tries. They tear at her hem as she continues to move. Snarling, vicious teeth clamoring at her.

Suddenly a whistle rings out, stops them cold. The staircase shakes, throwing them off. They land on all fours and run away.

She stops and breathes. Her dress ruined. Her wings broken and tarnished. The darkness envelopes her.

She stands up, and begins to descend back to the depths. Time to heal in the dark for she doesn’t believe she is worthy of the light.

She closes her eyes so she no longer sees the glow of above. Tormented by not reaching the goal. If she’d just look, she’d see. It waits for her.

writing

Active Shooter

Another active shooter situation.

I can’t help but wonder, were there any signs? What drives someone to such levels of violence? Anger, desperation, depression? These alone cannot explain the ramping up of frequency of these events. There has to be something more, doesn’t there?

Is there really a ramp up, or an increased focus on reporting every work place, public areas, and school shooting in every location country and even world wide? I don’t know the answer.

Now, employers set up and employees have to go through Active Shooter training, so we can save our own lives, and perhaps others, as if these situations are now common place. No wonder so many people are scared and frightened these days.

We detach from others so they may not end up a victim by someone they know. Maybe this is the wrong approach, but I don’t know.

Some ramp up owning guns “for self defense” while others refuse to have guns in their home. I’m not sure if either option is a viable answer.

All of this just makes me sad and wonder…will it ever get better? Will we ever find real answers? I just don’t know.

writing

Sappy Love Movies

Runaway Bride plays in the background. It’s one of my favorites, it makes me laugh. Grammy just shared the story of being scared of the one-eyed snake.

We know how it’s going to end, before it even starts, but the twists and turns are what makes it compelling to watch.

Why is it that some people together just click? You know it’s going to be Julia and Richard in the end.

How do writers, producers, directors, and actors find the way to cut to the heart of the matter, and make us feel complex emotions from happiness and love, to heartache and pain?

Maybe it’s just my own state of mind… But I hope I can find a way to write this way one day.

writing

Acushla Bound – Part Twelve

The snow started falling outside the window as Mikaela and Kester lay wrapped in each other’s arms. They enjoyed the silence with each other. They spent most of the rest of the day, and night, in bed.

In the morning, Mikaela snuck out of bed. Kester stayed soundly asleep. Rex climbed up into the bed and snuggled with his master.

Mikaela made her way outside to the chicken coop and gathered the eggs. The snow had stopped falling overnight and the skies were a brilliant blue with white cirrus clouds. She loved mornings like this.

Mikaela did a few more things then returned to the cottage. She mixed up some biscuits and set them to bake over the fire, hoping they didn’t get too dark being over the heat of the fire. She then whipped up the eggs and found some ham to slice. She hoped she would surprise Kester with a nice breakfast.

As she worked in the kitchen area, Kester couldn’t help but hear the commotion. Mikaela tried to be quiet, but was unsuccessful. Kester quietly walked in to the kitchen and behind Mikaela, kissing her on the neck. “Everything okay, here?” He whispered into her ear.

She giggled and smiled. “It’s not like cooking There.” She was trying to loosen up an egg she had cooked.

“Here, you will need to use more butter. It will stop it from sticking. You’ll get the hang of it.” With that he pecked her on the cheek and stepped back, leaning on the chair by the fireplace, watching Mikaela work on breakfast. He smiled to himself.

“Sit down. I will have breakfast ready in a minute.” Mikaela used more butter and cooked up two more eggs. She grinned when she pulled out the biscuits; at least one thing cooked up right. She plated everything up and served breakfast.

Kester looked over the meal. He picked up a biscuit and took a bite. Mikaela anxiously looked at him, wondering if she cooked them as well as back There.

“Best biscuit I’ve had outside of Oklahoma!”

Oklahoma? Mikaela thought to herself, Well, at least they came out edible. She took a biscuit and built a breakfast sandwich, drizzled a little honey on it, and joined him to eat.

“So, it’s a beautiful day. Could you show me around some?” Mikaela asked as they ate.

Kester looked outside. “Wow, it actually is. We probably shouldn’t go too far should the weather turn, but definitely. Let’s get out for a bit.”

They finished up breakfast and cleaned up. Kester found another coat, more suitable for Mikaela than a blanket, to wear. “Here, try this on. It may be a little long.”

The leather coat was lined with wool and was warm. “It’s perfect.” It actually hung down to Mikaela’s calves, but she didn’t mind.

“If the weather holds out for a few days, we can go onto town and get you some warmer clothes. How’s that sound?”

Mikaela smiled and nodded. “Right now, show me around, okay?”

They headed outside and walked along the stream which ran along the edge of Kester’s property. The sun had melted some of the snow, and the water babbled over the iced areas and rocks.

A small flower popped up in the snow. Mikaela kneeled down and admired it. It’s bright color was striking against the white snow.

Kester looked back. “Those only grow Here. I never saw one like it back There.”

“It’s beautiful!” Mikaela stood back up and caught up with Kester, slipping her hand into his as they walked on. Kester just smiled.