One Nation under God, indivisible, with Liberty, and Justice for All

On this, the tenth remembrance day of a tragedy that rocked us as individuals and our nation’s soul, I feel the sorrow, the fear, and the love triggered by the attacks. Most of all, I feel the love. My hand floats gently across the flag, folded in the triangle shape when given to my Mother upon my step-father’s death, the flag that draped the coffin of a man who served long before 9/11. I remember shaking it out of that triangular shape on September 11, 2001, climbing onto the rail of the front porch and securing it to the edge of the roof. I marveled at its size, it takes a lot to cover a coffin, and I realized it takes even more to kill the soul of a nation.

As it unfolded in the breeze, the sense of security it gave me against the attack upon our country was something I hadn’t expected, a gift passed on from an older generation of survivors. The day seemed endless. I watched the unfolding of events on TV. Reporters told of rescue workers never hesitating in New York, air travelers giving their lives in Pennsylvania, and our government rising from the rubble in Washington and still the flag flew. My gaze strayed from the scenes on the screen to the scene outside my window. Our flag was still there. It danced in the wind, lifting its stars and stripes toward the heavens, lifting my sorrow for our losses into an over-whelming sense of pride in the strength of our nation.

Today, ten years later, as my fingers stroke the stars of my step-father’s flag, the Star Spangled Banner plays in my head and the question at the end of our anthem lingers in my heart. Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave…

“Yes, it does,” I whisper as I unfurl the flag, “o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

A Real Good Man

One of my son's high school swim coaches in Kansas, Greg House, died this week. He was 61. The outpouring of notes from young people who swam for him is amazing. The man inspired them all to be more than they thought they could be, to never give up and to believe that by working together anything was possible. There were more than 600 posts in a 24 hour period saying this over and over. I have no idea how many have posted now. One man, one teacher, by being there, setting standards, and believing in abilities these kids couldn't see in themselves, has given our country almost a thousand strong, honorable, giving young adults. Rest in Peace, Coach House, you've earned it and I thank you.

Follower

How may followers do you have, we'd ask each other online. The higher the number the more important we felt. It was a game. Then in 2007, my words went out around the world, and touched a few like thinkers. We began to talk, plan, dream of our ideal existence. The power of the internet was all we needed. It's like the new religion, someone joked. We believed in mega pixels.

After several years, our group became a number to be reckoned with. Small changes were seen in the way the World Government dealt with problems we pointed out. Dreams grew. We became bold, posted pictures, plastered lists of our followers on each others blogs. Government tried to direct our actions. Freedom of speech was our right we blogged. We're bigger than the real world. We rule space.

Then it began.

On Monday, I noticed a few were missing from my list. This didn't alarm me. Words can become misunderstood. Some may have felt neglected. Internet glich I decided.

On Tuesday, twice as many were gone. My cyberworld, I realized was shrinking. Perhaps, I was becoming a bit to radical, living in the mind a bit too much. I sent out a kinder, gentler post on loving my fellow human.

Wednesday there was a power outage. I spent the time outside, tending the organic garden, and greasing the windmill.  Thoughts of my friends across the web, spun like gossamer threads through my mind. They were as real to me as the spider who hovered over my squash.We hadn't quite perfected living off the grid, couldn't really if we wanted to stay connected to like minded people, people who were more than mere bodies.

Back onlineThursday, I began to worry. Half my list, 6,000 were gone. I did a few calculations. Being one of the smallest members of the Idealist Movement, if this were happening to all, then more than 10,000,000 were no longer communicating.

Friday, I was all alone. My followers had vanished. It left me speechless, fingers frozen over the keyboard. Where were they?

Saturday, I sent out a message. Where are you? Do you still exist? Do I still exist?

On Sunday, my belief in the Blog World crumbled. I went off the grid, pulled out an ancient book, looking for a solution, someone to follow. My finger traced words. I moved to my laptop and began to type.

God, if you can hear me, please answer.

The Promise of Rain

We were in the middle of a field searching for four leaf clovers at his insistence when the rain came. He wanted a child and this was his way of insuring its future? He wanted a sign. Well, this was a sign. Anger narrowed my eyes, darkened my vision like the graying sky. We should be sowing crops. What did this man have to offer? Why was I here? Our gazes met and I looked away.

Luck evaded us. Debts were high. Even the sun deserted us, yet, he never quit believing in something, in us. Why I wasn’t sure. Did I want to stay, right now or forever? I didn’t believe in taking chances. He was reckless, always dreaming and though we were soaked his callused fingers kept skimming the vegetation.

“Stupid,” I said.

He twisted from me and I saw for the first time the slump that often pained my shoulders, but never his. Defeat, resignation knotted his turned back. My hands clutched the ground as it dropped beneath me, though it didn’t really, it was only my heart. Was he giving up?

Thunder sounded, shocked me from my thoughts. He jumped to his feet. I reached out, grabbed a hand, pulled him down, felt the soft caress of lips wet with passion, and tasted the essence of the day. My hands undressed us. Mud coated the blush of bare limbs. He watched my every movement, let me decide where this was going.

"Stupid," I said, "Not to plant seed when rain's promised."

He plucked a clover from the meadow. It had four leaves. I held his gaze. The green matched the dreams in his eyes. He tucked it in my hair. Heat warmed the earth upon which we lay.

Fair Game

Rot and skunk filled the air. A figure lay sprawled amongst the brambles. The scents repulsed and allured me. I edged nearer my nose sniff-sniffing.

A man. Flies crawled across his face and in and out of his open mouth. Fear made me gag and I tasted my breakfast in my throat. My head swam. Then, I howled.

My legs trembled. I was alone with a dead man, and I desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. I started away, then glanced back over my shoulder. I didn’t want to look, but something drew me back to the body. The man seemed smaller dead, and helpless. I blinked back tears.

Blood pooled around his head. His dark blonde hair was matted with leaves and dirt. Face scraped and dirty, the front of his clothes torn and streaked with mud, missing one shoe, he looked like he had run in a panic, until, he fell and hit his head. Like something chased him.

The bad odor filled the space around him. I tried to breathe through my mouth, but tasted the putrid air. I felt I knew what it was, but couldn’t place it.

His dead brown eyes stared at me like he was trying to tell me something. I stared hard at him willing him to talk. What a strange place for him to be, half-mile to the nearest road; and not a trail people usually rode on. I thought about the time when I last saw him alive. He’d tried to feed me. Catch me. Mumbled about a new home. I’d growled my irritation and he left; now I wished I’d at least smiled good-bye.

It was about an hour since I’d observed the hunt at the kennels. When I’d heard “Gone Away” on the huntsman’s horn signaling they were on the scent of their quarry. I listened to the silence. I looked at his still form. “What happened to you?” His dead eyes remained blank.

A hound opened, near. His voice was true and strong and the rest of the pack joined him. “Over here.” Hooves drummed the earth. The sound grew. “Help, help,” I yelped. The riders would know what to do.

My composure left, and so did I. I deserted Mike and clawed my way through the brush looking for the hunters. The hounds ran past me, then moved on and circled around Mike’s body baying loudly. The huntsman appeared. He didn’t see me. His eyes were focused on his hounds. He put his horn to his lips and sounded “Gone to Ground”, the tune played when hounds have trapped their quarry. Terrible tearing sounds filled the air.

I gasped. The man was what they were hunting. Someone had covered him with the scent of fox. That was the smell, the familiar smell, used to trick hounds into thinking they were chasing live game. The field of hunters arrived. I stood frozen, hidden in the thicket.

One of the masters raised his flask. “Here’s to good sport. The animal rights people’ll be happy to know we didn’t kill a fox.” He laughed. I stepped back; a stick cracked like a pistol under my foot. The group of riders turned toward me.

“Who’s that?” someone asked.

“A vixen,” one yelled and pointed my way. I looked desperately from one rider to the next. Hyenas watching their next meal.

Dunwood stared down at me, his eyes dark and hooded like a buzzard’s.

“What’s the name of this town foxy lady?” His voice came out a snarl. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. My red tail with white tip met my nose as I spun about. I ran.

“Fair Game, girlie. Fair Game,” Dunwood shouted.

I heard the pack move through the tall grass behind me. The huntsman blew “Gone Away” on his horn.

I led them toward the hidden ravine. Fair game, I breathed in, fair game, I breathed out, and watched them tumble over the edge.

Respect Your Elders

The younger man’s chest expanded as he uncoiled his spine, stretched tall. He took a pleased breath, felt in control, pointed to a scatter of blank paper lying on the desk. Time to set things in motion. It was growing dark.

“Write down what I told you before you forget.” He stroked his upper lip, waited.

Green scowled, shuffled the blank pages, tapped them into a neat stack, and laid it aside. With effort he pulled a four inch thick ledger toward himself. He patted the saddle brown leather cover. Gnarled arthritic fingers fumbled as he opened it.

“These old books talk to me.”

“Write the letter.” The younger man flexed, admired the thickness of his forearms. The muscles rippled beneath the tawny skin of his jacket as he made fists of his hands. He wouldn’t mind a little physical persuasion exercise. It would relieve the growing tension teasing his mind.

Green frowned, straightened, shook his head; his brows shoved a trench between his eyes.

“No, I’ll straighten things out. Point of honor. Need to give people a chance to right their wrongs.” He leaned back in his leather chair, swiveled, shoved the ledger onto a shelf. “That’s not why I called you here. We’ve known each other how long?” His hand cut the air in a sharp impatient stroke. “Never mind, not important. Been doing some research myself.”

The younger man tensed as Green picked up a folder. The old man drummed his fingers on its top.

Ba-du-rum, ba-da-rum, the sound hammered against the younger man’s brain. He gulped from his drink. Surely, the folder contents didn’t concern him. The old geezer didn’t have the tools or the brains to follow his trail. Blood pulsed up his neck, heated his face. He felt jumpy, slammed his fist against the desk.

“Watch out.” Green moved a porcelain horse. “You’re restless as a hound after a bitch. Come back when you’re under control.”

The old man was right, he admitted to himself. He needed to leave before he lost control, blew the whole deal.

“Sure thing boss.” The perspiring glass he held hit the desk with a bang. Liquor sloshed out, spilled upon the polished mahogany surface. An insolent nod, a sneering curl to his lip followed the bang. He felt a slight ease in the tension that gripped him like hands around his throat; he coiled his arm around his briefcase, pulled it to his side. The invisible hands loosened even more. A few more days, then he’d strike.

Green, he noticed, narrowed his eyes, lowered his chin, and scowled. He shouldn’t have slammed the glass down, but had been unable to control the impulse. He realized it was a mistake, and mistakes could be dangerous. He backed away, pivoted on his heel. Control. It was becoming his mantra. He thought of what he would soon do. His muscles relaxed, his breathing slowed, his mood improved. Time to leave. He’d be back soon enough, finish the job he’d started.

He pushed through the door, back in control, no old man or two-bit artist could stop him now. The sound of ice rattling in a glass followed him as he left the room. He thought of the old man wiping up the mess he’d left behind and allowed a cruel twist of amusement to play across his lips. Thunder rolled as he walked; he glanced up, the sky was like a dark shroud overhead, as if it was painted black.

His chest expanded, exploded as the lightning struck. The last thing he heard was an old man’s crackling laugh.

Morning Walkout

Foxhounds pushed against me with their lean bodies, hard muscles quivering. Anticipation made them high, eager. I tapped sides with my whip to move them away, breathed in the wet earth-like smell of their coats and the energy vibrating in the air. Youngsters were coupled to seniors with collars linked by brass clips and leather. The huntsman, other whipper-in and I moved to the kennel door, hounds hot breath at our heels. We walked out into the fresh air of May, made the pack wait, settle and focus. A note from the huntsman's brass horn produced a cacophony of voices and we were off.

The trail through the woods tunneled in green foliage offered scents to keen noses.

"Pack to him" I said as a few hounds began to stray. They trotted back into formation. We moved at a brisk pace, covered over two miles down dirt and gravel roads, snaking amongst old forest and young briers. At the pond, we took a break, a special reward for good behavior. The hounds held their place until the huntsman signaled with a soft chirp, then they exploded into the water. Paws against clay, a thousand bird wings beating. The unified splash, a wave crashing to shore.

A horn toot and all left the pond, packed up and followed their leader for the final trek back to the kennel. At the door, the huntsman stood aside. The hounds filed into the main room tongues lulling out one side of their mouths, lips stretched in grins. Content with their outing, happy to be home.

Run by run, the huntsman's eyes bade them to enter. Each hound knew when it was his turn. The last door shut and the room grew quiet. Before I left, I leaned against the wall, muscles quivering, gaze moving from hound to hound, eager to communicate to the pack how much I enjoyed our morning.

Too much of a good thing? Never.

I'm way behind. Squandered part of my day sitting on a porch in a rocker talking hunting. I was late getting around to riding. Just finished hackng my thoroughbred in the woods, praying the wind gusts wouldn't blow any limbs down on us. Rustic was unconcerned, ambling along like some old quarterhorse. He was a lucky find. If I could whittle him down about four inches he'd be perfect. Seventeen hands is simply beyond my capabilities for mounting from the ground. He's had to learn to stand next to all kinds of weird things so I can climb aboard. :) Anyone know how to teach one to kneel? Anyone want to come over and fix dinner so I can rest? :) Hope all had a day like mine, overflowing with good things.

The Cost of Loving a Horse

I spent the morning in the barn watching my horses get new shoes. Custom made, shiny silver rims for their feet that would enhance their way of going, make them more comfortable and cause someone watching them move say, "Nice."


Then I looked down at my mud covered, steel toed work boots and saw my friend Jill's bright new clogs instead. She'd posted pictures of them on Facebook and her excitement over her new acquisitions leapt off the page. What is wrong with me, I thought. I should be writing a check for my own movement enhancing, feel good apparel, not spending all my money on these beasts. Image, my thirty-two year old Thoroughbred snorted. He only got a trim, not a set of shoes.


I glanced at him. Perhaps, I could use his share of the horse budget to buy myself some Jill-like happiness?


Then, I really looked at Image. His hips show his age, his coat, too. His time here is finite. And, I knew my thoughts of clogs making me happier than being in the barn with this old horse were no more than daydreams.


The reality is, if new shoes might keep Image around longer, I'd happily go barefoot.

Image, Bob and Kernan

The Other side of Horse Ownership

Summer Games-One of my horses





I went riding in the rain this morning, trotted across the soft ground in rhythm with the falling moisture. Once in the woods, I lifted my face upwards, glimpsed flashes of a lavender sky through a shifting cover of pale green. Cleansed by fresh air and pristine water, I breathed deeply of the promise of spring and turned toward home. My hand ran through my thoroughbred's mane. He relaxed, stretched long and low. I followed his example and let go of the things I worry about. 

Horses add a wonderful dimension to my life. Sometimes, I forget that when cleaning their stalls.

Six Sentences: Flash Fiction, Micro Fiction, Writing Contests and More (Writer's Digest 101 Best)

Six Sentences: Flash Fiction, Micro Fiction, Writing Contests and More (Writer's Digest 101 Best)

Horse Play

"I want to have fun," I say.
Sun's out, weather's warm. These darn chores can wait. I grab the nearest horse, my new thoroughbred, out of the field, scrape off yesterday's mud and throw on my saddle. Rustic shimmies left and right as I tighten the girth signalling his desire to rejoin his buddies.
"If you don't have to work, I shouldn't have to."
"Yeah, yeah," I say, then cock my head. Have I just been talking to a horse?
He turns his head my direction and blows. I wipe the fine droplets of exhalations off my brow and decide I really should spend more time with humans. He agrees with a vigorous nod.
In the tackroom, I select the fat, rubber bit. It will fill up his mouth and garble his speech, just in case Rustic thinks he wants to continue his smart mouthed ways. I chuckle at my own penchant for giving horses human characteristics, finish tacking up and climb aboard.
Today, Rustic wants to go on a trail we've never taken. I let him have his way, simply happy to be out. He picks up a trot, extends it. I'm tossed high in the air on each shoulder thrust, drop back in the saddle on each down beat. The trail bends and we enter a shady, pine-bough tunnel.  I ask for a walk. The needles strewed under our feet can be slick.
Rustic kicks it up a couple of gears. Skips the canter and launches into his racehorse gallop. He makes a few sounds, but I can't understand. Wind whips branches, and I haul back on the reins. Rustic rumbles. I duck left and begin to regret the fat, rubber bit.
In the flash of an "Oh #*##" we're completely lost. At least, I am. Rustic seems to have a plan. I grow tired, give up on trying to stop him.
"Okay, you win. Take me home," I say.
He begins to slow.
At the next intersection, Rustic takes a left, then another. His neck stretches, he ambles into a walk. I remain silent. Even though I know he can't understand my words, telling him he's useless sack of bones doesn't seem like the wise thing to do at the moment. Only he knows where we are.
Three hours later, he ambles onto a familiar trail, one that leads to the barn. I give a relieved sigh. He's mumbled all the way, throwing in a whinny now and then.
Back in the stable, I take his saddle and bridle off, grudgingly wash sweat from his coat.
"What was that all about?" I ask as I turn him back out with his buddies. He looks over his shoulder. "Don't you go blowing on me, again." I put one arm up in front of my face just in case.
 "If, you hadn't stuck that big bit in my mouth, you'd have understood. Now I'm not gonna tell ya." He kicks up his heels and streaks across the field.
"Okay, don't," I say, not caring if I appear crazy, knowing I'm simply adding words to his actions in my mind.
As I walk away, I hear hoofbeats coming my way. I turn. Rustic nuzzles my shoulder.
"I was just horsin' around," he says. "You said you wanted to play."
I laugh and blow kisses in his face.

The Value of A Smile

Artist's Image

Because of life recently getting in the way of living as usual I've found myself examining each day a bit more. Asking, what did I do that made me smile? What did I do to brighten someone else's morning or afternoon or moment?

Today, it's easy to answer the first question. I'm looking out my window at my three horses munching their way across the field, headed for the steep hill. I know when they get there a race will start to see who can get to the front pasture first. Heels will kick in the air, necks will arch, bodies will twist in joy. It's quite a sight and always makes me smile.


Image, my 32 year old TB will come in last, but not for lack of trying and he will have a blast playing the young stud, if for just a brief moment. He always reminds me, no matter our lameness, age, or condition there are bright spots if you keep on keepin' on.

What have I done for another? I scolded my husband for not eating enough protein. That may not sound like something to brighten his day, but he knows it shows I care. It brought a smile to his face. Sometimes, no often, simply doing something that shows a person matters to you is all it takes. His smile does that for me.

February Rainbows (21)

February Rainbows (21)

Two Very Short Stories

My Wish

Happy Birthday! My wish, another year. They don’t come true if you tell. I say it anyway. I'd rather die than you not know.


Leaky Valves

Newly divorced. Wanted – one undamaged heart.

New Year's Day Foxhunt Report

For those who hunt the below will make sense, for those who don't, think of it as a peek into what I do when not writing. It may read a bit awkwardly as some names have been removed to protect privacy.

Foggy, in the mid-forties at 10 am, 35 couple, English, American and Crossbred. While these are definitely MFH & huntsman, (name removed)'s hounds, he has allowed me to hunt them some in 2010. He also honored me with the privilege of hunting them on the first day of 2011. He whipped in and offered advice when needed. MFH, (name removed) lead the first flight, (name removed) the second. About 15 members in the field. We've had snow and bad footing for a week and I think many stayed home waiting for better conditions. They missed a good one.




We hunted from the White Oak fixture. Hacked across John Watson Rd and cast along the creek. Hounds fanned out and searched diligently through the heavy underbrush, but didn't strike until we arrived at MFH Roger Smith's new meadow which lies along the creek with heavy woods surrounding it. There the pack found in the Brier patch and roared to life for a bit, but couldn't hold it. I picked them up and we moved on to the soybean field as the above huntsman had said that would be the logical next move. It was so neat seeing the hounds floating across the land like ghosts in the mist. No game had been there recently and we moved slowly on, simply enjoying the sight, toward the vineyard. We traveled through a bit of forest and then out again along the creek trail. The hounds move above us on the hillside.



The pack struck gold in the pines below the vineyard, and were so loud I think one could have heard them a mile away. We galloped across the bottom and up one side of the pine woods. The hounds made two giant loops up to the top of the vineyard (great view for miles from the top) and back down to the creek and then the coyote feeling pressed, changed course and streaked back cross-country toward the way we'd come, across John Watson, through Roger's bottom fields (across the river from his barn), and toward the White Oak meet. The whole pack was on the line. (name removed), honorary whipper-in was on that side and stayed with them.



From there they traversed the river at a place we can't cross on horseback, and continued on. I assume, when they crossed the river, they lost the coyote and found the fox line. Our horses were puffing by now, having traveled to the top of the vineyard, down to the creek, back up and then the long ride down the road, through the bottoms on the other side and around to the meadows where the trailers were parked.



From this point, the field and I had to go back to a river crossing and around, which takes about 20 minutes on horseback, and missed the next part of the chase, though the hounds could be heard in the distance. MFH, (name removed), released the members of the field who felt they'd had enough fun for the day as we were so close to the trailers. Many took advantage of that, but a few hardy souls continued on with me.



(name removed), huntsman from Camargo was visiting and he zipped around in his truck to Ken Miller road by the low water bridge. There he spied a gray fox with hounds in pursuit. The gray was viewed 3 times. It was nice that the car followers and car whips, MJ and Jerry were there.



The rain began in earnest then, and we waved good-bye to our furry friend, gathered the pack, and called it a day. My thanks to well-trained hounds, whipper-ins who did a super job, (names removed). Also, thanks to wonderful MFH's for the thoughtful care and sharing of their land, and (name removed) for making my first day of 2011 something I'll cherish. This reads very short, but you can fill in the blanks. It was over two hours of hound music. Hard to beat that.



Happy Hunting in this New Year to all!

Deborah Bundy, Honorary whipper-in, Green Creek Hounds in North Carolina

Green Creek Hounds December Hunt

Nice hunt in the nippy weather yesterday. Stayed in the woods most of the time out of the wind. Of course, near the end Tot couldn't resist and took the hounds in on foot in an area we can't take the horses. The rest of us sat out in the open where the wind was fierce. The pack hit on a red, screamed around for quite awhile, we were warmed by the awesome music and called it a day. I had a great time hunting the hounds, but we're all looking forward to when Tot is 100% again and is back on his horse. :)

Honor Veterans -The Symbol

This is a piece I wrote some years ago to honor a veteran who never spoke about his service.

The Symbol

Every Veteran’s Day I hang the flag that draped my stepfather’s coffin, every year except for one. That year I did not look forward to the holiday as I had in the past. I did not hang the flag, for I had hung it on the front porch on September 11th of the preceding year and had yet to take it down.
That September 11th was a nightmare of a day, and my heart ached as I watched the flag unfurl in the breeze. The reason I hung the flag was sad. The reason I owned it was sad. They both dealt with death. The flag hung through a complete cycle of the seasons and throughout that year I would look out the window and see the flag twisted into a tight spiral. It seemed appropriate that Old Glory wound around upon itself since my feelings were also twisted tight within me.
There are no words for how I felt. It was as if my ability to express emotion was shattered in the explosions that shook our nation that September. I stared at the tangled flag and could not summon the energy needed to set it free. There was a void inside me. The internal essence of the United States of America, that treasured part of my identity, had been damaged and I was afraid. I grieved.
Then one day as I stared at the flag the wind changed and this special piece of cloth unfurled and snapped in the breeze as if irritated at having its independence stifled. In a wild, daring dance of red, white and blue it cavorted, made me grin in spite of my fear. I watched it and my heart relaxed, the pain eased. I smiled deep inside for the first time in months. You can’t kill a good idea, I realized.
The spirit of America is meant to be free, not twisted and confined. We are a people who dance upon the winds of our dreams. So today I will take a long moment to thank my stepfather for the flag that lay across his coffin. Then I will go outside, hang his flag, place my hand over my heart and saluted the vision that symbolizes our country. I will twirl around, synchronize my movements with those of Old Glory and I will celebrate the ones who released me from fear. They gave so much for me. The least I can do is honor Veteran’s Day for them.

AT THE BIJOU: TOP FLITE ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33

AT THE BIJOU: TOP FLITE ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33

This tribute to her father is beautiful.

A Touch of Fall - Facebook (43) | Deborah Bundy

Facebook (43) | Deborah Bundy: "There's something about stepping outside as the sun is peeking over the hillside and feeling a nip in the air that makes a cup of hot tea, an old sweater, and a bit of writing seem like the perfect plan for the day."

I have a friend

Who I haven't seen in quite awhile. He is one of those people who lights up a room, keeps a party going and hasn't missed a moment of living life to the fullest. While, I will never be able to experience things with the abandon he does, I have learned a valuable lesson from him. Live those childhood dreams, follow those adult wishes. Be happy. Thank you, Chip Anderson for fitting me in your life. I wish you were here so I could give you a hug.

A really good book.

"The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" by Steig Larrson. Read it.

String-of-10 TWO Second Place Winner John (J.C.)Towler « Flash Fiction Chronicles

This is an interview of a friend of mine and one of his stories. I think you'll enjoy both.
String-of-10 TWO Second Place Winner John (J.C.)Towler « Flash Fiction Chronicles

Reading and Riding Lesson

I read a blog this morning called Simply Wait and continued the good feeling started yesterday when I went riding with friends.

It was a sunny day in Gowensville, South Carolina, where Mother Nature is in full dress. The three of us were on a hunter pace and I was the leader, being on the longest legged horse.

In the beginning my horse, Rustic, kept pulling me up out of the saddle as if to say, "Let's go, look, the world is waiting for us." I told him over and over, "No, slow down. We're being cautious, learning patience, watching for slick spots. I don't want to wipe out."

The trails twisted through woods filled with the soft green of spring, crossed wooden bridges over fresh rain filled water. We cantered across green pastures, and, yes it felt like I was living in a bible verse.
Still, I kept saying, "Slow down, behave, mark the time, do it right." Every ride can teach us something and I was determined this thoroughbred would learn to listen, that he couldn't always have his way.

After an hour and twenty minutes we were near the end. My horse gave another half-hearted tug on the reins. This time I let him go. We galloped the last fifty yards. My ex-racer stretched out his stride and I widened my smile. It was the best part of the ride and over way too fast.

As I unsaddled and offered Rustic some water, it hit me, I was the one who learned something new. Rustic was relaxed now and I was energized. That had happened in the last fifty yards. Life is too short to hold back, follow your heart, end on a gallop.

Life is

Going up a mountain, to see what the world looks like from the top, then coming back down and living.

Good times have no boundaries

Went foxhunting in the "Low Country" of South Carolina yesterday. Saw alligators, cranes, an armadillo, but no foxes! The hunt was on a rice plantation and we rode along the edge of a marsh, under towering oaks draped with Spanish moss. Airey Hall Plantation is beautiful and the hospitality was outstanding.

With riders in scarlet and black coats, horses shined to their brightest, and hounds weaving in and out of tall grass, it felt like stepping back in time. What kept hitting me were thoughts of the people who'd come before, the ones who lived in the big houses and the ones who worked in the fields, the different perspectives they would have of the sight.

Today was for equals. The hunt was led by two gentlemen, professional huntsmen, one a Master of the Green Creek Hounds. They are black men and I never really think of that, but here on this very Southern land, I did. It made me happy to know that everyone there enjoyed following the lead of these two men, in this most Southern area. I consider one of them a dear friend and he was where he deserved to be. Good fellowship and good times had no boundaries. Maybe, just maybe, Americans are realizing we are all created equal.

Mind at Sea

Went on a cruise last week with my daughter. As soon as the boat left the dock my mind set sail on a fantasy trip. What if, I thought, this boat were to be highjacked by pirates? Johnny Depp, perhaps, or his look alike leaping on board and taking me away to ... You can fill in the rest. :)

Gone Cruising

Be back in a week! Have a great one.
Deborah

Brevity 32: Elane Johnson

Absolutely, stunning piece. One sentence can say so much. Go read.
Brevity 32: Elane Johnson

Deborah K Bundy Writing From Misty Hill, Poems, Stories: Painting Murder

Deborah K Bundy Writing From Misty Hill, Poems, Stories: Painting Murder

The Write Yarn

The Write Yarn A nice new blog.

Painting Murder

This was how it always started. The familiar scent of paint, wet paper, compliments and then a jarring plea for help. Micha Mason lay a wash of blue and gray paint across the top of a sheet of cold-pressed paper, moving the sable bristles in soft curves creating a storm filled sky. Cindy Lowen stood permanent as a fire hydrant, waiting for her answer. Mica frowned, apprehension rounded her shoulders, tightened her grip on the paintbrush. “Hire a real investigator,” she said as she rinsed her brush.

The woman shook her head. “Daddy has an investigator, some creature who comes and goes, or so I hear. I want you to find out why. It’s like Daddy doesn’t want me involved.” She wobbled back and forth, her plump little feet spilling from the sides of her expensive red Italian heels.

“What about your brother?”

“Not talking to him either.”

Mica shrugged and looked down at her work. “I think I’ll stay right here and you need to leave. I can’t concentrate.”

The shapes of leafless trees appeared under her rapidly moving brush in the drying blue color. They faded into the glaze of cerulean giving the illusion of being in the far distance. Then she added a touch of alizarin, and ultramarine generating a hint of mountains. She felt the coolness of the painted sky on her skin, caught a slight whiff of fallen leaves, then realized the coolness was coming from the drafty window, and the smell from rotten garbage wafting up from the alley bins five stories below. She jammed the window closed with a palette knife, and stirred a bowl of potpourri that rested on the sill.

Mica concentrated on her work, steeling herself against the burn of her friend’s worried eyes, and then her heart cracked with compassion. Resolve fell into the crevice created and she carelessly dribbled water, like falling rain, onto the painting in front of her.

“If your Dad really needs help.” Her mind reacted like a cut to turpentine as words emerged from her mouth. She slapped a hand across her lips, too late to stop the unleashed words.

“Please go. I trust you. I wouldn’t ask if Daddy wasn’t acting like a man with a mess of bad moonshine.”

Mica knew when Cindy lapsed into her mountain dialect she was worried. She looked at her artwork searching for an answer. Rivulets of water ran like tears down from the beautiful mist-shrouded mountains she’d created. She frowned, turned the ruined painting over on the table, then looked up and smiled gently at her friend. Someone was going to die.

“Maybe I better go,” she said as her mind switched from the creative right side to the analytical left

JENNINGS - Well Blog - NYTimes.com

JENNINGS - Well Blog - NYTimes.com Follow this guy.

Hunters in the Mist

Hunters in the Mist

Melissa Myer didn’t give much thought to the new foxhunting fixture, nor listen to the Master’s words of caution, the need to stay with the group. Today, her mind focused instead on her new mount, a young, bright chestnut horse. He floated above the ground when he moved. His gaits felt magical and she relished the promise of being transported into another realm when on his back. The group of fellow riders barely registered on her radar.

This was her first mistake.

They, about thirty horses and riders and twenty couple of hounds, started early from the trailers, and before Melissa had time to get her bearings, what with the new horse and all, she found herself in an old, “trees with roots big enough to hide Hobbits” unfamiliar forest. There was something slightly off center about the area. A spurt of fear ran up her spine like an adrenalin injection. She attributed it to the antics of her inexperienced thoroughbred and the fact that she’d stayed up way to late reading The Lord of The Rings for the umpteenth time. Her horse, Runaway Joe, three months off the track, danced.

As the hounds and the riders trotted deeper into the woods, Runaway Joe developed a sudden talent for spinning in circles.

Out of the corner of her eye Melissa watched the horse in front of her disappear around a bend and then her attention whipped back to the thousand pounds of whirling dervish beneath her.

The horse showed no signs of tiring of his new game and though Melissa was an excellent rider, his antics made her dizzy. The sound of the huntsman’s horn faded in the distance, hardly audible over the blowing and stomping of her mount. She began to worry.

Damn, it would be nice if someone had hung around. A new horse, all alone, in unfamiliar surroundings was asking for trouble. Buck up, she told herself and reached down deep in her muscles for some hidden strength. She needed to stop Joe’s pirouettes, before she threw up.

The horse snorted, slid sideways and then at the persistent urging of her quiet hands and calm voice, came to a trembling halt.

Once she had Joe standing still, though ready to bolt at any moment, Melissa let out and sucked in a deep breath. They moved around the bend. The road forked ahead of her and the hard packed earth gave no clue as to which path the hunt had taken. Last, in the long line of horses when they left the trailers this morning, so that Joe would not be tempted to kick a hound or another horse, she’d been doing the right thing. It was absolutely taboo for a hunt horse to kick, especially kick a hound, and she knew better than to put Joe up front. That thought did little to assuage her feelings of stupidity for not listening to the Master’s warning.

She had no idea where she was or where the rest of the field of hunters had gone. Used to riding up front with those who liked to race and chase, Melissa always had the hounds, huntsman, or at least the sound of the horn in her reach to show her the way, but not today. In front, the sound of pounding hooves and snorting of over-excited horses closing in tried the patience of even the most seasoned hunt horse. Joe had a hard enough time handling the slower paced group of non-jumpers, know as hilltoppers, and would probably have dumped her if she had pressed him to handle the first flight, those that jumped and moved at a sometimes eye-tearing pace.

Running a finger under the chin strap of her velvet-covered helmet, Melissa shook her head. Nothing to do now but pick a trail and hope it was the right one. She’d catch up soon enough. Joe moved forward with a gentle nudge of her calves against his heaving sides.

No runaway now, he took a hesitant step, flicked one pricked ear in her direction as if asking if this was what she wanted. She clucked softly and urged him to move on.

Soon, he picked up his normal long-strided walk, stretched out his neck and lowered his head. A deep rib-widening sigh lifted Melissa in the saddle and she grinned, felt the black woven straps of her helmet bridge the dimples in her cheeks. She echoed the sigh. It signaled to her Joe had decided that this wasn’t so bad after all and she wanted to assure him she agreed. At this pace it would be doubtful they would catch up to the hunt field, but the forest, quiet and enclosing like a deep green comforter, made for a pleasant trail ride.

The belief that most horses, if given their head, will find their way back to the barn or trailer, is well known among riders. Melissa decided to give it a try. Her Timex sports-watch told her she had at least twelve hours before darkness. That should be plenty of time for Runaway Joe to find their way out of here. She looped the reins, or as she told her students, let a horse have a little room between your hands and his mouth.

“Okay, Joe, you pick which way to go.” The horse took the left fork.

They crested a hill and a mountain, vague as a long ago dream, appeared in the far distance. Melissa spied movement in the distance. Hounds in shades of black, tan and white weaving a tapestry through a green canvas of old forest, and a stream of horses, steam rising from their backs, shrouding their riders in capes of gray. She squinted and then rode toward them.

This was her second mistake.

Things Happen when my Husband Isn't Here.

Okay, so it's raining. No big deal, right? Wrong.

Went to feed horses, got them in and all cozy and hopped on the Gator to take hay to the run-in shed. Had my rain hat on, gonna make a quick dash. Shouldn't get too wet. Then, what do I see? A snow drift blocking my way! I live in the South, we aren't supposed to have snow drifts. My husband is out of town, everything happens when he's gone, so I'm getting a sneaky suspicion he's conspiring with the Gods. He wants me to miss him.

This drift is from all the snow sliding off the barn roof. Hmm, I say. I won't let this stop me. Revving the engine, I slam the Gator into 4-wheel, lock the differential, and gun it. Up we go on top of the snow and there we sit. It's stuck, it's pouring, and I'm screwed. If my dear Hubby were here, he's big and strong, he could push me out of the drift. But, like I said, he's gone, to sunny Florida no less.

I put the Gator in reverse. Wheels spin. Try forward, again. Nada. I step off into the drift. Ice water enters my shoes, pours down my neck from the roof. I use the manure shovel to dig out the tires. My husband could do this in two scoops. Me, it takes twenty. Try again. Nope. The belly of my mechanical beast is suspended on the mountain of white.

Frustration kicks in. I stomp the gas. Snow, ice and mud covers me from head to toe. I twist the steering wheel, try again. Now, manure joins the mess. I drag out mats, wedge them under tires, rock and roll the Gator. We move an inch. Okay, I'm missing my husband.

Soaking wet now, I lug the hay by hand out to the run-in shed. My dear husband always carries it there by hand. But, like I said, he's big and strong, and in FLORIDA.

Horses look over their stall doors, nice and cozy, but curious as to what the idiot is doing. I lose a shoe in the mud, find it and watch muck ooze out as I re-insert my foot. The Gator, I think, is watching me. It's motor idles, as I've left it running and in gear, hoping it would do something like leap off the drift. It sits, still as its Southern namesake, on the bank. Have you ever seen one of those things move? The ones with scales live in Florida, where my husband is.

Thirty minutes and ten pounds heavier from water soaked clothing I win! The Gator is free and back where it belongs. I feel like a champion.

When my husband calls tonight and asks about my day I will tell him this. I climbed a mountain, slogged through a swamp, wrestled a Gator. Things happen when you're away. I won't ask him how's Florida. He'll just say the sun's shining. I will tell him I miss him. After all the Gods are on his side.

Why I Write - Page 7 - Editor Unleashed Forums

My work is three up from the bottom on page seven of the "Why I write contest. I guess I was wrong on the voting. It doesn't start until after noon today.
Deborah
Why I Write - Page 7 - Editor Unleashed Forums

Feeding the Addiction-EditorUnleashed contest entry

Start voting February 1st. My piece is on page seven. You have to register to vote. My piece is on page seven. You have to register to vote. Sorry I can't seem to do an automatic link. Someday, I'll take a computer class. Ha.

Editor Unleashed contest-time to vote

http://editorunleashed.com/forum/showthread.php?t=2925
Okay see it this works for the EditorUnleashed contest. My piece is "Feeding the Addiction"

Time to Vote on EditorsUnleashed

My piece is "Feeding the Addiction" on page seven of the "Why I Write" contest. http://editorunleashed.com/forum/showthread.php?t=2925

GO read and I hope you like it enough to give me some stars. :)
Deborah

The Foal Watcher

The Foal Watcher

Like a person up from a sick bed for the first time in days, the mare stood on shaking legs. Sweat coated her body even though it was only twelve degrees outside. All that could be seen was two feet coated with a wet, slimy matter.

Sharon stood at her rear. “Come on Spectra, push,” she whispered.

The mare’s stomach muscles tensed. The straining muscles looked like tight steel bands around her sides. The foal did not emerge any further. It was premature and would not live. Sharon knew the manager’s main concern now was saving the mare.

“Get the chains,” Matty Wilson, the birthing expert, turned toward her.

Sharon could see the worry etched between Matty's eyebrows in two deep furrows. She could smell the fear coming from the mare.

Pulling on a shoulder length rubber glove Matty inserted her arm inside the mare and felt.

“The foal’s backwards," she said. "We’ve got to get it out. Spectra can’t take much more. Go get the chains.”

Sharon bit her lip. She knew this was part of being a foal watcher, but it didn’t make it easy. The two years she’d worked at the breeding farm had been like a lesson in growing up. She ran off and returned with two long lengths.

“Thanks.” Matty took the chain and reached once more inside the mare. “No change.”

They looked at each other exchanging sad, worried glances.

Matty wrapped the chain tightly around the foal’s protruding feet.

“Okay, let’s pull on three," she said. "One, two three.”

They strained backwards as if they were playing tug of war. The mare pulled against them. Loud, cracking sounds filled the air as the foal’s bones were stretched in ways nature never intended.

For three minutes they pulled and then slowly the body of the foal emerged. He was dead. The mare’s body visibly relaxed and then she began to move around nickering softly for her foal.
“Get it out of here.”

Sharon knew the sooner they got the dead foal out of the stall, the sooner the mare would forget. Tears stung her eyes. She hated it when something went wrong.

This is the beginning of a book.

Horse Lover

Horse Lover

“Get out of my way.” I shoved Silver Bullet aside and dumped her grain into the bucket. I held the halter and caressed her neck. Time was at a premium, but one had to be careful around horses.

The next thing I knew I was pinned to the side of the stall.

Dawn would arrive in a quarter hour. People would come. This was not my horse and I couldn’t be here when they arrived. But, I was too weak from not eating in three nights to escape.

The mare munched on sweet feed as I struggled. The thousand pound nightmare was not the least bit concerned that I couldn’t breathe and couldn’t move.

How ironic, my wild craving for horses would be the end of me. The other vampires would laugh, I thought, as the sun rose. My tombstone would read, Killed by a Silver Bullet.

Go visit my friend Linda's blog in the last post. It will do good.

leftbrainwrite: Helping Haiti -- Cash for Your Comments

leftbrainwrite: Helping Haiti -- Cash for Your Comments

The Hunt-An excerpt from Reflections From the Hot Zone

Dressed for success in a trim beige skirt, white starched shirt and sensible pumps, Sylvia entered the office of McCray, Snyder, Fieldstone, Chang and Mendez. She figured a firm with names like that on the door wouldn’t discriminate against anyone. This would be her sixth interview. At the first five, people were kind, but in the end turned her away. Over the phone they’d all sounded enthused, but when they met in person the job never seemed to fit. At least to them she didn’t fit. She thought any and all of them would be right up her alley.

This firm was for movers and shakers. Her spirits rose. She could move and shake with the best of them. Then her spirits fell. Her interview wasn’t with one of the politically inclusive names on the door, but, with a plain Mr. Jones, sitting behind a plain wood desk, looking plain bored.

“It’s a filing clerk position for God’s sake. Surely, I’m qualified for that?” Sylvia felt sweat break out under her arms.

“I’m sure you are. It’s just…” The man paused, looked around. “It’s a lot of bending up and down, lifting heavy law books. We’re looking for someone not quite so…” He seemed to catch himself. “I know at my age, and we look to be in the same generation,” he smiled, “the knees don’t work as well as they used to.” He abruptly shut her folder. “Anyway, we feel you’re over qualified. Sorry, it was nice meeting you.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

Sylvia stood up, shook his hand, walked numbly out of the room. Then she stopped. Her chest burned. The heat climbed. What was she doing? Pivoting on one sensible shoe, she marched back into his office. Shut the door.

“Mr. Jones?”

The man looked up. “Yes?”

“Before you turn me down, I think there’s a few things you should know. First, I really need a job.” Sylvia’s voice rustled like silk sheets. She ran a hand over her hip and then up her side.

Mr. Jones rose, in more ways than one, Sylvia was pleased to see. She quirked a finger. “Come here.” He moved around the desk. She sidled past him and sat in his chair. When he started toward her she shook her head. “Don’t move. I promise you’ll never forget what’s coming next.” Her tongue darted out, moistened her lips.

The man was practically panting. He began to tug at his tie.

Sylvia smiled. “I’ve had a chance to think about what you said, and I want you to know I’m disappointed.”

The man began to stutter. “But, but, I may have an opening…”

Sylvia raised a hand. “Oh, not about the job. The bending up and down, knees not working quite as well as they used to. I just wanted you to know I’m disappointed that you’re having those kind of problems. I’m afraid you’re under-qualified for what I have in mind. We may be from the same generation, but you’re way too far over the hill for me.” She sighed an, stood up. As she brushed past him, she felt him wilt.

Sylvia walked down the long marble hall and through the door into the late afternoon light. That interview went well she thought.

A Puppy in Need--A true story

One cold day, a foxhunt turned into a rescue mission for one very needy puppy. The history of this puppy’s life before this day is unknown. Abandoned and left to fend for himself, no one knows his owner’s reasoning for not taking him to a shelter or trying to find him a home. This is his story.
On the day in question, a Whipper-in (a person who helps with the hounds on a hunt) alerted the huntsman that a young, ribs showing, black and white puppy was hiding in a pile of trash near a busy road. The puppy appeared to be lost and in need of care. The huntsman, being a true foxhunter and dog lover, immediately asked the road whips to check on the situation.
Two drove to the site. One watched over the puppy, coaxing him out of the bushes with a breakfast bar, while the other raced home to get a crate, some water and dog kibble. Through skilled handling by these two people the puppy regained a bit of trust in humans and even managed to wag his tail. He allowed himself to be gently nestled in the crate. Once there, the road whip rushed him to the local vet for treatment.
Found to be severely dehydrated, starving and in need of extensive medical care, the doctors did what they could to stabilize him and then asked what should be done. The road whip and the huntsman’s natural instinct was to give him the chance he deserved and they accepted responsibility for the puppy’s hospital care.
This is not unusual behavior for foxhunters. Foxhunters are known to be caretakers of the land and its’ animals. They treat the wild as wild, respect the natural survival skills of wild creatures and work hard to preserve the open country and habitats of all animals. They also accept the responsibility of caring for domesticated creatures. Most foxhunters have an ark’s worth of adopted, rescued, and retired pets. The huntsman, being the epitome of a foxhunter, even volunteered to adopt this puppy when and if he became well enough to go to a forever home.
This puppy could have been ignored and left to suffer the lonely fate his previous owner had chosen for him. He needed so little, a gentle hand, food to fill a tummy, water, and he responded with trust and love when offered a helping hand by the hunt members. He showed he appreciated everything with a grateful wag and a gentle lick of his tongue.
Unfortunately, we will never know what a fine dog he might have become. Because of a road whip, a huntsman, a vet and others, this puppy, who suffered so much in his short life, knew the love of caring humans as he left this world. This is the end of his story but if this one small puppy could talk, I think he would say thank you to people like those who help one in need. He would tell us we are lucky to have people like them in our community. The puppy died two days after his rescue.

Best Blogs of 2009 – Mad Utopia

Another great writer's site
Best Blogs of 2009 – Mad Utopia

www.publetariat.com |

This is a great writer's site.
www.publetariat.com |

Feeding The Addiction - Editor Unleashed Forums

Go read, enjoy and when the day comes vote!
Feeding The Addiction - Editor Unleashed Forums

Cutting through the Crap

is much harder than one would think when you're the writer. Words that I savored like hot caramel sauce when first placed upon the page, still have a cool appeal on the second go around. It's like editing with a demitasse spoon, when what is needed is a backhoe. I've found it can become very tedious.

One would think I could let go of all the extra verbiage, slim this book down to a sleek, bestseller model, but no. It's as hard as dieting. I can be good for a short while. Then, bam, I have to add a few luscious morsels that have popped in my head. It's like eating junk food. Irresistible and deadly.

Okay, I have to keep visualizing these beautiful words as not good for me. Sigh. When will fat be back in? Getting rid of the crap is harder than it looks.

Gone Hunting

Yesterday was a riding day and I went foxhunting. It is cubbing season here. That is when we take out the young hounds with the older ones and prepare them for the coming formal season of hunting. They learn to stay with the group, listen to the huntsman, and discover all the scents and sounds of the great outdoors. The goal is not to find game but to train puppies and condition the older hounds.

We hunt early at seven in the morning here, and while getting up in the dark is not on my favorites list, watching the sun rise as I drive to the meet is. The early dew steams in the morning rays creating misty valleys filled with the promise of adventure. I get up before dawn, feed my horses, clean the stalls, groom the one I am going to ride, turn out the others and head to the fixture for the day. A fixture is the place we will meet to hunt.

The hunt is short, young hounds get tired easily, so do out of shape riders. On the way home I marvel at the wonder of it all. The natural interaction of man with his world. Being taken back in time, being reminded we are one of the animal kingdom. Sometimes we lose sight of that in our man-made world. It is good to be reminded of the balance of nature and that we are meant to be a part of that picture.

Did you know that hunters are the best land conservationists? They understand the vital need to keep the wilderness, preserve farmlands, and pure water supply. They know the human's place in the world. Foxhunters will work tirelessly to save the countryside.

Yesterday, I went foxhunting, rode across land that will never be developed. Fell in love, as I do every time, with the beauty of nature and thanked God for creating this natural balancing act that keeps our world a thriving planet.

Gone hunting; when you hear someone say that, thank them for doing their part to preserve your world.

There's a Story Hiding in My Brain

For the past few weeks I've found it hard to concentrate on the novels I'm working on. One is a mystery, "Painted Black", and the other is women's fiction, "Reflections From The Hot Zone." Both books have been fun to write and are now in the rewrite/editing stage. Aha, some would say, you just don't want to do the real work.

While this is true, that isn't the reason I can't concentrate. In side my head there is story growing. It feels like a deep, dark, serious book in the making. Bits and pieces flit by on the screen behind my eyes. I see a frown, hear an argument, smell the grainy scent of alcohol. A character lurks in the shadows, unwilling to show his/herself. Waiting, I feel, until I promise to let the telling be the character's doing.

Does this ever happen to you? It scares me a bit. I'm not sure I'm ready to hear the truth hiding within the fiction. No one told me this would happen when I talked of being a writer.

Ah, I see the character's smile.

Flash 40 contest at Editor Unleashed Results

Happy dancing! My story "Ten One-Hundredths of A Second" made the Anthology and ended up fifth in the popular vote. Most of my buddies made it, too. As promised here is a list of the finalists.

And the winners, listed in alphabetical order, are:
Grand Prize: Fairy Tales, by Ravenne
At Last, neenerspb
Being a Cop, lmckelvy
Blind Justice, TrinityWolf99
The Brain Eaters, Lady Lawyer
Buck and the Twee Fairies of Interstate 20, cubagw
Circles, TheRazor
Defection, drwasy
Dreaming Lies to Change the Truth, kaolin
Fate’s Heavy Hand, jimbernheimer
Food of the Gods, judy b.
Frangible Choices, KeMari
Grief Observed, Laurita
Guardian Demon, JRTomlin
Mirror, Mirror gretaigl
Monday, Selena Kitt
Night Becomes the City, MPBerry
In the Nuthouse, d o’brien
Parklife, AlanBaxter
Pirated Twinkies, soesposito
Pure White, Stephen Book
Reflection, rjkelle
Rough Trade, JRhodes
Running on the Iron Rooster, Michael J.
Sales Call, graywave
Savor the moment, Kupohunter
Sign Language, LCourtland
Sportsmen, JohnOBX
Ten One-hundreds of a Second, DeborahB
The Distraction, Nocdar
The Mercantile Exchange, kenaipi
The Nearest Thing, John Wiswell
The Vial, bentguy
The Vigil of Clouds, Alegra
Time for a Change, Carol
‘Tis the Season, jmar2
Unscrambling Love, Angel Zapata
Wake up, Please, everyhopejd
What’s in a Name, Craven
When Don Cristobal Eduardo Stabbed his Wife and her Lover, Christopher James

Thank you to all for reading and rating stories!
Deborah

Flash 40 contest at Editor Unleashed is winding down

and my story "One one-hundreds of a Second" is in the top ten on http://editorunleashed.com/forum/index.php .

A few more days left in the voting phase. Thanks for all that have read my piece! I'm excited for all who entered. If they are like me, they've learned a great deal about writing from reading all the entries. And, about human psychology by watching the ratings ebb and flow. Thanks to Maria and Smashwords for putting this on. I'll be gone when it's over, but will announce who won it all and where I ended up when I return. Best of luck to all my Nudger buds in the contest. Best of luck to everyone.

Editor Unleashed

A couple more stories you might enjoy if you get over to EditorUnleashed http://editorunleashed.com/forum/index.php . Jim Bernheimer's, one called Hot Pink Jeans and Ravenne's. Of course there are many that are excellent. These are just some of my favorites. Enjoy and rate your favorites or all of them.

Editor Unleashed

There is a contest on http://editorunleashed.com . I have a story entered. Go and read and tell me what you think. You will have to join to read and vote, but there are some great stories on there. Look for Ten One-hundreds Of A Second, by DeborahB, that's me on page 14 of the contest called Flash Fiction 40. Also, check out my friends, (JRhoades, JohnOBX, both on page 14 with me), Kim (kenaipi; page 13), (drwasy; page 10) and (Margie on page 7).
Look forward to hearing from you.
Deborah

Hunter Pace Award

Yesterday, I took my thoroughbred on a hunter pace. This is a marked trail ride that you try to do at the speed of a hunt. It is timed and the closest to the optimum time, unknown to the riders, wins. Everyone wears a number and there is a start judge and a finish judge. I've yet to do well. This time I was determined to finish in a "feel good" place.

My horse, Rustic, decided about a third of the way through that we were going entirely too slow. When I made him walk, he cantered in place, when I made him trot, he cantered almost in place, when I let him canter he sighed with contentment. "At last," I could feel him thinking, "she's gotten the message. Beautiful day, wonderful trails, it's time to thank God by using all the talent He's given us."

How did we place? In our minds we won the biggest smile and happiest horse award, definitely a "feel good" performance. In the minds of the judges, we were way too fast.

Affirmative Action

Brick solid, unyielding
Rain liquid, elusive

Together

Brick holds rain
Rain shelters brick

Rain forms puddle
Brick shimmers, shines

Each is more

What to do?

The sun is out, the horses are in. I really want to go for a ride, but the ground is mud. Deep, deep, mud from four days of rain. I'm not complaining, we've been in drought conditions for four years. Footing like we have outside is not good for horses tendons. They can pull something slipping and sliding around in the muck. Still, I want to go for a ride. What to do?

In The Beginning...

I thought writing a book would be easy. I had a great idea, a good main character, and plenty of enthusiasm. So, computer keys clattering I began my adventure. All went well until I got to the part called "EDITING". Ugh. Ever since, I've been stuck on page one trying to get the Beginning to be THE BEGINNING, hook, line, and reader turning the page eager to read what happens next, agent loves it, yee-haw, it's a best seller, beginning.

I'm not there yet. Do you think I'm trying for too much in the first paragraph?

Bad, Sick Horse Poetry

The sun is shining
The grass is green
If that **** horse
Doesn't get well soon
I think I'll scream

Time For a Sick Horse to Get Well!

This is supposed to be a writing day, or at least 2 weeks ago it was supposed to be, but, one of my horses caught a cold. If you aren't a horse person, you might think, big deal. If you are a horse person, you think, I'm glad that's not my horse!

When a horse gets a runny nose, cough and fever, alarm bells go off. They don't do well. Most virus' with these symptoms are highly contagious, so the horse has to be kept away from other horses, you have to make sure you don't carry the germs from the sick guy to the others, and his exercise has to be limited. That means he stays in a stall, and you get to clean it, at our house I get to clean it, over and over again for as long as the horse is sick. It is not fun.

A horse can hemorrhage his lungs coughing and exercise makes him cough more often. That's the reason for stall rest. He can be hand-grazed, where the others aren't allowed to graze. More time for his owner, me in this case, to spend with her precious animal. Standing in the cold, holding the end of a lead-line so he won't romp about. You hope he doesn't decide to do pirouettes from being stall crazy. A 1200lb animal on his hind legs, steel shoes flashing over your head, while you try to hold on to a rope attached to his halter, makes you sweat, but doesn't do much to warm your heart when it's 30 degrees outside.

Sometimes, the virus causes a secondary bacterial infection in the sinus, etc. Then you, me again, get to dose the stir crazy, stall-bound animal with antibiotics. In the powder form, the medicine is mixed with his grain, which you've reduced to a minute amount to try and cut his energy level. It does not taste good. The half that gets left in the bottom of the feed bucket can be mixed with molasses to make it palatable. Of course, molasses pours as slow as, well, molasses. So your hope that you might have five minutes to do something besides take care of a sick horse ticks on by.

One thing, I always get asked is: HOW DO YOU TAKE HIS TEMPERATURE?
Just like a baby. Stick it up his butt! And, hope he doesn't decide it's time to get rid of that grain and molasses before the four minute incubation period is over.

After almost three weeks, I decided my horse, his name is Bargaining Chip, and I needed to have a talk.

I said, "Get well. NOW!"

His answer?

Bargaining Chip shook his head no, he does not live up to his name, and then, blew snot all over my coat.

I wonder if I'll find time to wash it, after I clean the stall, graze the beast, mix the molasses, take the temp, clean the stall...

YorkWriters: Sketch a Novel in an Hour Exercise

YorkWriters: Sketch a Novel in an Hour Exercise

Safe and Sound

Today is a riding day. Sigh, things interfered and I didn't get my usual fix of sitting on a horse and thinking about life. I had to settle for thinking while I emptied water buckets and mucked stalls. This can lead to some pretty dirty thoughts. :)

Off to have dinner with friends, all horse people. I'll have to live off their adventures for now. I'm sure at least one rode through the woods or across a meadow and has a story to tell.

It's going to be a cold night, so horses are blanketed, hoses have been drained and the barn is shut up tight. There's something about doing that, that makes me feel good. I guess I'm weird, or making things snug, is like nurturing, when you are helping others, animal or human, it warms your heart. You feel safe and sound.

Have a good night, sleep tight, all.

To Plot, or Not to Plot - a Story - Is it a question

That needs an answer?

Okay, riding and writing are my big loves(after family) and yesterday I indulged in riding, so today I'll tackle my book, Painted Black. A post on EditorUnleashed.com made me stop and think this morning. Probably a good thing, because I prefer to wing-it. The poster was asking about planning a story, how do you plot a book. She was full of technical information she'd garnered from web searches, etc. It confused me just reading it, and it also made me worry.

Is my story, Painted Black, plotted correctly? Yikes, I don't know. I did it the simple way. A character popped into my head and began to move through an imaginary world. I asked myself: Who is this person? What is she up to? Where is she? What is her problem? Will she succeed? Who gets in her way?

Then I started to write. The story took over and I simply followed the adventure, one thing leading to another, until the adventure ended. Yes, I had to go back and fill in some blanks, especially when the person I thought would be the murderer turned out not to be the culprit. :) I had fun. Eventually, when editing, I put summaries chapters on index cards and listed key elements to make sure everything connected, but that was after I'd recorded the initial excitement of the story.

I think if I'd tried to plot out the whole story, making sure I had all the elements people say you need, not only for the big picture, but in every chapter, I'd have lost interest before I got started. It would knock my creativity for a loop.

How about you? Do you plot, then write? Or are you like me? Do you follow wherever the wings of an idea takes you, then go back and fix the glitches? Or do you have another approach? I'd be interested in hearing.

February, Sunshine and a Horse, Gotta be a dream, right?

Today was one of those times I'd like to record and be able to play back when I'm thinking life sucks. Up early, I fed the horses, cleaned the stalls, let the cat out of the tackroom and scolded the little dog for chasing the big dog. Bet you thought I was going to say "cat", didn't you?

By eight, I was in my truck and hauling my thoroughbred to a hunt meet. This is his first year to be a foxhuning horse and he's still trying to figure out where the track is. He used to be a racehorse. I ate my Kashi bar, drank a coke, and played finger tag between country music and NPR on the radio. In twenty minutes, I arrived at the meeting spot, the first one there, and nabbed a prime parking space. When you're driving a F350 extended cab truck and hauling a twenty foot trailer, parking moves way up the priority list.

Eventually, others arrived, the hounds were unloaded, and Rustic(that's my horse)and I were ready to roll. The huntsman cast the hounds, sending them into deep, dense woods. Being a whipper-in(helper to the huntsman)I moved off ahead of the pack, but about fifty yards to one side. One hound spoke and then others joined and we were off.

I asked Rustic to pick up the pace and he said, "You betcha."
There is absolutely no feeling in the world like being on the back of a thoroughbred and asking him to run. It is what they are born to do. We streaked up a road, jumped a coop and tore down a wooded trail. He and I were both in a "yee-haw" moment and I almost forgot that my job was to watch for hounds.

The run lasted about ten minutes and then the hounds lost the scent in the wind. The huntsman picked another route, which left me somewhat out of the game. I pouted for a moment and then looked around.

There I sat, on an animal some people only see on television, in the middle of a meadow, the sun warming my back, with a million dollar view of the mountains in front of me, and it was mid-February. A slow smile erased my pout. Just think about it for a minute; February, sunshine and a horse,the makings for a movie, right? No one was there to record the moment,so no movie, but believe me some dreams can come true.

Let's uncomplicate writing!

I was just reading "Mad Utopia", another blog. It is filled with great advice, writing contests, etc. Now, if I could figure out how to link Jon's site with mine, I would. But, I digress. Reading his site made me wonder, when did writing become so complicated? Used to be a pen and a piece of paper, a few brilliant thoughts, then in an envelope and off it went to find a home. Now, it seems one must have a blog, a web-site, a following, before an agent or editor will even look at what you have to say. Do you think we will ever get back to writing because you are inspired, and reading because you are curious to see what this unknown author might have to say?

experiment

this is a test . I have no clue what I am doing. :)

Linking

Okay, I'm over on another blog site, editorunleashed, and trying to figure out how to link. This is as far as I've gotten. Ha.

Meme

Enie, Meme... Here's my answers, then your turn!

1. It is your lucky day what are you going to do?Ride a horse, flirt with my husband, give away money, and take a nap.
2. What was the game you played as a child that you almost always or always did win? Dodge ball. I was very agile and quick. Now if I could just translate that into writing I might do okay.

3. You get to meet anyone from the past or present who will it be? Vincent Van Gogh, I'd love to learn what really went on in that magnificently creative, tortured mind.

4. When you relax what is it that you do? See #1

5. What is your favorite number? kazillion

6. What was the name of your favorite childhood toy? the great outdoors

7. If you could name the next fashion fade/craze what would it be? I'd go retro-no bra, sweats, thick socks, and messy hair.

The Technical Stuff

Okay, here I am, a writer, trying to reach out to other like minded people. Problem is I'm computer-wise about a first grader. I can write a post on here, but I have no idea how to link with other blogs I enjoy, or how to let people know I've added something new. Does this make me a failure in the 21st century of writers? Will I be doomed to never progressing beyond the elementary level? Is anyone out there? Help?
Please, and thank you.

Staying focused

So, now I have two books going and need to decide which one to concentrate on. How do you do it? First one character talks to me and right in the middle of an exciting exchange a character from the other book will butt in. If anyone has suggestions for keeping one's nose to the grindstone and ignoring all the other ideas bouncing around in your head let me know. Until then? Maybe I will write a scene where the character is tied up and gagged. This will free me up to concentrate and focus. Hmm, wonder what kind of rope I should use?

Name A Horse Novel

Bought a horse last week and I need to think of a barn name for him. Perhaps you can help? His registered name is Country Wild. He's a tall, skinny thoroughbred off the track about a year, and totally not what I was looking for. Except for his mind. He has the best attitude and the calmest disposition of any TB I've ever known. He actually stands when I ask him to, goes when I want him to, and whoas when it's my idea. I'd thought I was too old for a ex-race horse, so it's good to know there's at least one more face in the wind, get up and gallop dream chaser in my life.

Maybe I'll quit working on my mystery for awhile and write about an over fifty, bad backed writer finding the one horse on which she can fulfill her dream of riding in the local Hunters Division of the Steeplechase before she turns sixty. She lives in a small town in the country and is experiencing writer's procrastination. Browsing Equine.com instead of working she stumbles upon this horse. The horse's name could be Novel...

The Day After

This is the day after St. Patrick's day, the day after my father-in-law's birthday, he's 91, the day after the anniversary of my Mother-in-law's death, the day after yesterday. I guess we can always say it is the day after something, or the day before something, but do we have a good memory to dredge up when saying this? What we should be focused on is today. Today is the only day we have to actually do new things, attempt doing what we didn't do yesterday and may not live to try tomorrow.

Yesterday, holds many memories, some good, some fun and some sad. I didn't add a new one to my list for March 17th this year. Now, it is too late. So, I think tomorrow I'd like to be able to say--This is the day after I lived for today. How about you? What new thing will be added to your memory list? What will you be able to say to complete this sentence? This is the day after...

I've been meme-ed, whatever that means

I was reading a friend's blog http://leftbrainwrite.blogspot.com/ and saw Linda had meme-ed me. Or she said she had. I don't know where I find the meme. LOL. I will list my five writing strengths. That's what I think I'm supposed to do.

1. I'm willing to start over, and over and over until I get it right.

2. I'm honest when I critique other people's writing and it excites me and I love letting them know when they've done something magical. I'm humble enough to learn from their brilliance.

3. I'm very creative, a real right brainer. A painter before I became a writer, I live in my imagination a good part of each day. It helps me create the world my characters live in. I actually see them, the town, hear them talk, etc.

4. I'm not afraid to fail. Enough said.

5. I'm willing to take criticism for what it is-an opportunity to make my writing the best it can be.

OK, now I'm supposed to meme two people, but I don't know how. Anyone reading this that knows how to do so, please let me know. :)

A Tiny bit of Painted Black

OK, I've decided to start posting a paragraph from the mystery novel I'm working on once a week. The book is titled Painted Black. Only one paragraph, taken out of context will be posted. Just some samples of my writing. Let me know what you think. Thanks, Deborah
Ok, here goes. This paragraph is from Chapter Two

“I don’t suppose you know who I am?” He drew in his already concave stomach and hitched a thumb in the black studded belt he wore. “I’m in charge around here. Got that baby ready for you.” He nodded toward the jeep. Brown juice oozed from between his teeth when he smiled. His breath had the sour smell of whiskey, and his eyes became silver slits, sharp as knives. “Name’s Peter Lynch.” He cocked his hips. “Big Peter most women call me once they get to know me.” His weak chin rose. “Want anything you come to me. I make the decisions.”

My Novel Painted Black- It's A Mystery

My novel, sigh, has turned into a mystery. That's good and not so good. I've always intended it to be a mystery, just not the mystery its presenting at the moment. I can't seem to put on those final finishing touches. They keep falling off into the delete pile.

Someday it will be good enough to submit to agents, at least I hope so. I've written the whole thing, that was easy. It's the little bitty part called revisions that seems to have turned into a task as gargantuan as King Kong. Especially those pesky first few pages. No matter what brilliant idea I have for a first sentence, when I re-read it the next day, it, well it sucks.

Maybe I'm starting in the wrong place? You see that a lot in agents complaints, this writer started the book before it got interesting. Lop off the first five chapters. I've tried that and my special readers lamented the loss of some juicy tidbit or another. Then I tried a prologue to heighten the tension. Writer's Digest forum readers said I gave too much away.

Hmm, I guess I'll go back to the beginning, where I first found my protagonist Kate Callahan. She's lying on the veranda of a Southern Mansion and tells the man who offers her a hand up she wants to hang him. Do you think that's a good enough hook?

MySpace-August on Horseback

August is a month that many people wish would speed by. Minds move on to thoughts of fall, summer is close to its end, and people trudge about like they live in a furnace. Most want to stay inside, while away time on the computer. Not I, to me August is the month that highlights the special parts of a summer day, especially when you include a horse. August is MySpace outdoors and a part of me feels a little sad for those inside tapping away on their keyboards.

For example, on the hottest day last week I went out on my horse, caught the trail behind the barn and slid into the deep woods. The temperature dipped from 90 to 80, or at least it felt like it did. My horse, her name is Summer Games, picked up a brisk trot and we moved along the path until we reached the creek and turned onto the "Waterfall Trail". I listened to the icy stream as it tumbled over a ledge and slid between mountain boulders, and felt the mist on my skin. My mare picked her way through the rocks, stopped in the middle of a quiet pool for a drink and then moved onto the pine needle covered cart path leading to the wildflower meadow. We stopped at the edge and watched a doe and fawn fade into the distant trees. The fine smell of a well-groomed horse, fresh cut grass and moss on wet stones filled the air. I found myself with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.

It doesn't get much better than that; the ride made even more special because of the contrast with the heat in a car, on a sidewalk, or working in the garden, and because I've chosen to be outdoors not in. Without August I would never experience quite this level of pleasure. It might be the hottest of months, but in my mind, August on horseback equals perfect summer days in MySpace and I'll save the computer for midnight rendezvous's.

novel- writing

Working on my novel today between bouts of outdoor sunshine. Painted Black is about a Chicago artist in North Carolina. She goes there to put on an exhibit and to paint and ends up solving a murder. Underground tunnels, secret cellars, horses, and handsome men, figure into the adventure. Her paintings reveal the killer, she almost loses her life and with the help of a fiesty terrier traps the villian.
Today I'm helping her explore her first suspect's movements on the day of the crime. She keeps wanting to go outside and ride horses, but I'm making her stay put and work.

Trapped By An Angel

here's a story someone requested I post. Hope you enjoy it. DeborahB

Trapped By An Angel

All I can see are stark, dark trees against a wall of gray in the forest dusk. Dim shadows lie like ghosts across the snow. Of course I don’t believe in ghosts. Don’t believe in anything except that the world is a tough place and you have to be tough to survive.
“Hold on Janie. Another hour and we’ll be at the barn,” I say. “Need to finish the trapline, stow the game.” My sister Janie’ll never make it alone in this world. She believes in everything good, and never even sees the bad. So, I have the extra burden of watching over her. Carry it like I’m carrying her, nothing I need, but something I’m tough enough to handle. I try to teach her, but… “Your fault you got hurt.”
“Is not,” she says with a giggle. “My Mickey, Mickey, Michael.” One of her red mittens pats the top of my head, while the other grabs my collar. She's always so damn cheerful.
“Humph.” I shift my shoulders, toss her abruptly upwards, and will myself to keep moving. Janie is six, a real, sweet as carnival cotton candy brat. Can’t do a darn thing by herself. Mom treats her like a baby. Took care of myself by the time I was her age. She should too. Does nothing but cause harm spoiling her like this.
My legs tremble and my arms feel as if someone’s pulling the muscles apart strip by strip. I’m strong for fourteen, but she’s like a pack full of empty traps, nothing but dead weight. The burden numbs me to the sights and sounds of the forest. I trudge on through the cold, wet woods.
Janie’s hands clutch my jacket, her legs twine with my arms and I feel her breath against my neck. The only sound is the crunch my boots make as they break through the ice that borders the stream. I stare at the ground looking for tracks, don’t see the glittering world she chatters about in my ear.
“Michael, my ankle hurts so bad.” Janie’s tone changes as we near my game line. I close my mind, like the steel trap that swings from my belt. Her arms tighten around my neck.
“Loosen up. You’re choking me.”
“It hurts.”
I look down at her ankle. Appears normal, hard to tell through the red boot she wears. Probably another one of her tricks.
“Ain’t gonna keep me from collecting pelts. You should’ve stayed home.” I stop, drop her on the snow.
She scowls. “Didn’t have to dump me!” Her voice changes to a whine. “Please no more traps.”
Then, being cotton candy Janie, she lies back, smiles and flutters her arms and legs.
“What’re you doin’?” My hands clench, my jaw muscles jump. Can’t the kid tell I’m aggravated?
“Making angels.” She rolls back into a sitting position. “It’s almost Christmas.” Her cheeks are bright red and her eyes gleam with excitement.
The ice thickens around my heart. “Ain’t nobody giving you nothing. Quit trying to slow me down. I’m getting my traps.” I kick out, spraying snow in Janie’s face, then start down the trail.
She’s followed me everywhere this year and Mom makes me take her. That’s all right if I’m going fishing, it’s kinda funny watching her squirm when I put a worm on the hook, but not when I’m trapping. She cries over every animal I catch. She doesn’t understand that the pelts mean money. I crash through the underbrush.
“I don’t have time for fairytales and Santa ain’t visited me, ever.” The words come from my mouth on large bursts of steam. I mean for Janie to hear them. Branches shower white flakes on top of my parka and against my neck. My shoulder blades jump toward each other as icy wetness runs down my spine. I wish I had a muffler. Can’t afford one. As I draw my head into my coat, I admit Janie’s arms sheltered me from the icy bath as I carried her.
“Still ain’t worth the trouble you cause!” I holler.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a piece of gum, hesitate, tear it in two, and put half in my mouth. The brat will want some. It smells like winter and tastes like wild mint. My eyes scan the bushes. Janie’s voice fades into the distance. She can sit there all night for all I care. She knows the way home. She’s no more hurt than I am. I’m filled with the righteous bitterness of a misused soul.
There should be a trap here somewhere. I drop to my knees and dig through the snow. My hand hits against something hard. I grasp it and drag it to the surface. Chain clanks. The trap appears, crusted with whiteness, its jaws pressed together like a demon’s fangs.
“Damn.” I throw it down. Empty, just like the others. Someone’s triggering my traps. “Janie, did you do this?” My voice is loud. “Answer me!” I wait, beating the trap against my leg, thinking of what I’ll do when I see her. No sound comes from up the trail.
Limbs snap against my thrusting arms as I trudge back. I’m out of breath when I reach the spot where I dumped Janie in the snow. She’s gone. The imprint of the angel is clear, makes me uneasy. I look around for tracks. There they are, small waffle boot prints leading off to the deep woods, headed not quite towards the house. I turn to head back to my trap line and then hesitate. Mom will kill me if I leave her little angel out here alone. I sniff the air. It smells like more snow coming. The sky is a somber, ugly gray. I better find her and get home.
“So much for the sprained ankle,” I mumble to myself as I examine the evenly spaced footprints. “God, why’s she always messing up my life?” I glare at the menacing sky and follow her trail.
“Shhh.”
Janie’s crouched in a group of holly bushes, one finger held to her lips. She crooks the finger, luring me to her.
Thirsty, I pull a glove off as I approach and scoop up a handful of snow. It tastes like pine. I spit it out and wipe my hand on my pants. The cold bites at my fingers. When I reach Janie, I squat behind her.
“What is it?” My words no more than a soft breath.
“Santa’s reindeer.” Her voice high, yet a whisper.
I blow against my hand to warm it. It’s red and rough from work. I tuck it under my armpit as I peer over her shoulder. A huge buck stands not fifteen feet away, next to a doe. He paws the ground by her head. With her front feet spread, neck stretched, nose to the ground, the doe quivers, but doesn’t move. Strange, they aren’t running. My fingers twitch. I wish I had my rifle. The buck’s rack of horn must span eight feet.
A metallic clank fills the air. The doe stumbles back as if released from a tether, then lifts her head, her nose red with blood. My trap. She had her nose caught in one of my traps. The buck’s pawing must have released her.
Janie gasps. I try to cover her eyes. She jerks away. The sudden movement startles the deer. In great leaps they disappear into the deep woods. Janie turns to me. I brace and watch for her accusing eyes. Steal myself against the words I expect she’ll say.
“Michael, Michael did you see them?” Her voice bounces off the trees. “The reindeer, even Rudolf, right here in our woods. Did you see his red nose? Santa must be near. He’ll come this year. I know he will. You knew, didn’t you? I love you.” Her eyes shimmer with excitement. She falls back into the snow laughing and begins to make another angel. There’s a hole in the sole of her red rubber boot.
I look at her and wonder when I lost the magic of believing. I feel so old. Seen through her eyes the woods are a fairyland, reindeer are possible and traps are always empty. I pick her up and nestle my nose in her hair. She smells of soap and things I’d buried deep, under a layer of ice.
My baby sister believes. Emotion freezes my throat.
“Santa’ll come,” I mumble. I don’t know how, but he’ll come. Cold seeps through my coat. I ignore it as I set Janie back on her feet.
Then I fall into the snow, trusting. It feels awkward this trusting, as my body pummels toward the earth, still I’m determined. The snow engulfs me like a soft winter comforter. My arms and legs struggle to make an angel. The sky no longer looks gray. I see it through the shining light of Janie’s eyes. I stand up and my feelings burst forth in a great laugh. It sounds strange, but good.
“Let’s go home.” I unfasten the trap attached to my belt and let it drop to the ground. “No more trapping this year. My gift to you.”
She grins broadly and then frowns. “But I don’t have anything for you.”
“You alone is enough. Climb up and keep my back warm.”
She giggles as she climbs on my back and then becomes still, her arms strong as my traps and warm as a muffler around my neck.
“Trapped by an angel,” she whispers.
I nod my head and turn toward the barn and home. My legs swing easily, for I come bearing gifts. I carry a snow angel on my back. The only sound I hear is ice as it cracks around my heart. I swipe at moisture in my eyes. The world sparkles and I watch with care for reindeer in the woods.

my space

Here's my Space info for me:
http://www.myspace.com/deborahtales">Find me on MySpace and be my friend!

Poem on Weather

15th of January 70 degrees
18th of January we all freeze
21st century Iphone communication
does not stop Mother Nature's invasion

Pretty corny, huh? I'm sitting here looking out on a gray, day of icey drizzle. Less than a week ago, I couldn't stay inside because the weather was so wonderful. January in NC promises surprise, if nothing else. Makes it a little easier to get through winter. Think I'll go make a cup of hot tea.

January Sunshine and a Husband

Today it is near 70 degrees here. I've spent the day outside working with my husband on a run-in shed for the horses. That really means I held up boards while he used the nail gun and fetched things as needed. I couldn't complain though since they are my horses. He not only doesn't ride he wouldn't even live on a farm if it weren't for me. Marriage is a crap shoot as far as I'm concerned. If you end up with a person you can live with for a long time, you're just lucky or too stubborn to give up. Not sure where we fall in this category, but for today I feel pretty durn lucky.

New Year, New Writing Goals

Time to get going on this again. It's been awhile, but life got in the way. I'm spending way to much time on Writer's Digest forum. It's fun and you can see some of my work there under posts by Deborah B. I plan to write everyday this year, at least some of the time on my novel Painted Black. I need to get it out there. It's like a noose around my creativity now. Keeps me from forging ahead because I haven't completed the rewrite and given the agents a chance to reject it. How about you? What are your goals?
I read some of the younger writers words and feel almost old fashioned in my story telling. What keeps me going is I know there are a lot of boomers out there who read! All for now.

Idol Thoughts

OK, I admit it. I'm an Idol junkie and am now going through withdrawal. Surfing the net for any tidbit of information on Taylor Hicks, my pick since I saw his audition tape. The man can sing and he's funny. At first when I saw him audition I thought he might have some kind of palsy when he went into his "special" dance moves, but I have to admit even that grew on me and I waited week by week to see if the Idol machine would beat it out of him. The man is strong. The moves are still there!
I've even talked about the show so much to my husband that he sends me reports he gets on USA Today. He travels a lot and since Idol is over for the season, I've told him he has to be home on Tuesday and Wednesday nights to entertain me. I'll be curious to see what moves he can come up with.
Since I'm out of the closet now, how about some of you out there "fessing up? Send me your idol thoughts. We can go through withdrawal together.

Poll:

Are you an Idol addict?

more writing

http://http://360.yahoo.com/my_profile.html;_ylt=AlKbkhgF00EHU.mUOS742Wq5AOJ3 another of my blogsites

Going cross-country on the net

I've found myself galloping through the internet today. If I go real fast maybe I will reach the point of knowing what I am doing. It is kind of like the first time I rode a horse on a cross country course. I had not a clue as to how to figure out the jumps, or how to rate my horse so that I did not crash and part company with my four legged mode of transportation. The horse made the decisions. All I did was point the direction. The internet is like a jumping course to me. Each time I click on a new site, I hold my breath, afraid that this might be the one that I can't maneuver. The one where my great adventure ends. So, on I gallop, heady on the adrenalin rush, hoping to some day cross the finish line. The only problem is- there seems to be no end to this internet cross country course. I hope my trusty computer is up to carrying the load.

Misty Hill

Misty Hill