The Gift

The Rook comes with night.

Mysterious and dark he stands.  Gold-tipped onyx wings catch the moon’s rays and dance across the water in ripples of mirrored silver. His scent of earth, wind, and fire swirls in the mist and draws me into outstretched arms.  Lips press against lips and souls unite to soar between the shadows of time and space.

One moment there.

The next, gone.

Morning brings faded memories of his essence.  Reality or only a dream?

But wait.   

There.  In the marbled stones.  A feather.  His gift.  A promise. 

With a wish, he will return.  

Coming soon from The Wild Rose Press:  The Rook and The Raven

What the cat fur happened?

Instead of paying attention to the road on my way to work, I waxed philosophical today. 

It was the deer’s fault.

When I dumped the trash this morning, I surprised a young doe.  In wide-eyed wonder she studied me as I eased from the car and gently tossed the garbage bag into the steel container.  Mesmerized by my voice that constantly assured her how pretty she was, the yearling stood silent as a statue.  Only an occasional flicking of her ears betrayed her presence.  Then, with a flick of her white tail, she whirled and floated through the woods on long, thin legs no bigger around than good-sized sticks.

While I stood there surrounded by trees and wild flowers, savoring the fresh woodsy scent and smiling at the crows calling out their greetings to the day, a question popped into my head:  Why are the ones that do no harm always the victims of the ones that do?

The deer symbolizes gentleness and beauty.  Bambi harms nothing except a few gardens here and there.  Yet somewhere in the woods you can bet a yahoo with a deer rifle is waiting to blow him away for sport.  This ignoramus is the same one that crosses the white line into the other lane to smash a turtle crossing the road.

Children.  Pure innocence.  How many suffer abuse and neglect at the hands of older and supposedly wiser adults?  The same with the elderly? 

If God created all and it behold it was very good, what the cat fur happened? 

Of course there are those that would say, “The Devil made it so.”  But if you go by the reasoning that God created all, then He made the devil and behold ol’ Scatch was very good.  Right?  If there was only good in the universe where did bad come from?

As I weaved in and out of traffic I wondered why God would put a Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden only to forbid Adam and Eve to eat the fruit.  Isn’t that temptation?  Why would God have the need to tempt anyone?  Why did Cain kill Abel? Or was it the other way around?  I never could get that straight.  Did Abel have more toys than Cain?  Did he slew him for greed and power?  For money?

And what the cat fur is the deal with money?  Who invented it?  Did cavemen get tired of carrying around rocks so one day they up and decided to change to paper?  Who determined the value of this paper?  Who made up the rule, the more paper you have, the richer you are?  Why can’t we just trade?  You have something I need, and I have something you need.  Just trade.  No buying.  No selling.  We all know the old saying, “money is the root of all evil.”  But a friend of mine once said, “It isn’t money that is evil, it’s what you decide to do with it that is.” 

Okay, now we’re back to the good and bad thing.  Some would argue man has free will and that’s what messed everything up.  Here again, if God made everything it stands to reason he created free will.  Why give man a tool to use against good?

It just don’t make sense!

Needless to say, when I got into work, I was in a snit. It took until the afternoon to snap out of my funk.  I don’t have the answers to any of these questions, which I suppose is one reason why they bother me so.  But I’ll keep on wondering and asking.  Keep on trying to make sense of this crazy world we live in.  But until then, I agree with The Carpenters:

“Bless the beasts and the children, for in this world they make no war”

NEITHER RAIN, SLEET OR SNOW

  

I am quickly learning that the term, “struggling writer” means more about what happens when an author has published a book than before.  Promoting is a challenge.  Published authors are like mailmen/women—we hawk our books in the rain, sleet, snow, dead of night and heat of day.

This weekend my friend, Big Foot Pam, and I went to The Not So Square Arts Festival in Mt Vernon, Mo.  to promote and sell my book, Soldiers From the Mist, and Pam’s book, The Redneck Goddess.  This little adventure taught me two things:  

One:  Pay attention to your instincts.   (Both my gut and Pam’s told us the weather wouldn’t cooperate and we should stay home)

Two:  Pay attention to number ONE.

Saturday morning I got up at the ungodly hour of 5:00 to get ready to meet Big Foot Pam at 6:30.  Getting up that early on the weekend  is against my religion, but I was going to sell all my books so missing a few hours of sleep would be worth it.  Right?

Mt Vernon is a cute little town. Their big stone courthouse stands in the middle of the square and a stature of Lady Justice watched vendors and artists set up for the day.  Pam and I were sharing a table that thankfully she brought as there were none supplied.  The space we are assigned was about the size of a shoe box. Authors love to talk and are a friendly bunch which is a good thing because we were practically sitting in each other laps.  We were under an awning however which was a good thing because it when the rain hit we were more protected than others.  Thunder rumbled, clouds swirled, a cool breeze whipped around the square.  I laughed and told Pam that we were probably under a tornado warning. 

But hope sprang eternal.

All of us huddled together and assured ourselves that the storm would blow over, the sun would shine and people would come.  

At noon, the sun was still MIA.  Pam and I were wet and cold.  No people.  No sales.

We came home.

                                              BUT . . .

I had fun. 

Big Foot Pam is witty and funny.  Or fellow authors were friendly and entertaining.    

I am a writer.  A published author. 

One day promoting my book is better than a hundred days sitting at home watching TV.  

Even if it means standing in the rain.

THE CREEPING

Like fine lines around the mouth and eyes, the Creeping appears gradually—one day, nothing, the next mysteriously there.

The wind signals its arrival and whispers its coming through branches and leaves.  The hazy film of heat and humidity yields to its presence and fades into memory.

The mornings dawn bright, crisp.

Dusk falls cool and crystal clear.

The Creeping carries the scent of fresh wood and evergreen. Lingers on the tongue.

T-shirts give way to sweat-shirts.  Shorts to jeans.  Tennis shoes for sandals.

The Creeping invites its friends: football, apple cider, Halloween, and Jack Frost to travel by its side.

Days are shorter. Daylight savings times begins.

Mother Nature paints her leaves bright orange, brilliant red, and striking yellow in celebration.

The Creeping has arrived.

                    Fall is here.