Dragon Snot

This week's Friday Fictioneer's story is dedicated to PaPa Jim and Logan

Dragon Snot

“PaPa!” Logan shouted.  “He’s sick.”

“Who, Logan?”

“Snapple.”

Rather perplexed, PaPa Jim scratched his head.

“Who’s Snapple?”

“My dragon.”

“Oh,” PaPa said trying to hide his smile.  “I didn’t know you had a dragon.  Where does he live?

“In the woods.  We have to bring him gumdrops. He has a cold.”

Now, PaPa Jim loved Logan with all his heart so he decided to play along.  Side-by-side they walked into woods, a bag of gumdrops clutched firmly in Logan’s little hand.  But, alas, no Snapple.

“Maybe he’s sleeping,” PaPa said. “Let’s leave the candy by this tree and he can get it when he wakes up.  Do you think that would be ok?”

Disappointed, Logan sighed. “Ok.”

On the way to the house PaPa  asked, “Logan, how do you know Snapple has a cold?”

Logan walked  over to a rock and pointed at a gooey, icky glob.  “Yuck, what’s that?” PaPa asked.

“Dragon snot.”

Oh, of course.  Dragon snot.  He should’ve known.

Old Dog Learns New Tricks

I am a writer.

My dream of writing and getting a book published finally came true. Soldiers From the Mist (http://www.tinyurl.com/cd77w8b)  was released in March 2011 from the High Hill Press AND my second book, The Rook and The Raven (http://www.tinyurl.com/CSS92ud) was released from The Wild Rose Press February 2012.  Not only that, but I’m working on two more best sellers, The Legend of Dixie Dandelion and The Church of the Howling Moon.

The Rook and The Raven

Soldiers FromThe Mist

I was under the delusion that once I got a book published, I’d have it made in the shade.  Those royalty checks would roll in like the tide.  Movie producers would trample themselves getting to my front door.  I do lunch with Oprah and Ellen. I’d quit my day job.

Wrong!

I found out that writing a book is the easiest part of the writing game.  It’s what comes after “The End” that makes an author stark, raving loony tunes—Promotion! 

Big signing parties thrown by New York publishers are a thing of the past.  If you want to sell books and get everyone buzzing, you have to promote.  And where do you promote?  The Internet of course. 

Social media is fast becoming a four-letter word for me.  Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter, oh my!  Blogs, tweets, and posts, oh my! This old dog has to learn new tricks. 

OH MY!!!!!

It’s not that I’m a stupid dog, quite the contrary, I’m fairly intelligent.  I can rollover and sit up with the best of em’,  And speak? My bark demands respect. Nope, brains aren’t the problem.  So what’s wrong?  Why can’t I figure out how to add an author page to Facebook? Why do words such as link and pin cause cold sweat to run down the back of my neck?  Just what the car fur is wrong??????????????

Do you think it could possibly be my attitude that is causing this aversion to conquering the land of the Internet? 

Ok.  I can learn this social media crap. Just watch me. I’ll tweet with the birds and post with the . . .  the . . . well, whoever you post with.  I can do it.  I honestly can.  But first, I have to trot down to the store.

  I need a new box of milk bones!

Church of the Howling Moon

It seems like years sense I've had a blog entry.  Madison Woods Friday Fictoneers picture is just too good to let pass and it fits so well with my new story, The Church of the Howling Moon:

A Howling Moon

"Your daddy came to me one hot, sultry summer night. Took my hand and led me into the bayou where the wind blew cool off the water, and the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine hung heavy like a line of wet sheets in the air.

And there in that swamp, surrounded by cypress trees draped in yards of lacy Spanish moss and the sounds of crickets, frog, and all creatures of the night, he pointed to the inky sky. The moon hung full and round like an orange fireball ready to bust apart at the seams.

"That be a howling moon," he said.  "A moon so beautiful that one look turns your blood to a river of black fire racing through your veins. A moon so powerful it can drive you insane unless you yield to its pull and run and howl into the wild."

BENCH LUNCH

This week's photo prompt from Madison Woods for Friday Fictioneers had me stumped unitl 1:00 in the morning when an idea popped into my head.  Here's what I came up with:

Two seagulls:  Gertrude and Heathcliff:

Heathcliff:   “I wonder who will be the first to sit on the bench today?”

Gertrude:     “Oh, I do hope it’s the bag lady.  She always shares her bread with us.”

Heathcliff:     “If that mama brings her two brats to play, I’m leaving.  Those kids like to chase me."

Gertrude (chuckling):  Now, dear, boys will be boys.”

Heathcliff:      “A tweak from my beak in their seat would stop such foolishness.”

Gertrude:       “Maybe that elderly couple will sit in the sunshine and hold hands later. (Sigh) So romantic."

Heathcliff (nuzzling her neck):   “Just like us, me amour.”

Gertrude: (preening her feathers)   “Oh, Heath, you know how I get when you speak French.”

Heathcliff:       “French!  Suzie Secretary likes to sit on the bench and eat lunch from McDonalds.  French  fries today, baby.”

Gertrude: (disgusted)   “Is food all you think about?”

Heathcliff:        “I’m a bird, Gert. Get over it."

DON'T BE A SINNER!

Jean Louise Finch aka Scout

My all time favorite movie, To Kill a Mockingbird is on TV tonight.  I’ll watch it for what must be the 100th time and love the experience as if it were my first.

To Kill a Mockingbird was the first picture show I remember going to.  Mama loved Gregory Peck and since, in those days, kids went everywhere with their parents, she dragged me and my brother with her to see the movie.  I was in grade school and didn’t understand everything that was going on, but there in the darkness of that theater with the scent of popcorn heavy in the air, the first character I wanted to portray someday was Scout.  

A few years later, in Junior High, I read the book and it became my all time favorite novel.  The movie was great, but the book was awesome.  Scout came to life.  I laughed with her, cried with her, and walked that long, dark scary pathway home in that stupid ham outfit with her. 

In High School drama class I did a reading from To Kill a Mockingbird for an assignment.  Of course I was Scout.  I walked in her shoes.  I pulled her skin on and transformed into a spunky little southern tomboy who loved her daddy more than anything in the world.  I got an A+ and was called Scout until I graduated.   I loved it.

To Kill a Mockingbird has so many messages.  It’s the love of a little girl for her daddy, the coming of age story with Jem, the cruelty of poverty, the tragedy of ignorance and racism, the courage to stand for what is right, and above all, compassion and understanding for your fellow man. 



Boo



My all time favorite line in the movie was when Scout said “Hey Boo.”  Those two little words delivered from the lips of an innocent yet wise-beyond -her-years little girl make tears spring to my eyes every time I hear them.

Atticus Finch had it right.  “It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”

A bigger sin would be not to watch the movie on its 50^th anniversary. 

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.   Read it!

DECEPTION AT SUNRISE

Madison's prompt for this week's flash fiction gave me the chills.  Everyone has a dark side. Today I let mine come out to play.

I’m under here.  Can you hear my cries?

Dead.  Murdered.

“Meet me at daybreak,” he said.

Tall.  Dark. Handsome.  I ran away to be with him. To live happier ever after.

But no.

In the dim light of early dawn he held me, not wrapped in his loving arms but under the water instead.

Doomed for eternity to watch the sun rays weave through the trees and spread across the forest floor like warm butter.

I hate butter.

I hate sunrise.  

MOONSHINER'S RUN

This is Madison's picture for this week's Friday Fictioneers. Every thing has heart.  Just ask Ol' Blue.



Ol' Blue

       

           "Step on it, Bobby Lee!  Them Revenuers ain't fur behind. 'Jest one last run,' that's what ya said.

“Hesh up,” Bobby Lee said and patted the dash.   “Ain’t nothing sitting on four tires can catch Ol’ Blue.”

“Why ya always talking like this piece of junk has a heart?”   

“I warning ya, cousin. Don’t talk agin’ Blue like that.  She’s sensitive.”

“It ain’t alive!  It’s just a bucket of bolts.”

The engine died.  Never to run again.  

Deep in the woods Ol’ Blue sits with a broken heart, never to finish the last moonshiner’s run.

KISS

This week's flash fiction promt by Madison Woods streached my imgination.  What kind of story can I write? No words came. Only silence.  And then, in the quiet, came the thought,  "Keep it simple, stupid!"
I love KISS, so here is my story for this week and Madison's magical picture prompt:

          Very few things in life are black and white.  Simple. Mankind loves to complicate the easy, to improve on the basic.   But Mother Nature, in all her wisdom, reminds us that there is great beauty to behold in simple black and white:



The Skunk



Dalmatians.

 

The Moon

The Crow



The Dove

The balance of the positive and the negative working together in harmony, the wisdom in keeping things simple, results in beautiful magic.

SHE LOVED ME

It's been awhile since I've written a story for Madison Wood's Friday Fictioneers.  Sorry about that.  I love this picture and here is my story:

           “Howdy.  My name’s Shep.  That’s my mistress over there playing on the swing.   

She loves me.

When I was a pup, she dressed me up like a doll and put ribbons in my hair.  The cat wondered why I allowed her to degrade me so.  I had three words for that fur ball.

She loves me.

She sneaks table scraps to me at supper time.  And lets me sleep on her bed at night.  Her mom always asks, Why?  She just shrugs.  But I know.

She loves me.

I vow to always watch over her.  To be there waiting when she steps off the school bus.  I’ll let her bury her head in my fur and cry when Tommy McGuire breaks her heart, to lick the tears from her face and wag my tail in understanding.

And, one day, I will die saving her.

Why?

Because she loved me."

The Legend of Dixie Dandelion

My fire-fighting friend, Gypsy Jan posted this picture on her blog,  (Jan Morrill's Thoughts Over Coffee. blogspot.com.)  It was inspired from a real-life experience that hit close to home for Dixie.
Over 150 years ago, Dixie Dandelion fought a similar battle.  Here is her story:

Fire!

The horses! Had to save the horses!

Without thought or hesitation, I ran toward the fledging flames, peeling off my buckskin jacket as I ran. The tanned leather wouldn’t catch fire, would be heavy enough to smother the embers.  But the wind whipped the sparks into frenzy.  Flames danced an evil, mocking tune.  They licked my boots, pulled my pants leg, sneered and laughed at my desperation.   

I flogged the beast with the coat. Frantic.  The barn twisted and yelled for help in the grips of a violent death struggle.   Oh, God!  The horses! Slaughtered!  Who would do such a thing?

Lips cracked from the heat, stealing my spit.  Eyes blurred and burned from the smoke. All around me the smell of burning grass and wood.  Unwillingly I drank the scent in, throat raspy and rough, coughed up black soot.  

A shadow loomed beside me stomping at the flames.  Who?  Didn’t matter. Thank God I wasn’t alone.

Inky’s booming voice outshouted the roar of  blood in my ears.  “They’s free, Miss Dixie.  They’s free.”

I heard the mares gallop past, the frightened whinnies of their colt’s right behind them.  Safe. All safe.

The shadow grabbed my arm, pulled me away.  No! I fought against his firm grasp.  Had to save the barn! 

“It’s too late, lassie.”

I struggled against Big Mike’s meaty arms when he pinned me against his big barrel chest. Tears sizzled on my cheeks.  I cried at my helplessness to stop the snapping beast from devouring wood, nails, hay, and leather. One last death rattle and the barn’s scorched shoulders folded and collapsed to the dirt.  

Dead.

Anger deep inside my belly hollered and fed unknown strength into exhausted muscle and bone.  I ripped loose from Big Mike and stormed the cabin.  My hands shook as I buckled the 45 around my waist and grabbed the rifle from above the fire place.  Those son-of-a-bitches! I’d kill every one of them.

Big Mike caught my arm as I tore past. 

“Ya can’t shoot them all, lassie.  Let it go.”

I whirled and stared at his ruddy face.

“Let it go!  Are you loco?  They burned down my goddamn barn!”

“Let Jackson handle it lass. Don’t take the law into your own hands.”

“Jackson?”  I sputtered.  “Jackson?”

I kicked at him and screamed.  “Jackson ain’t here, remember? He rode away.  Just like he always does.   Just like that day on the wagon train. Rode away and left me to fight off Whitaker. Alone.  Always alone.”

“Dixie!”

And there he was.  Bigger than life. Stepping down from his gallant black stallion like a knight returning from some far-off crusade.  Long legs ate up the ground between us and he grabbed my forearms.  My heart quickened as the look of worry and concern inched across his chiseled face.

“Damn it, woman!"  He growled.  “Just say the words!”  

 He dropped his arms.  The heat from his stare withered my courage and my heart.

            “I keep waiting, Dixie.  But ya never say them.  Ya never once just say, ‘Stay.’”

Jesus is coming! Christmas Day 2011

 Bayou Jesus:

One of the many things I like about belonging to the Northwest Arkansas Writers’ Workshop is that the group is comprised of a variety of writers working on different genres—from westerns to romance and everything in-between.  I thought I’d heard of very type of novel out there until M.G. Miller returned to the fold.

M. G. (Mike) Miller is a Southern Gothic novelist and former fiction editor for a national horror magazine. What is Southern Gothic?  In Miller’s case, it horror that chills your bones and curls your toenails—and his brand of Southern Gothic is not for the faint of heart.  

           Even though I talk a good game, basically I’m a big chicken so my taste doesn’t run toward the macabre but Miller’s God-given talent of weaving tales of shock and revulsion into works of pure genus made me a fan.  Currently he is fine-tuning his new book, Murderous. I can’t wait to get to class to hear what despicable act his character, Caroline has done to her mother this week.

Because I’m addicted to Miller’s unique voice, I read one of his earlier novels, Bayou Jesus.  OMG!  I couldn’t put the book down and read it in one sitting. Bayou Jesus not only is a brilliant piece of writing but is also a book that conjures questions.  Questions about faith, belief and man’s inhumanity to man. The novel dares ask the question, “If Jesus returned today in a different form or way other than the traditional Christian belief, would we accept or deny him?”

Personally, I think he’d be crucified all over again.  The pharmaceutical and health insurance companies would have a stroke if Jesus walked in our midst healing the sick and raising the dead. The economy would collapse. And do you think the power of the almighty dollar would bow down to unconditional love and compassion? I wonder.

What if Jesus returned as a woman?   Maybe that’s already happened.  A viable argument could be made for Mother Theresa. She healed the sick and walked among lepers seeking no fortune or fame.  Hmm . . . sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

If Jesus came back as a stringy-haired teenager with a nose ring and tattoos, would Christians think him the King of Kings?

What if Jesus returned as a poor black man born in the Deep South during The Great Depression.  Would mankind accept him as their Savior?

Read the reissue of Bayou Jesus by M. G. Miller and find out.  Available Christmas Day from Southern Exposures Press exclusively on Amazon Kindle.

Connect with M.G. Miller on line

Website:  http://www.mgmillerbooks.com

Blog:  http://www.mgmillerbooks.wordpress.com

Twitter:  http://twitter.com/#!/m_g_miller

            Facebook Author Page:  M.G. Miller



And on the Seventh Day . . .

It's a good thing that my friend and sister writer, Madison Woods started Friday Fictioneers. If it wasn't for her prompt pictures I wouldn't be writing anything. I try and think outside the box with the pictures she gives us each week and put a different twist on old titles and ideas.
Here is her picture for this week and my story:

And on the Seventh Day . . .



Theologinas believe on the seventh day God rested, however . . .

Old Man Winter argued that planet Earth would be greater protected if everything was frozen forever in time. No disease, no hunger, no strife--only iced beauty beyond compare.

God reasoned this new world was home to his greatest creation--Man. Without warmth and renewal Man would fall dorment and the evolution of the species would be doomed.

The Old Man refused to listen and turned a cold shoulder.

Not wanting to hurt the elderly man's feelings, God gave in and created four seasons: spring, summer, fall, and winter.

And so, on the seventh day the "Art of Compromise" was born.

BOOK SIGNING ****************

Come join me and my sister author, Pam Foster for a book signing for my book, Soldiers From the Mist and her book, Redneck Goddess:

WHEN:  Saturday, November 5th

WHERE: Ozark Natural Foods:  Fayetteville, AR

TIME: 1:00

Pam and I will be doing  readings from our books.  Come join in the fun.



Soldiers From the Mist



Redneck Goddess



The Legend of Danny O'Shea



Dyamite





Here is my flash fiction for this Friday.

The Legend of Danny O'Shea

Danny O’Shea loved his emerald-eyed Kathleen and promised her a land of milk and honey in the land of the Americas.

“The mountain seams are full of gold, Katie, my love,” he’d laugh low and musical. “One blast can change a poor potato farmer into a king.”

“Tis a grand dream.”  Kathleen smiled. “And what is life without them? Go to America and claim ye fortune.”

“I’ll send for you my love.”

Danny O’Shea was never heard from again.

Some say his ghost haunts the hills still searching for the mother lode and golden dreams, that the sound of dynamite and laughter is carried on the wind.  

 But tis’ only legend.

Or is it?

REDNECK EX by CLAIRE CROXTON

Do you like romance?
Do you like snark?
Are you looking for the next Jodi Thomas? Nora Roberts?
Then Redneck Ex is perfect for you.
Claire Croxton's new novel has it all: laughter, tears, snark, hot men, and wild sex.
Croxton's writing voice is a breath of fresh air that will leave you wanting more!

With one twang of a banjo string, Summer Leigh Johnson's tidy, organized life in Barrow, Alaska is jolted back to the Ozarks when her coon-hunting, tobacco-chewing, bull-riding, redneck ex-husband asks for her help. She has two options: turn her back on him like he did to her eleven years ago, or help. Burdened with the curse of every southern woman--What Would Mama Do?--she goes to his aid. And what does she find? The man she fell in love with all those years ago and a second chance at love and family. The last time she gave her heart to Dwight, he flicked it aside like an empty can of Skoal. This time he's cradling it as gently as he would a speckled pup. It will take a lot more than Dwight's southern charm and good looks to convince Summer to stay.

Coming January 20,2012 from The Wild Rose Press: Redneck Ex by Claire Croxton
for book trailer go to:www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImFfBlroGbE