I usually run a Keith Channing prompt on Tuesday. Keith is off in the UK living in a motor home while getting ready to close on a new house. Needless to say, he has no time for prompts. So here is a finger point prompt. The idea is to open a book to a random page and point at the text. The word closest to your finger is the prompt. I chose the book, Circumstances of Childhood by that world-famous (cough) author John W. Howell. I opened it to a page and pointed. Before I knew what the word was, I took a photo of the process. The word is “preset.” Not the best, but I’ll give it a go.
“About time, you woke up. I’ve been up for hours.”
“Why didn’t you just wake me?”
“I looked at your timer device, and it was preset for now.”
“Then why so upset?”
“I just want to make sure we are on course.”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“It’s a hundred-year journey. Anything can happen.”
“I think you need to relax. Did you make coffee?”
“Yes. Here’s your vacuum cup.”
“Thank you. Now let me look at the position calculator. Hmmm. Seems to be okay.”
“So how long until we reach our destination?”
“The calculator puts us in the outer band of the planet’s solar system. Looks like we should be there by dinner time. By the way anything to eat? I have a hundred-year appetite.”
“Yes. I prepared a wholesome, wake-up meal. Here is your vacuum tube.”
“Umm, this is good. Tastes like chicken and waffle.”
“I know I thought the same thing. I think we are going to enjoy our visit. There is more where that came from. This planet is full of these animals. It is like a renewable resource.”
“Okay, let me focus on the preset landing sequence.”
“I can help?”
“Yes, you can. Look at the control panel and just let me know the setting as I read the sequence.”
“Okay. I’m ready.”
“Preset destination?”
“On.”
“Preset speed?”
“Locked.”
Planet identification?”
“Third, from their sun.”
“Landing presets.”
“On.”
Okay, there is nothing we have to do for the next couple of hours but dream of getting out teeth into some of those tasty Earthlings.”
Welcome to Stream of Consciousness Saturday. This weeks prompt is a little different. Here are Linda’s word describing the assignment “Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “instructions.” Write instructions for anything you know how to do. As detailed or as rambling as you’d like. Enjoy!”
There you have it. If you would like to have fun with words, go to Linda’s blog and read how. It is real easy. Hee is the link:
“Okay, now I got it. This wrench is a little difficult to work.”
“They all are. Just keep going.”
“There, finished. What’s next?”
“Repeat with part B and bolt B1.”
“Now I’m getting the hang of it. part C bolt C1.”
“Excellent. You’re on a roll.”
“Then you take part D and attach with bolt D1. First, you put your two knees close up tight you swing ’em to the left, and you swing ’em to the right. Step around the floor kinda nice and light. Twist around, twist around with all your might.”
“Okay, what’s that?”
“Instructions on Ballen’ the Jack. Spread your lovin’ arms way out in space. Do the eagle rock with a style and grace. Put your left foot out and bring it back. That’s what I call Ballin’ the Jack.”
“You finished with the chest?”
“Yup. Let’s stand ‘er up.”
“Goodness.”
“Hmmm. Looks like it is upside down.”
“You put the legs on wrong.”
“I don’t know, I think I like it this way.”
“Only you would.”
“I don’t think I can go through the process again.”
“How you going to fill the drawers?”
“Good point.”
“Tomorrow is another day. Can you help me with my IKEA bed?”
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Beem Weeks with his story. Dying for a Kiss.
Beem Weeks
Dying for a Kiss
It’s like one of those stories you’d read about in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a kiss?Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my spring break.
Okay, let me back up to the beginning.
My parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine. This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that engulfs our family—our collective lives.
Dad is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.
Dad’s the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom refuses to play the bad parent anymore.
“Sorry, kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this time.”
Amanda, being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.
“I figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.
Dad tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t go somewhere that’s almost as fun and exciting.”
When Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.
Amanda hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”
I don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things to do.
* * *
A little backstory.
My parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.
Dad, well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”
Hippies, they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.
Mom works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity to advance into a higher tax bracket.
Dad? He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly, maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.
Dad’s a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.
So, anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table. Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.
“It’s Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my hands.
Hiawatha National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.
“The Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.
Amanda despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate camping.”
* * *
Radio songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.
“I hate that song,” Amanda complains.
Dad says, “Well, I like it.”
Mom tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”
“Please don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug red!”
“Ouch!” And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.
“Slug bug green!” Thwack!
“Slug bug blue!” Thwack!
“Slug bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!
“Hey! No fair!”
Blondie sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.
Many hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.
But in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore. She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be able to afford it.
Evening spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.
“Andrew and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”
Kids—loud and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either direction.
“Too stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.
Mom gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”
* * *
“Andy and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are you two twins or something?”
“Or something,” Amanda says.
Her name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda, who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s their collie running wild.
“Five kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers and a baby sister.”
“Sounds kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.
She looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of her.
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”
* * *
Blue jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning. And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.
Mom’s not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s top.
“But you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”
Mom’s hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you kids going boating?”
It’s not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic. I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.
Nora sits in the middle—facing me!
I think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.
Nora talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well, the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend, but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce, but her mom ended up pregnant.
“Amazing how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.
It’s after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”
Only, she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.
We end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.
“You’re cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.
My cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.
And she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips press against mine.
My first kiss—well, first real kiss.
On her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.
What I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.
Amanda intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.
* * *
It strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.
Mom’s hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy to a hospital.”
Only, I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”
“But I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.
* * *
Two weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.
From a kiss!
Is that a Ripley’s story or what?
And what a kiss—totally worth dying for!
Well,almost dying.
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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Jan Sikes with her story. She Dances with a Memory.
SHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY
JAN SIKES
Gertrude McNabb placed a gnarled hand on her arthritic back as she bent over to take a chocolate cake from the oven. She inhaled the sweet aroma and put it on a rack to cool.
A black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired man with twinkling eyes sat nearby on the cabinet. “This is for you, Hiram. I didn’t forget it was your birthday. It’s your favorite. I’ll always remember how your face would light up when I baked this special recipe for you.”
Gertrude picked up the framed snapshot, held it against her heart, and shuffled into the living room.
“We might as well make use of the time while I wait for your cake to cool. Then I’ll frost it with your favorite French vanilla icing. The kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids are all going to be here in a couple of hours, and it will be nothing but pure chaos,” she said.
The mahogany stereo cabinet from the 1960s occupied the same spot in the living room that it had since the day Hiram McNabb brought it home as a Christmas surprise. They’d spent many happy days and nights listening to record albums. Hiram never tried to hide the fact that he adored Rosemary Clooney. But, not Gertrude. For her, it was ol’ Blue Eyes himself that got her blood going.
Oh, the wonderful and countless hours they’d waltzed away across the living room floor to the beautiful music that wafted out of those state-of-the-art stereo speakers.
She adjusted her glasses and thumbed through a stack of record albums. It seemed to take forever nowadays to do even the simplest task. She pulled out a favorite and held it up in front of the photo she’d perched on the coffee table. “Since it’s your birthday, my dear, and such a special occasion, how about Nat King Cole?”
Her fingers, once nimble and efficient, struggled to remove the round disc from its package.
“Remember how this one caught my eye in the record store, but we didn’t buy it?” She chuckled. “And then you brought it home the very next day.” She blew out a sigh.
Once she had the disk secured on the turntable, she took the pins from her silver hair, and it tumbled down her back.
She clicked on the stereo and waited until the tiny red light turned green, then gently placed the needle onto the black groove.
Then with a great flourish, she picked up the photo and held her arms out for her imaginary dance partner.
Even though she hardly moved from the spot where she stood, with her eyes closed, she was transported back in time, back to days of youth when it had been impossible to imagine ever growing old.
“It was fascination, I know, seeing you alone with the moonlight above,” Nat King Cole sang.
A smile graced her lips.
She whispered, “Hiram Edward McNabb, you swept me off my feet the first time I saw you. You were so handsome in your Army uniform. I’ll never forget that night at the county fair. My older brother and sister took me, and since they wanted to stick around for the dance, I got to stay with them.”
She paused and steadied herself.
“You asked me to dance and didn’t let me sit down one time the whole night.” She giggled. “From then on, I knew we were meant to be together. I’d always hated my name, and you agreed that Gertrude sounded like an old lady, so you called me by my middle name. I was your Rose.”
Memories swirled around in her mind. Sweet remembrances of laughter, of falling in love and of daring to live the fullest life imaginable flew by the way scenes from a movie might do.
No, they hadn’t been wealthy, but Hiram made a decent living for them, and they always had what they needed. However, it was his steadfast love for her, for life, and the music they embraced that kept her excited and happy for over sixty years.
As impossible as it seemed, he’d now been gone over two years. Never a day passed that she didn’t carry on a conversation with him. It started with a good morning greeting and ended with a good night declaration of love.
Sometimes, she could swear that he answered her.
The needle reached the end of the record. She set the photo back down and focused her attention on choosing another album.
“Rosie.”
She turned around. “Hiram?”
No one was there. Then she heard it again. Was she going daft?
“Well, I’ve certainly let my imagination get the best of me. I guess that’s what happens to old ladies when they’re alone too long.”
As she reached for her favorite Frank Sinatra album, a hand brushed against hers.
Now she was sure she was losing what little bit of sensibility she had left.
When she was a child, her relatives shared stories about spirit visits from beyond the veil. To her, it was nothing more than hogwash and products of overactive imaginations. After all, what did old folks know?
As hard as it was to admit, she might have been wrong about that, and a little hasty to judge. Perhaps Hiram had shown up to celebrate his birthday.
Whatever it was, she would enjoy it and soak up every moment, even if it wasn’t real. She could make it true in her mind.
With Frank Sinatra crooning a love song, she reached again for the photo but instead, chose to leave it sitting and simply held out her wrinkled and trembling arms.
Her feet moved, and she twirled just like she’d done thousands of times before. She threw back her head and laughed. She was twenty again, as Hiram swept her across the big wooden dance floor inside the SPJST Hall.
Song after song played, and still, they danced, they laughed, and they kissed.
Then the record reached an end and she was met with deafening silence. She opened her eyes, surprised to find that she stood in the same spot where she’d been. She truly had been waltzing and twirling with Hiram.
“I’m tired now, my love.” She moved toward her easy chair. “I just need to rest awhile.”
Perhaps one day before long, she’d be waltzing again with her sweetheart for the remainder of eternity. But for now, she had the memories, and she’d continue to dance with them until that day came.
She reached for the photo and pressed it to her heart.
Her eyes drifted shut, and she smiled.
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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Wendy Scott with an excerpt from her first fantasy novel titled Prophecy and Pirates.
Wendy Scott
The Awakening by Wendy Scott
(An excerpt from ‘Prophecy and Pirates’ my unpublished first fantasy novel).
Evarna gazed at the tinker’s sleeping form and resisted the urge to trail her fingertips through Rick’s locks. For both their sakes she had to leave now before he awoke. They lived in contrasting worlds; he roamed the forest with a free spirit, but as an aristocrat’s bastard, she battled the protocols and restrictions of the Baron’s Court. As satisfying as this romantic interlude had been, she must be on her way.
The chill of the morning air vanquished the warmth she’d experienced in his arms as she eased out of the feather quilt. She untangled her discarded clothes from his and slipped into them. Last night they’d been shed as the lovers had fumbled toward the bed in a lip-locked embrace.
The wagon’s interior was a treasure trove, and she wished she had more time to explore. The shelves jammed with instruments, jostled scrolls, and jars filled with curious items drew her gaze. On the window ledge two doll-sized chairs nestled a miniature table. Evarna’shand hovered close to a silver harp, itching to touch the strings, but she lowered her hand before her fingers betrayed her. What nonsense. A tone-deaf goose possessed more musical ability than she did. Rick wouldn’t appreciate being woken by the sound of mutilated chords.
His abode hinted at depths of character she wanted to delve deeper into. For a moment she lingered at the door and glanced back at his tousled hair. The urge to dive back under the covers and cuddle up against his muscular length was almost more than she could control. Instead, she averted her gaze and whispered, “Farewell, Tinkerman.”
Sighing, she stepped outside. Tail thumping erupted from between the wheels, pinpointing where Stitch had spent the night. Usually, her dog made a fuss about always bedding down next to her. She felt a blush bloom on her cheeks. Last evening she hadn’t given her furry friend a moment’s thought after the tinker’s first kiss.
A moist tongue licked her hand, and the dog leaned against her legs as she stroked his fur. She kept her voice low. “Hey, boy. Time to go home.”
Stitch stalked over to the fire pit and stared into the suspended pot. Evarna chuckled and fed him the remains of yesterday’s stew.
“Not feeding you. Now, that’s something you would not easily forgive.”
***
The sound of horse hooves drifted off into the distance. Rick’s eyelids snapped upwards, and he bounded out of bed. He hummed as he gathered up his clothing and tossed them on the mussed up bed, ignoring the tapping sounds emanating from the small window above the door.
Naked, he jerked the door open, streaked across the camp, and plunged into the lake. The surface churned into a maelstrom of white water as he re-emerged onto the shore. Huffing, he sprinted back into the wagon, his breaths trailing him like mist.
Two small, winged creatures swooped and followed him through the ajar door. Their tiny wings shimmered like rainbows as they swirled around his head before landing on his pillow. Twin pixie expression peered up at him, their violet eyes gleaming with mischief. Golden hair framed identical faces and the easiest way to tell them apart was by the colour of their gowns. Yasmin favoured pastel pink, while her sister, Jasmin, wore lavender to compliment her eyes.
“Hrumph! You shut us out.” Yasmin pinched her nose. “We had to snuggle up to a smelly dog to keep warm. Now you’ve got yourself a lady friend, you think you can ignore us as if we’re not good enough company anymore.”
“I don’t understand what you see in her.” Jasmin crossed her arms and glared up at him. “She doesn’t even have wings!”
Elbowing her sibling out of the way, Yasmin flicked her hair so wildly it swept over and covered her face. From beneath the cloud of hair came a muffled voice, “I thought you’d prefer blondes.”
Rick grinned down at the pair of outraged pixies, drawn up to their full height of six inches. “And pray be, how was a poor fellow supposed to choose between two such lovely ladies as yourselves?”
The sisters clasped hands. “He’s got a point there; we could never let a mere gyp come between us.”
“The tinker is lucky that we give him the time of day. Fancy him thinking he’d be acceptable to either of us.”
Rick shook his head, showering the pixies with droplets of the water. They both squealed and scurried backward.
“Stop mucking around and put some clothes on for goddess-sake.” Jasmin wrung the water from her gown.
After a token pass with a towel Rick grabbed his pants and began dressing. “Evarna is the one I’ve been searching for. The prophecy foretold her arrival.”
“How can you be sure she’s the one?” Jasmin waggled her finger.
He placed a hand on his chest. “Her magic awakened my heart. So we must gather all the fairy folk we can and march for Carnavalla.”
Yasmin plucked a dog hair from her dress and brandished it like a sword. “And how do you expect we’ll find the lost city of the Gypnees? Legend says it disappeared hundreds of years ago.”
“Carnavalla was hidden from mortals on purpose, it’s only sleeping and I’ve several Gyp tricks I haven’t shared with you.”
Rick frowned. “Unfortunately, Evarna’s in for a few magical surprises. I’m going to have some explaining to do when we next meet. I hope my future wife is the forgiving type.”
Yasmin arched her brow. “But does she love you?”
“Of course she does, she just doesn’t know it yet.”
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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Gwen M. Plano with her story The Rosery.
THE ROSARY by Gwen M. Plano
Young or old, we are all children at heart. This truth became apparent to me last December when I had neurosurgery.
Prior to the operation, a clerk handed me a stack of documents to sign—billing forms for the hospital and the doctors and several medical release forms that included a list of potential risks. My apprehension grew as I fingered through the papers and provided my signature. It was then that I wished that my mom could be with me. Like any child, I thought she could make it all better. But sadly, she had passed away nine months prior.
My mom was a person of prayer, and when I was young, she’d gather her seven children, tell us to get on our knees, and then proceed to pray. We’d follow her lead—usually protesting—and pray for family members, friends, and the unknown masses. Often, she led us in saying the rosary. Prayer was my mom’s response to any challenge or difficulty, and we had plenty of both on our farm.
Mom’s most common expression was, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” While some of us might curse or yell in frustration, Mom would say this phrase instead. So, when one of my brothers sent a golf ball through the picture window, Mom called out “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” before scolding him. When we siblings squabbled with one another, Mom would mutter, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” before sending us to our bedrooms. Without exception, we grew up knowing that when Mom said “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” we were in trouble.
I can’t remember a time when Mom wasn’t praying. Whether washing the dishes, hanging the wash on the clothesline, working in the garden, or driving us to a sporting event or a 4-H meeting, Mom quietly prayed. I asked her about this once, and her response left an indelible impression.
“Life is short,” she began, “and we must use every moment to the fullest. People need our prayers, and some don’t have a family to pray for them like we do.”
I didn’t understand her comment about using every moment to the fullest until I grew older. But her explanation helped me grasp why she rarely watched television and why she rushed from one room to another throughout the day.
When Mom passed at ninety-two years of age, she left a legacy of beliefs and practices that had found a place in the heart of each of her children. We may have complained about kneeling on the hard floor, but even as little tykes, prayer became part of our lives because of our mother.
At her passing, we were bereft. Mom was our strength, our compass. She was the one we called about concerns, both large and small; she was the one we talked with about our hopes and dreams. Her passing left a huge emptiness that still echoes in our memories. When we sorted through her belongings, not so surprisingly, we discovered she had a dozen or so rosaries. I received two of them.
When I checked into Cedars Sinai hospital in Los Angeles, I took my mom’s wooden rosary with me. I felt her near when I held it, and this sensation gave me comfort. I held the beads tightly and imagined Mom with me.
After the surgery, I was rolled into a room on the Pain Floor where all neurosurgery patients were housed. Next to me was an adjustable overbed table, and when I awakened, I realized that my mom’s rosary rested on it.
My nurse, Lucy, regularly came in to check on me, and each time she walked through the door, she sang a refrain which included the words, our lady of the rosary. I was surprised by this, because Cedars Sinai is a Jewish hospital. After Lucy left, an aide visited, and she explained that her sister was a nun, and my rosary reminded her of this sister. Later, the night nurse came in and told me about immigrating to the US and how she loved the rosary.
During my hospital stay, one staff person after another visited me and shared family stories and photos—all evoked by the rosary that rested on the overbed table. As I was preparing to leave, Lucy came in to say her goodbyes. She pulled a photo from her pocket.
“This is my mom,” she proudly stated. “I thought you’d like to see her.”
The image was of a petite woman, hunched over by time, smiling broadly at the camera. She stood next to her much-larger daughter, Lucy. I was stunned; she looked like my mom.
As the hospital staff came to say goodbye and wish me well, I suddenly realized that Mom had been with me the whole while. I had been loved and cared for by many at the hospital, but it was Mom who drew them near with her rosary.
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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Rhani D’ Shae with an excerpt from her book Winter of the Drill.
EXCERPT FROM UP COMING NOVEL, “WINTER OF THE DRILL”
By Rhani D’Chae
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Decker leaned against the hood of his car, talking to JT in a low tone of voice. His face wore a pleasant expression, and a casual observer would have had no clue as to the seriousness of their conversation.
“Second floor, third from the left?”
JT nodded without turning, keeping his eyes focused on Decker’s face. “That’s what Hunt said, and it does make sense.”
“Are you sure?”
The boy closed his eyes, remembering Hunter’s words immediately after the shooting.
“I think it came from that window over there!” Hunter’s eyes zeroed in on a building across the street. “Second floor, three in, left.”
JT nodded his head, confident that he had given the correct information. “Third from the left. I’m sure.”
Decker dipped his head almost imperceptibly, flicking his eyes quickly over the row of windows on the second floor of the nondescript building. Nothing seemed to be out of place, but he had not expected to find anything. However, the address of the building, as well as the location of the window and anything of interest nearby, went into the small notebook that he always carried with him.
“Well?” JT’s voice held a touch of impatience. “Do you see anything?”
“Yes.” Decker laid one hand on JT’s shoulder. “I see a boy who needs to learn that some things take more than a minute.”
The addition of a friendly smile took most of the sting from his words, and JT responded with a smile of his own.
“Okay.” Decker rose from his perch and stepped on to the sidewalk. “I’m hungry, and you never got to the Olive Garden. Let’s find some food.”
* * *
From his vantage point at the front window of the Greyhound station across the street, the man known only as Rhegan, watched them head toward a small cafe. He had returned to the strip in search of street gossip but had surprisingly heard almost none. And what he did hear was not worth listening to.
As he watched the pair walk slowly along Pacific Avenue, he thought back to when he had sighted on the boy and pulled the trigger. He had aimed carefully, not wanting to kill, but even so, he was surprised to see JT back on the street so soon.
After the shooting, he had taken a few minutes to watch the fireworks, knowing that the police would not be called.
His victim had fallen hard, his panic obvious as he managed to scrabble behind the nearest parked car.
His companion had reacted with cool precision, slipping one arm behind the boy’s shoulders and speed-dialing his cell phone with the other hand.
Even from a distance, Rhegan could see that the man was scanning the street. When the steel-blue eyes passed over the window that he looked through, he felt a sudden chill, as if those eyes had looked directly into his and issued a challenge.
A few passersby stopped to offer assistance, but Rhegan could tell that the man was dismissing each with a plausible excuse, for there was none of the panic that usually accompanied a public shooting.
Within minutes a car had pulled smoothly to a stop, collecting both men before exiting at a sedate speed that would not attract attention.
Rhegan had expected the part-time bouncer to run crying to Valdez, resignation in hand. Hopefully, the news that another person had taken a hit in his name would force a desperate Valdez to sign his club, the Toybox over to Malone, at whatever terms had been typed above the signature line.
Malone had told Rhegan that desperation was the only thing that would put a pen in his rival’s hand and had given him a list of potential targets. Malone had laid out his plan of attack, and Rhegan had no problem with any of it.
But, instead of running, his first victim had returned to take care of business. Head high and shoulders straight, he walked the sidewalk that still bore spatters of his blood, not even glancing down when his boots passed over the red splotches.
He was doing what Reagan himself would have done, and the hard-eyed gunman respected that, even while he planned when and where to take the boy out for good.
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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
This past week the producer and I visited The Natural Gardener, which is a retail nursery featuring organic plants and shrubs. We were surprised at the size of the grounds and the number of species offered. There was so much to take in, I’m going to use two posts to cover it all. This week is the first, and since next week is the Fourth of July parade, the final will be in two weeks.
Here is a map of the grounds. There is so much to see. Over forty areas of interest.
You know you are in a retail place when you see a big selection of pots
There is a revival tent which Teagan Geneviene would like.
Of course, this tent is for learning to save plants, not souls.
Next is the butterfly garden
With guess what? A butterfly.
And another.
Beautiful flowers to attract butterflies.
More.
A little spot to sit with a butterfly theme.
Another view of the garden.
Sunflowers that reach the sky.
Purple coneflowers.
Lovely assortment. Brazilian Rockrose on the left.
Leaving the Butterfly garden on the left. A delightful path to follow.
A funky shed with a painted scene leads us into other areas. We’ll be back.
It is Stream of Consciousness Saturday time again. This weeks prompt is “four/fore/four.” Linda Hill advises using one or all three. In her usual way, she also advises to “have fun.” If you would like to join in visit Linda’s blog to read all about how easy it is. Here is the link.
“Look at that sky. I’ve never seen a blue like that.”
“I know, right? How about the green of the grass. Just inhale the smells of a beautiful morning.”
“How about it? You want to play today?”
“Well, we are here. Half the battle is showing up. Why not?”
“I have to warn you, I may be only good for four holes.”
“Oh please. You say that every time we come out, and you end up finishing nine.”
“I do look forward to the time when I could do eighteen.”
“Well, at your age, that might be a stretch. I think just taking one hole at a time is the way to go today.”
“Do they still yell “fore” if a ball might come close to you?”
“That is part of the rules, so yes.”
“I sure wouldn’t want to get hit. You know how some of those players are. Bearly give you a chance to start on a hole before firing a ball in your direction.”
“I guess they don’t know how to savor the moment. You ready to get started?”
“I sure am. I feel like a million bucks. Where should we go?”
“I was thinking of a nice sized hole on the first fairway.”
“With a big mound that drives the groundskeeper crazy.”
“That’s right. That guy is a little nuts anyway.”
“Should we burrow there or go overland?”
“Let’s save our strength and hoof it. Best way to make nine holes.”
“Did we mention what a beautiful day it is today?”
