Heavenly Garden

Here is a chilling story with a valuable moral attached

Flora Bloom had a gift. From an early age she had a way with flowers. Perhaps her interest in gardening was due to the combination of her first and last name, an unintended byproduct of her being named after her maternal grandmother. Whatever the reason, Flora seemed able to commune with the plants under her care with particular skill, speaking to them as if they were aware of her words. Indeed, she was the true embodiment of what one would want in a gardener.

It was in some way, a compensation for another aspect of her life. Unfortunately, Flora was unattractive, her features stark and unappealing to those of the opposite sex. When she was young, her playmates were often cruel, taunting her because of her looks. Her parents hoped that she would blossom into a desirable woman, and an acceptable mate for some lucky man, growing into her beauty gradually, as some are prone to do.


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A Writer's Companion

Here is a tale about the dangers of obsession

I sit cross legged, leaning back against the screen, and wondering if I’ve slept or if I’m sleeping now. In the distance, if distance is the appropriate word, shades of gray fade gradually into deepening obscurity. Exploration has yielded no reprieve from this expanse. Is there no escape from this existence, no release from my tortured memories? If I had known then what I know now I would have walked away from the terminal and never looked back.

It began with a simple desire to explore my capabilities as a writer, but quickly grew into an obsession as, day by day, I spent more and more hours bent over the keyboard. I was searching for that perfect phrase, that novel idea, or that heart wrenching story that would touch the soul of the audience and prove to them what I'd suspected all along; that I had greatness in me.

I think back to when my wife and I married, and long to recapture those moments of passion or even the mundane familiarity that was robbed from us by this infernal machine. I vaguely remember how it was with her at the end, how she pleaded with me to stop, and how I foolishly ignored her requests. I was only dimly aware of her departure that day when her disgust with me became too much for her to bear. If her leaving mattered to me at the time, it had been only a minor consideration. Ironically, it was my desire to provide for her that drove me to my present fate.

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Moonlit Walk

I wrote this story in an attempt to explore an alternative reality for the existance of Good and Evil.

Losing balance

The cottage sat, as always, tucked into the protective cover of the surrounding oaks, ablaze with light and appearing as the quintessential picture of coziness. Christine opened the brightly painted gate and walked through the moonlight to the front door, breathing in the night jasmine that arched over the entrance. It was early in the evening, so it was still warm enough for a window beside the door to be open, and she heard sweet and cheerful singing coming from within. Knocking firmly on the door, Christine thought to herself how Mrs. Smith was her favorite shut-in.

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Happy Halloween

I thought that it might be a good idea to post a story in honor of the day. Gather 'round the fire, and ignore that knock at the door, because it's time to tell you all about Cory, and of his new found friends.


Cory had been watching the house for three hours straight. He was determined to see what was beyond those curtains, and dismissed the lurid tales of murder and madness that had long clung to the house like a malignant skin for the past seventy years. About an hour ago he thought he had seen movement behind the faded linen that hung limply in the shadows of the upstairs window. Of course, that was crazy, because nobody had lived there as far back as he could remember, and he was almost thirteen!

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The Impact of Writing on Social Change

At times, we feel helpless as individuals to influence the course of politics through our single vote. We shake our heads in frustration over the decay of moral values; a condition which spreads like a disease and infects our culture. The insatiable greed of our corporations conspires to topple our society as we sit by powerless to intervene. Our civilization awaits the hope and direction that can be provided by effective writing.

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Purpose

This is a poem I wrote which describes the bittersweet joy of creation, and the need to allow a purpose to be realized.

Purpose

The rocking chair sits in his workshop
Illuminated by a beam of light
Which enters through means of its own
To find and reveal his precious labor of love

Smooth lines, crafted with care
His fondness for the wood apparent
In every detail, every curve
Hand rubbed oil fragrant and earthy

Who will sit in his chair he wonders
As he stands there, scratching his chin
He hopes it will be a new mother
Cradling her infant who lies snug at her breast

He hates to see it leave, this his opus
His crowning achievement in life
Will they appreciate his long hours
Spent creating something useful from a single piece of wood?

Maybe he should keep it for himself
Just this once
But no, the chair has its purpose too
Once created, that purpose must be fulfilled

Better to be mistreated or abused
Than to lie languishing in his workshop
Promising everything
Providing nothing

And so with regret he watches it leave
Hauled off by the merchant who will place it in the window
Hanging a sign on its back, hiding some of his inlay
Local artist, handmade

It says so much, yet explains little
As the expectant mother
Bends forward to peer through the glass
Her hand resting softly on her masterpiece

Cell 13

This is a story I wrote recently where I tried to add to the horror by using vernacular to bring out the personality of the main character. It was my small attempt at justice for those for whom death is too light a punishment.

Cell 13

These bars won't hold me, yu'll see. Jimmy Duncan comes an' goes as he pleases. An' Jimmy Duncan is always ready to rock and roll. Go ahead an' stroll down that catwalk looking down through the grates, up there all high and mighty. Why don't ya come down here and visit with old Jimmy Duncan, huh screw?

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