A Glimpse at Savannah Dawn’s Unconsecrated Visions (Friday’s Free-For-all)

Every young girl has dreams. Some dream of being a supermodel or a nurse, a doctor or a fireman, a teacher, a writer or a rock star. Savannah Dawn has dreams too. But she mostly dreams of a life without nightmares.

Chapter 1

My name is Savannah Dawn and I was named for the place of my conception, whatever that means. I’ll be eleven years old come next March. I love to swim and I hate school. I guess that’s all I know to say about myself except sometimes I see things… like in a dream. Not the stuff most folks talk about. I’ve never dreamed of falling off a cliff or being naked in public and besides those things aren’t scary. As a matter of fact I think dreams like that are silly. There aren’t any cliffs around here and the only time I take my clothes off is to bathe and then I put them right back on.

The dreams used to bother me but they don’t anymore.  When I was younger I would wake up crying in the middle of the night. Mama would bring me a glass of milk and sit beside me in the dark. I’d tell her what I saw and she’d say, “they’re just nightmares honey; nothing but unconsecrated visions.” As I got older I felt like Mama didn’t want to hear about the things that troubled my slumber. A few times it seemed to rile her so I learned to stay quiet and get my own milk. When she mentioned it to the doctor I told him I didn’t see things anymore. But I did.

Most times what I dream comes to pass but every so often it doesn’t and that’s a good thing. It gets tiresome seeing all the sorrow in peoples past and the tragedy some are headed for. Too bad I never saw what lay in store for Papa; it would have saved us all a heap of sorrow.

Preacher Zeb calls them revelations and says I shouldn’t tell a soul about what I see except him. Zeb is an ex-Marine and a retired pastor. He was also my papa’s best friend. Last summer he baptized me in the Neches River with only God as our witness. We made a pinky swear to keep it secret. A pinky swear ain’t like a promise to God – it’s a promise not to tell Mama. She would have had a fit knowing I washed my sins in dirty water not to mention I nearly drowned while waiting on the Holy Spirit.

My sister got the spirit once at The First Assembly of God in downtown Trinity. She was sitting on the front pew making goo-goo eyes at Brother Tim when all of a sudden she went limp as a dish rag. The brother hollered ‘hallelujah’ and flew down from the pulpit. He smacked her on the forehead then Jodi jumped up and started shaking all over and everybody went crazy. It took me a minute to realize what was going on; it took Mama about a minute and a half. Jodi said she felt like a movie star when the whole congregation wanted to touch her. She done it so folks would think she was special, that’s what she said. I always thought she was special so I didn’t care one way or the other but it sure was funny watching her dance around with her hands in the air shouting alley baba – naba -naba daba- daba doo. She was doing a different dance after we got home and Mama whipped her for blaspheming the Holy Ghost.

I don’t like referring to the Lord’s essence as a ghost. Mama says they’re the same thing but I know she’s never seen either one or she wouldn’t say that.  I also know spirits don’t always live in a body; some of them live in drinks of alcohol….

This twisted little gem is only 99¢ at your favorite retailer.

The audio (amusingly narrated by Kelley Mack) is available at Audible, Amazon & iTunes.

HaPpY FriDaY Y’all.

I Was Just Thinking … Quotes & Covers & Useless Experiments

I love this quote:

“There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

And while thinking (or living out loud and flinging cake against the wall) it occurred to me:
J.R.R. Tolkien’s quote from The Hobbit may have inspired GREED, a trio of short stories. Though these stories are another genre and tremble in the shadows of Tolkien’s [other] worldly genius, it is the bent finger of that beautiful quote that lured me to my conclusion.

About GREED:
What does A Face in the Falls, August Wolf and The Sharecropper’s Son have in common?
These stories reveal the perplexities, the strengths and the weakness of people that are true to life and, like life; these stories expose the innate greed present in mankind.

“There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

We have changed the book cover at all stores except Amazon. Call it a lopsided useless experiment. 😉

The Amazon cover

GREED Amazon
B&N, iBook’s, Kobo (and all other stores) cover

GREED ext

A Face in the Falls was first published in Unshod, An Anthology of Traditional and Contemporary Western Short Stories by AIW Press,LLC

Psst. If you haven’t read The Hobbit or want to re-read it again there is a special 75th anniversary audio/video edition for for $9.99. MeRrY ChristMas to you, huh. 😀

Behind Door Number Four (And Where the Heck is Donald Crowley?)

I would like to think Donald Crowley would be impressed with this new cover but he (for whatever reason)  is not returning my calls.

Encase you don’t know Don, here’s a little bit about him — or rather his past.

Donald S. Crowley was a CPA by day; a bean counter; a number cruncher and a certified bore. By night he was as stimulating as the hero in his latest read with all the social skills of a brick and to make matters worse he was in love with a door. Not just any door, number four was special. Her alluring smile had caught Donald’s eye when he was just a boy and she called him by name. Despite years of therapy and medications she still called to him. Now he would risk his life to see her again and to finally know what lay behind
Door Number IIII.

Available wherever e-books are sold.

Who’d a thunk it?

I don’t think I knew Cecilia was a Roman martyr (2nd or 3rd century) until I moused over the name while reading Cloud Wrangler on Kindle. Who’d a thunk it? 😉

Check out the free Kindle preview and then buy Cloud Wrangler at your favorite store.

Once Upon a Dead Gull (TBT)

Throw back Thursday.

Rated G for gross

dead gull (4) (1024x682)

The gruesome photograph that inspired the title [and the book cover] for Once Upon a Dead Gull.  That was 3 1/2 years ago and [amazingly] this cover hasn’t changed.

A peculiar short story anthology, I admit, but it was written for the horror genre.
Even more peculiar is that none of these stories are about a dead gull.
The poor seagull’s parting gift to mankind…  to me, was simply to inspire a title I had been struggling with.

Inspiration

I am still officially out to lunch but you know how it goes when a story gets inside your head and the schizophrenia kicks in. An old photograph comes alive, the landscape shifts, characters start cropping up and voila, The Sharecropper’s Son is conceived.

 

I have about two thousand (totally fictitious) words written so far and I have no idea how long the story will be. There are no deadlines to meet and though the destination is set, the path is not carved in stone. The only thing I know at this point is that I am excited to let the story tell itself.

Not Yet Notorious Composers

This week I’m not featuring renowned poets.
This week let’s look at future poets or should I say not yet notorious composers.
The following poem was taken from

Poems for MIT Students.

A simple cover for a deep book.

It was written [and I quote] “by MIT students, for MIT students.”

Of the 20+ poems in this little chapbook I chose Almost by Julia Kimmerly.

(I hope 🤞🏼 this links to the free PDF file.)

 

MIT_logo_black_red

 

Ahh you thought MIT was a boring technical institute with some weird shorthand logo that has occult meanings.  Maybe that was my line of  thinking? No, all I can think of  is the Bee Gees so y’all go ahead and read while I sing. 

And the lights alllll weennnt out in Massachusetts…

 

Julia Kimmerly / 2013

it’s been a while since the smile of a pen has styled my page,
ages since mental meandering, penned pondering, wistful wandering
wondering about mysteries, histories, blistering bliss stories
of sinister misters, kissed-hers, twisted listening and
tea: a small plea from me to indulge.
today is a break from the intensity.
it makes a bulge in the tense immensity of stress,
incensed duress.
Dad’s mom’s locket rests in my palm,
her psalms next to his curbed proverbs:
once begun half done
measure twice, cut once
a stitch in time saves nine
but what about when the second half is baffling,
twice doesn’t suffice,
and the stitches come undone
like poorly hitched horses looking for fodder?
what about:
everything in moderation
variety is the spice of life
everything is relative—
relative to what?
it’s all the same insane struggle,
trouble bubbling over from one night to the next.
fight the biting light, the tightening sight as eyelids sigh
sleep is nigh
the group droops with equations left unsolved
greek letters in an unresolved war
equality separating the horror.
symbols swapping sides and constants barring pi’s.
Intensity Has a Taste For Pain.
this feast of information has ceased to be fun.
the yearning of learning gone,
no longer appealing.
the feeling of prolonged gratification
empty.
the anticipation not
tempting.

teachers hold the treat just out of reach,
each time bringing me forward
toward the future, it’s
badder, better, bigger, baller, butter from the stick
but if I don’t get out of this mean fiendish routine—
color outside the confining outline—
i won’t survive.
my thriving creativity of young,
now stifled insensitively,
clung to by what grip I have left.
i want to rip away from the
numerical masochism
hysterical workaholism
compensation for lack of sensation.
i have forgotten how to live,
rotten, now oblivious to what reality does,
sacrificing who I am now, or was, for who I could be.
but that to-be she is only one possible me
a successful breast full of delicious accomplishments.
yes, enticing time now is dimes and cents to my future dollars
a smaller price to pay for a greater later
a relentless satyr of ambition
searing volition to steer myself straight to the top.
but I don’t want to wait and be
a fated one-sided, dull-minded, blind signer
i want to be alive.
strive for more than better letters and wonder numbers
get out of this slumber and
find time for stars and clouds and dimension counting
Mars and How’s and existential doubting
the so-bad-its-good idea talks
the late-night, fate-type of walks
more coffee shops and railroad stops
beer stein hops and sly eaves drops
i want to tout the now and
scout the crowd for smiles and Guastavino tiled lies
(he knows woe woven into faulted vaults).
i want to drive and be driven.
And given the chance, yes i will.
but until the game is won, tassel hassled and the famous cap flung,
i have to persevere
buckle down for my career
gear up for my dear job.
study, read, feed my mind until it wants to be fed.
beg, plead, lead my mind until it wants to be led.
heed my mind until it is ahead, not overrun.
until all is said and done.