May your harvests be plentiful & May you reap your rewards!! 🍻
story telling
Nostalgia
She would be 66 years old today. Instead, she is frozen in time at 17 and I ….
I sit with what I have left of her – a lot of cherished memories, a handful of photographs, her purse, her wallet, her 45 records and her old scrap book.
𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳. 🥂
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Short Story Month (Door Number Four)
Door Number Four was possibly one of the funnest short stories I’ve ever written.
It was originally written as a paid assignment but blew through the word count.
They weren’t budging on the number of words they wanted and I could not imagine what more I could cut from the story and make it readable.
We were at a stalemate so the deal was abolished. Oh well Que Será, Será.
I admit I may have become too attached to the story — and too detached from the individual $pecs. So all there was left to do was publish Door Number Four my damn self.
This book (like most) has undergone at least one cover change.
I’m not in love with the current cover but I can change it whenever I want. That’s always fun too.
Here’s the intro.
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. To make matters worse he was in love with a door. Not just any door, number four was special. Donald had become enamored with her when he was just a boy and he believed that she called him by name. Now he would risk his life to see her again and to finally know what lay behind Door Number IIII.
I hope you have endeavored to read a short story, or two, this month. And if you are a writer, I hope that you have written at least one short story.
I think that’s all I shall ever from here forward. 
Right on? Write on!
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Short Story Month (August Wolf)
This short story is actually based on a true story. Yes, really!
It is not a biography nor is it considered a historical account.
August Wolf was a real person and he reportedly worked in the lab with the atomic bomb — that was a real thing.
Him being left on the side of the road for dead was true enough.
But the rest – the names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.
I dropped the e in Wolf like that would somehow protect me from his “handlers”.
I named the character Jason Carroll, after my parents, combining their names, but they had nothing to do with the story. I’m not sure I ever told them about the real character I knew named August Wolf.
That’s a little backstory on August Wolf.
No go grab a book or a pen or a keypad and enjoy yourself.
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Short Story Month (In the Beginning)
OK, I was today years old when I learned that May is International Short Story Month.
Did the rest of you already know that?
I should have known. After all it has been a real thing since 2010!
I love short stories. Reading or writing — I love `em !!
I feel like such a detached recluse for not knowing this? And now May is on its last leg; breathing her last dying breath.
Maybe that’s a tad exaggerated; but there’s less than two weeks left.
Oh well, there’s no time like the present. Right? Right!
So I thought I would start at the beginning and elaborate on a piece (or two) that I wrote.
The bait that hooked me on short stories so to speak. 
I think Perpetual Darkness might be the first short story published under Janna Hill and then I believe Perpetual Spring immediately followed. And then they were brought together in the Perpetual Series.
To the best of my recollection, it went something like this.
I was sitting at the typewriter in my office late one night with the window open, enjoying the sweet smells and familiar sounds drifting in on the breeze and all of the sudden my imagination just shifted gears — like it’s prone to do.
I imagined someone, a man, might be outside the window watching me as I typed.
I quickly found myself inside the stranger’s mind, looking from the outside in and perhaps judging each word I pecked out of the dull story I was working on. 
Once I finished that twisted little short story I, of course, had to give the female at the typewriter a voice.
That is how Max and Abigail were brought to life. 
I quite enjoyed developing the characters and then condensing them into short stories.
After a few short stories under my belt I gravitated to flash fiction which awakened a new passion that I never knew existed inside myself.
But keep in mind flash fiction is a different animal than the short story. The short story allows much leeway where the flash fiction genre often times comes in at 1000 words or less, but that’s for another time.
Now go enjoy some short stories my friend.
If you’re not writing a short story I hope you’re at least reading one and let’s celebrate what’s left of May and the month of short stories.
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The Seeds of Poetry
Our formative years shape our perspective and the culmination of our experiences spark the creative juices.
Sometimes the juices they spark are as sweet as honey and nectar … or as tart as a key lime … as sour as a pickle … but sometimes they are bitter.
So so bitter.
May usually has a very positive influence on my mood despite being the anniversary month of the death of my older sister 48 years ago and my mother eleven years ago.
I think May has got me in my feels. A little too much I might add because my emotions are running the gamut friends!! Not in a creative kind of way either.
I just miss them. I miss my mother.
And.
And I find myself rehashing the days that sparked a few of my creative juices.
Today I was going over that stormy day eleven years ago- the day that inspired the following poem.
The Last
The last bit of sorrow swelling
from closed eyes…
sitting as if waiting…
near the temple at the outer corner…
The storm outside was magnificent!
Sheets of rain surrounded us like walls of glass, but we broke through at 90 miles per hour.
Rolling thunder rattled the windows, as if mumbling words
only we could understand.
Brilliant shocks of light
from every direction lighted the way;
each dazzling strike followed by ostentatious paternal claps that said, Enough! Take my hand – hurry!
The thick charcoal sky parted in bilious shades of gray like the Red Sea…
And I saw…
The last moment –
the last millisecond
the last breath.
The last bit of sorrow
and pain
and worry.
The last tear sitting –
as if waiting
near the temple
at the outer corner of her left eye.
I caught it…
I watched it soak into the edge
of a paper napkin and sealed it in a tiny bag.
No words were necessary.
She was out of earshot –
out of the audible range
of the childlike pleadings of stay.
She was at last where she longed to be;
the two of them as one again.
Somewhere safe above the storm,
laughing like children and holding hands.
It was the last time I saw
her and daddy together.
*It was the worst spring storm I can recall. I had barely made it home before the bottom fell out and I was enjoying the heavenly show. I know it seems ‘abnormal’ but I do love a good storm. This one was raging an hour’s drive in any direction.
I was on the phone talking to my youngest sister when the doctor called.
I had just told her our mother was alert and talking, she looked good and her condition was stable. Moments later the doctor was contradicting me.
“Your mother went into cardiac arrest blah blah blah. I was not aware of the DNR blah blah blah. We are in the process of trying to restart her heart, doing CPR blah blah blah. Do you want us to continue blah blah blah?”
There was no problem with the connection yet his gentle voice came in shrill broken fragments. I had him [the doctor] on one line, my youngest sister on another and I was frozen between them. I must have asked, “what should I do?”
I recall my sister choking out the words “let her go.”
My husband had the truck ready before I could hang up the phone.
Taken from Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)
The photo above is where I laid flowers on the memorial today; the memorial I made for myself – where I planted the last tear that I mentioned in the poem.
Purple was her favorite color. There is only a small red sandstone (from her native east Texas) marking the teardrop’s final resting place.
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On This Day ….
On this day forty-eight years ago…
In the spring of 1977 I was in the early prime of my teenage years; she was in the latter prime of her teens.
Life was stretched out before us like a long, hot summer with an endless amount of options- of opportunities and roads to be traveled.
Could she imagine that [on that beautiful spring day] that she’d never see summer?
I don’t think so, I know I couldn’t.
Did anyone predict a (legally blind) man would be driving a little too fast in a residential area?
No, none of us could foresee the future on that dreadful day of the accident.
Nor could we ever have envisioned the short days ahead.
The hazy hours of hope and disbelief and denial until …
Until there was nothing left to do but mourn.
Oddly enough (or not) I still mourn.
The grief is not near as raw and not quite as heart wrenching as it was forty-eight years ago.
It’s more like a constant dull throbbing you learn to live with and usually ignore …
But sometimes it sneaks past the smiles and laughs of grandchildren, family and friends.
Sometimes the grief creeps in among life, among the daily routines…
and all I can do is sit with the bittersweet memories.
This personal little tidbit is what inspired the writing of Odd Man Out, a short story that can be found in the collection Once Upon a Dead Gull. Or read it in the larger story collections of More or Short Stories & Such.
Except from Odd Man Out
My mother used to say I never met a stranger. I reckon she was right but that didn’t keep me from feeling like a foreigner.
I was the peculiar child that didn’t look quite like the others; a raucous summer born among winter babies. I cared too much and cried too easy and sometimes I forgot that I wasnt everybody’s mother.
Happy Friday Y’all
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NPM 2025 (Full Moon and Little Frieda)
It was NPM 2014 when I first shared Ted’s poem about his daughter. In that post the husband and I had another enjoyable conversation about the tragedies that surrounded the man.
You should give it a read.
But now I present to you….
Full Moon and Little Frieda
By Ted Hughes
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket –
And you listening.
A spider’s web, tense for the dew’s touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming – mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath –
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
‘Moon!’ you cry suddenly, ‘Moon! Moon!’
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.
Ole Teddy published a book of prose and poetry to his first wife [and first wife to die by suicide] in Birthday Letters not long before his demise.
Lord, help me not judge. I have lived a less than stellar life, my own poetry is evidence.
Write On!!
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This Heat – Lawd! (Tuesday’s Tell All)
We humans get impulsive and short tempered when we get hot, literally and figuratively.
Science says when the body overheats, it needs to spend energy to cool itself down, that response can come from the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain that helps people self-regulate.
That explains why people are more impulsive and less likely to think before acting.
I’m not sure if that’s what happened to Savannah Dawn and her mom, but something made them snap.
“Mama had worked up such a sweat the glue melted leaving her eyelashes dangling at an odd angle to her lids. She tried to dislodge them but after a few failed puffs, she snatched them from her face without blinking. They landed like two dead caterpillars at my feet. I quietly picked them up and stowed them in my pocket.”
Excerpt From
Savannah Dawn (Unconsecrated Visions)
Janna Hill
This material may be protected by copyright.
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Happy Valentine’s Day
The Real Janna Hill in 