𝑾𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 Getting me Back (The Voices Within) 𝘗𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 . 🫶🏼
Smoke Free is a weird little story conceived in the smoke of a brush fire. I was out in the woods snapping pictures one day, the images forming in the smoke combined with a twisted imagination and tada! The rest is history.
The photos below show the cover; from the first photograph to the finished cover.
Smoke Free is probably the only book cover we have not changed at least a dozen times. The truth is I have never wanted to change it. I love this cover and the image of that little pumpkin smoking a cigar never fails to amuse me. (I have the husband to thank for that.)
I had never heard of Irwin Smutter before that day and he (like the cigar smoking pumpkin) still amuses me with his absolute weirdness; him and the bizarre world he resides in.
And here’s a bite sized sample of the lunch break tale …
The room appeared empty other than an oversized sofa. Irwin reposed himself against the frigid vinyl, crossed his feet and sighed. A lively timbered scene covered the wall opposite the door, designed in such a way it almost looked like a window. Beyond the dull sheen of the pretend window was a forest where rays of sunshine cut through a smoky haze. The remaining walls were un-textured, pale and bare. The room smelled of sandalwood and acetone, a bizarre sweetness that sickened and comforted him at the same time. Irwin shifted nervously on the stiff upholstery in search of a warm spot. There was none.
The faux leather, the lifeless walls, the fake window – it was all too unsettling. Nothing is real, he thought, stretching his arms until his hands met above his head. Fads! The world has been reduced to kooks, phonies, and fads. Reassured by his own summation, Irwin interlaced his fingers and stretched further. When the joints in his entwined hands refused to pop, he rested them at the base of his neck.
Smoking cessation. Yeah, right. It was not Irwin’s idea. Irwin enjoyed smoking. The pungent smell of a fresh-lit cigarette made bitter coffee sweet. Smoking was one of the few things he looked forward to each day. A good smoke, a little booze, a lot of caffeine and Evie.
_________________________
These type short shorts were written at a time I was really into the flash fiction form of writing.
Oh. Oh. Oh. I can’t wait until you reach the end.
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. 🥂
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.
The epiphany has passed –
now gone are the 12 days of Christmas.
The winter sun is setting low; his colors scattered like coals of fire across the western sky.
Our souls are satiated and hopeful of the things to come and so we sleep.
And we sleep.
And we sleep.
I was just pondering, a thing which I do often these days, while enjoying a glorious Texas sunset and these words came to me.
I think it is the first creative thing I’ve written in… well I don’t know how long.
And now, while sharing this with you all, the vexing lines of William Butler Yeats come to mind.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
More to ponder no doubt.
Well it is, once again, that time of year when I drag out this old prose and start making the dressing.
A Pilgrims Prayer
Okay, I didn’t really know any of the original Pilgrims but I did see a few John Wayne movies. John knew a pilgrim when he saw one. He seemed to know a lot of pilgrims.
But allow me to propose that we are all pilgrims, each one of us on a journey of sorts; we are all looking for something. Be it a quest for self-confirmation, for truth, a cure, enrichment, comfort, a friend, a lover, a job, a meal or a place to lay our weary head at the end of another day.
Life is a journey, or at least it should be. I’d hate to think any of us were just flailing through the experience killing time on this giant floating gumball.
We all have one destination though we may travel many roads in getting there.
Hopefully we will choose well.
When we do take a wrong turn [and we will from time to time] I pray that we have enough sense and humility to stop and ask for directions; the sense to know good from evil and who to trust and I pray we have the courage to admit we took a wrong turn and learn from it.
So here’s wishing all of you pilgrims a Happy Thanksgiving and may we all, whatever road we’re on, take the time to look ahead, pause and bow our head in thanks.
My personal prayer:
Thank you Father, The Creator of all things, for this day and all it holds. Thank you for the days past and Father forgive me for my wrong turns. Thank you for the day to come and guide me to make better choices. Thank you for all the persons in my life and the ones who read this prayer. And Thank You Father for the beacon that lights my way.
In Jesus name. Amen.
This page is from the story of August Wolf which is also found in the short story compilation Greed.
You know what? I just love the cover of August Wolf.
My fondness is not because I designed it; I also designed the different covers of Greed. I just never really loved any of the Greed covers. 🤷🏼♀️
And another little tell-all this fine Tuesday…. drum roll please…
The main character in August Wolf, Jason Carroll, was named after my parents. After all I couldn’t reveal the orderly’s true identity. Putting one of us in danger was enough.
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
It’s out of the flip-flops, and back in the Reeboks and long pants dug out of the dust
So long to the tank tops, bikinis and cut offs and lawn chairs left lying to rust
Adieu to the sand dune, the pelican and plain loon
My loves, we’ll see you `fore long
Leaves drop as trees swoon, long past the crop moon
With the scent of a sweet autumn song
Let’s all take a big swill to ward off the night chill
Winter’s a season away
Crank up the camp fire; avoid the ole quagmire
With children perched high on the hay.
More about the Autumn Equinox at Farmers Almanac
The Real Janna Hill in 