The thought of losing a child cripples me [emotionally]. Although I have thankfully not lost a child to war my mama heart hurts so deeply for those who have that is how this poem was born so many years ago.
That is why I share it here today.
But let me not forget – let none of us forget.
Memorial Day is more than a long weekend, a parade, or a flag waving in the warm breeze. For many families, it is a chair left empty. A voice that no longer answers. A folded flag resting where a son, daughter, husband, wife, father, or mother once stood.
Today, we remember those who took an oath beneath a flag of pride and came home draped beneath it.
This poem was written years ago, but like grief itself, its meaning never ages. It is for the mothers who still whisper lullabies into silence, for the families who carry pride and heartbreak in the same breath — the same trembling hands. And for every fallen service member who gave all they had —whose absence still echoes through the lives they left behind.
Little Man By Janna Hill
IT’S TIME TO GO TO bed little man Cover up your head little man I’ll see you when the sun breaks in the morn Say your prayers and close your eyes I’ve locked the monsters all outside She’d sang those words to him since he was born
He grew to be a brave young lad And followed after his ole dad Beneath a flag of pride his oath was sworn They brought him home in silk lined wood And all around him soldiers stood While Butterfield’s Lullaby played upon the horn
It’s time to go ahead little man I know that you weren’t scared little man My heart breaks I can’t see you and I mourn I’ve said my prayers for your closed eyes I’ve tucked my feelings deep inside She sang into a folded flag of thorns.
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.
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These type short shorts were written at a time I was really into the flash fiction form of writing.
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.
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.
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.
The Real Janna Hill in 