My Man! Time Machine Needed

Short submitted to True Writer 
byline: Erin Murdock

My daughter is at that stage in her life when she's shopping for the biggest investment she will ever make -- the man of her dreams, her true love, her husband. Hopefully, with a little luck, a good measure of prayer, and careful research and consideration, these three will all be one in the same. It makes the shopping easier in the long run. Up close and personal, I'm grateful I've only done it once and I quite frankly--through dumb luck, I fell into it!

Mind you, I didn't fall in love with him. That kind of love is for romance novels and movies. No, I grew into that part of the relationship and I've found myself needing to work on it quite a few times since. Back to my daughter and her shopping. I've listened to her relate how wonderful one is -- only for her to recant her endorsement after considering additional intel. I must admit it usually takes her longer to gather the necessary intel to flush the "buggers" than I would like.

This morning as I'm relaxing from my yoga stretches she lobs this at me. "Mom, why are guys so #$%& stupid and such jerks?"

I inhale and exhale through my mouth. She takes it as exacerbation, which it's not. "Sweetheart, you've grown up with Mary Poppins. Do you remember '…though we adore them individually, we agree that as a whole their rather stupid?"

"Yeah. So where did you find Dad?" Obviously, this is one that we adore.

"I didn't find him. He found me." I didn't remind her that it happened to be on the baseball field. She knows that story. I did add this though. "I believe they broke the mold after they made him. But even if they didn't, you'd have to go back to the fifties when he was born to find one."

"So, you got a time machine handy?"

---

 [s1]Submitted to Trueswrter 6/17/2014 must have reject or permission before submitting elsewhere.

I remember… Paper dolls.

I remember the Paper dolls my sister made for me.

Happy Birthday Sis

1960

By Shaunna Gonzales

Winter breaks from school over the Christmas Holiday and snow days meant paper dolls, especially when it was too cold to play outside. And definitely too cold to go horseback riding as we were wont to do.

I'm not talking about the professionally inked and cut paper dolls or the ones we could cut out of a magazine. I'm talking hand drawn, originals by one of my favorite artists, my oldest sister. I need to explain that I am the youngest of six sisters, in this story my brothers don't count.

My older sisters held a beauty pageant with their dolls and the one rule was the 3 inch height of the doll which they carefully drew and cut on the cardboard type papers from Mom's nylons. That and she must wear a white, one piece bathing suit which was drawn onto her body with pencil.

This was great until the doll my sister gave me had a vibrant green swimsuit. I won't tell you how much time I spent crying and begging for my doll -- I don't recall her name, to be in the pageant or the hours I begged my sister to draw me a second doll. The good news was that my doll was the most petite and looked the best in almost every dress the team of dressmakers (my sisters) could and did design. It also meant that out of guilt, at least I think it was guilt, my sister made my doll some of the most beautiful paper clothes. Clothes worthy of the Red Carpet. Clothes that the other dolls couldn't wear due to their size around the middle (think size 6 versus size 10 or 12. Yeah, even in dolls it mattered.)

Of course my doll had another feature the other dolls didn't, her swimsuit was strapless. A very big deal when Mother randomly burned dolls that were not modest, even in their swimwear.

When your paper doll is roughly 3 inches tall, you quickly learn that she is only for in the house, and at our house-- as no one else had the artistic skill to create these ladies to the necessary specifications. No matter, I did, years later, glean one of the few men my sister created, a paper version of Barbies' Ken doll.

These 'Ken's' were not big on wardrobe as the ladies were. They 'owned' one suit, generally along the lines of a tuxedo and well, you guessed it, the white swimwear. Their sole purpose was to make the ladies look good. Sorry guys, now you know why my brothers don't count in this story.

Despite the cajoling engaged in, I must admit to many happy hours of solo play with these dolls. They traveled far and wide in my mind's world, Western garb designed and fitted but the doll, being two dimensional could never straddle a horse. She did however, time-travel to the regality of the Victorian romance or Medieval Times where, as always, she looked gorgeous and yes, always got the guy. Romance was simpler then, I was in grade school

 I'll forever cherish my paper dolls, whether or not my sisters kept theirs all these years I don't know. I did safely tuck mine where I can't find them. I still treasure the simpler time and a wise use of a childish imagination, even if my heroine couldn't ride horses.

Shovel Sledding

Dedcated to my brother

Byline June Bridger

As a kid I didn't know we were poor. We made due with what we had and on a winter day when my brother was given the responsibility of watching his little sister we didn't dare return to the house for fear of being told we couldn't go back out or worse, getting in trouble for what we found to keep us busy.

I remember dragging the little red sleigh over to grandpa's, where the animals were, right on my brother's heals.  Well, it started out that way, his legs were a lot longer than mine so I kinda, sorta just followed his tracks in the snow. When I finally caught up to him, he was busy shoveling rotting potatoes to the pigs. I hung back knowing the one sow had been wild and also being warned that she would eat me if given the chance. Not sure whether that was true or not.

While waiting for him to finish his job, I decided the hill nearby that had once been the river bank looked good for sledding. Red sled runners sink in fresh snow. It didn't go well.

I don't know if my brother found my dismal flop at sledding the hill humorous or not. I do recall following him to the spud cellar for the next load of pig fodder. The old spud cellar was built in the old river bed and nearby I noticed smooth slick looking tracks on the old river bank. When I asked my brother about it, he admitted that his "chore" was taking much longer because well--he was using his shovel as a sled. I obviously wanted to see him do it. So, with me standing in the river bed, he scampered up the far side a few yards away carrying his shovel. Now let me explain that this is no garden shovel. This is a shovel used to move loose coal and fill coal furnace hoppers. It could also be used to carry fifteen to twenty pounds of rotting spuds from the cellar to the pigs.  Imagine it big enough for a grown man to place his feet on without touching any other surface. My brother stepped onto the shovel and gracefully rode it down the bank and to about three feet from me.

He made it look so easy! I begged for him to let me try it. I must have begged him the whole time he carried another shovel full of rotting potatoes to the pigs and you know I wanted it bad 'cause rotting spuds stink. At last he agreed to teach me how to ride the shovel. Mind you there is a trick involved in riding a shovel down a one hundred and twenty degree angle. A trick he didn't bother to share with me until I had performed a somersault face plant.

The trick is a combination of standing on the balls of your feet, in snow boots, and balancing as the shovel moves down the slope at enough speed to give the rider a thrill. It took me most of the afternoon to master even once but on that day my big brother was no longer one of the teasing goonies but my hero and very best friend.

I went back to do more sledding a few days later when my brother couldn't go with me. The shovel had disappeared. The sled runs were still present but the shovel wasn't in the cellar as my brother had left it. Leaves one to wonder if Dad or Grandpa saw the snow runs and face plant prints and didn't like the idea of a six-year-old girl learning to shovel sled.

Santa and I's Secret

(submitted to Chicken Soup for the Soul 6/11/14 for Christmas 2015)

The merry jingle of bells signaled the imminent arrival of the season's featured guest. I, along with the other children lowered my voice to a barely audible whisper.

"He's coming!"

I knew better than to wonder who might be arriving but I couldn't help but wonder if Santa would remember me this year. For years I had heard stories from my older siblings of how every year they sat on Santa's lap and every year he greeted them by name. How I wanted Santa to do the same for me. I wanted that so bad my teeth hurt. Did he not remember me because I was the baby of a long string of toe-headed children? Or because I hadn't been quite good enough? I tried extra hard this year, even going so far as to apologize to my Sunday school teacher for missing class when I had the flu last spring.

"Children, line up in an orderly fashion. One line, don't push. Jason, let the little ones go first, please."

Sister Beal put us in line and of course, the lambs from the Nativity program never got to go first. The angels and of course Mary and Joseph always seemed to get positioned in the front of the line. Had they been better? Was that why they got to line up first? I couldn't hold my green monster of jealousy at bay and scowled at the back of Mary's head. The wool of my costume scratched my bare legs without mercy. It seemed the longer I had to wear it, the hotter the cultural hall got and the more uncomfortable I became. Why did my grandparents have to be so generous to offer real lambs' wool for each of the plays lambs to wear? Why, just for once, couldn't my grandparents be chicken farmers and donate the feathers for the angels wings? Maybe then I would get to stand on the risers and sing or better yet, be at the front of the line. But then, grandpa had been ill this year and he was getting old, too old to change professions.

At last my turn to sit on Santa's lap approached. I heard Santa greet my cousin.

"Merry Christmas, Jacob. Have you been a good boy this year?"

Of course Jacob lied and didn't tell Santa about how he and his brothers teased us girls. Maybe Jacob had confessed or something 'cause he hadn't teased me for weeks. Did Santa work hand-in-hand with God? Was Santa, God? He was here every year for our children's Christmas program. Maybe… I rejected the idea and hastily repented. I'd have to do more repentant confessing when I got home and especially on Sunday. But if they worked together and God knew my thoughts… had I just ruined my chances for Santa to remember me by name? Did it work that way?

 I peered closely at the aging man. Santa looked tired this year. His 'ho, ho, ho' sounded half hearted. His eyes didn't twinkle and I somehow knew his smile, if he had one under his snowy beard, had to be forced. He didn't even let the children sit on his lap. Had that wicked bully, Johnny Walters, broken Santa's lap for the rest of us? He probably did. Broke his smile, too.

I stepped closer, my heart going out to this aging man who worked so hard all year to make Christmas special for all the children everywhere. His gaze fell on me and I knew. He didn't really know me. He recognized me as one of the children in the community, but he didn't remember my name.

He motioned me closer with his red sleeved arm, his gloved hand stiff, just like my grandpa's. I knew grandpa's was stiff from driving a team of horses in the freezing cold, three years earlier. He'd gotten frost bite and nearly lost his fingers. Maybe Santa had the same thing happen with driving his magical team of reindeer.

I moved to his side but held myself erect, not wanting to wear Santa out before the other children got a chance to meet him this year.

"Ho, ho, ho…if it isn't another Jorgensen child. My, my how you've grown this year. You've got to be what? Seven, eight?" He pulled me close and I could smell his shaving cream. It reminded me of my grandpa-- my grandpa and his wide leather shaving strap. I had no idea how grandpa could sharpen his razor on a leather strap, I just knew I feared that strap even if he'd never tanned my hide with it. It hung in the bathroom and I knew, I just knew if I misbehaved at grandpa's house, I was in for a world of hurt.

Shaving cream…wait a minute. Santa didn't shave. Obviously he had a generous beard. By this time I had completely forgotten Santa's greeting.

"Cat got your tongue? Well, little one," I wasn't that little. I was the tallest girl in my third grade class at school. "Tell me what you want for Christmas."

I pulled back from his casual hug, searching his eyes and whispered, "I want a doll that wets, but most of all, I want you to remember my name."

I'll never forget the tears that formed in Santa's eyes when I said that. Santa pulled me close enough that I was the only one to hear. "I'll always remember my shoshkin."

My eyes flew wide. Santa knew me! Not only did he know me, but he knew my grandpa's nickname for me. That's why he'd never used my given name. That year my baby doll arrived under the Christmas tree with 'Shoshkin' on the nametag.

Horses and Toboggans Don't Mix

Inviting you to share a sneak peak at the January/February Issue of Good Old Days 2015 which I wrote under the byline of Serena March.

Horses and Toboggans Don't Mix

Tobogganing just isn't fun without speed. But if you are banned from the hills where the big kids get to sled and you are too young to carry the toboggan very far, how do you have fun?

I'm not entirely sure who came up with the brainy idea to hitch the toboggan to the horse but we did it. We found a couple lengths of rope which we tied together to make it longer. In retrospect the ropes probably showed signs of wear in a few places. After all, we did pull them out of the snow near a farm and we all know that things left lying around on a farm are usually not in good condition. I can't even be sure of the length, only that we tied the combined length to the toboggan's rope, through one stirrup around the saddle horn, twice, back through the other stirrup and tied it again on the toboggan's original rope. One must be sure to have enough length to not get kicked by the horse's flying hooves. I think that was the smartest part of our plan. Of course we didn't take into consideration that rope tied onto rope tends to slide when pulled taunt.

All was well with my horse as I rode and trotted through the snowy field. I loved hearing the snow skitter across the frozen surface as hooves broke through the thin crust. Horses, toboggans and blindingly bright snow numbed me to the cold but things got complicated when it was my turn to ride the toboggan. Maybe my girlfriend wasn't as good a rider as I always thought she was. Maybe she and my horse just didn't get along. Or more probably the rope slid where it needed to but where it 'bothered' my horse. Translation: Fillies, and sometime mares, kick at things across their hind quarters that they don't understand or expect.

Sliding at a walk is great if you are on foot, or better yet, on ice and trying to slide but not so much so on a toboggan. Toboggans need speed!

But maybe yelling for more speed from the ground behind your horse isn't wise, especially when you take the rope into consideration. I just remember a lot of very cold and icy snow flying in my face and my friend's shrieks as we barreled over the field, the horse managing a funky crow-hop once in a while. Shrieks morphed into screams as we barreled through the gate and across the dirt road with a car coming. From there I seem to recall the down slope of a rather steep gully. I do clearly remember glancing over at my friend and thinking, "Isn't the horse supposed to be pulling me?"

Keep in mind a length of rope on either side of a horse and its flying hooves at a frightful speed, and less than ideal conditions for the intelligent. What happened then is a blur. Since a spooked horse runs where it wants to without regard to shallow youth while a toboggan, unless moved from its track, will take the shortest course downhill, things were not beautifully in tandem. I think the horse clipped the toboggan with a hoof or two sending it sideways. My friend ended up in the rough packed snow at the bottom of the gully. I managed some sort of head plant in the opposite bank with the toboggan across my legs and we spent the rest of the afternoon trying to catch my horse, which we managed when the horse reached home. We learned a valuable lesson that day, even if our exploits were less than euphoric--Toboggans and horses don't mix.

Dreaded Thanksgiving Tradition

With the holiday season descending upon us many traditions are looked forward to. Others will be sadly missed. And still others earned at one time or another the title of:

Dreaded Thanksgiving Tradition

1960's

Every year on Thanksgiving we had special guests, Grandma and Grandpa. We could see their house from our front window but they only came to visit once a year--on Thanksgiving. And they never stayed past desert. I even remember one of my older sisters being notified to make the call. The phone call, on the party line, to Grandma and Grandpa informing them that the turkey was coming out of the oven. They were that close.

Maybe this is strange to some, but I was a child and didn't know differently. I remember asking why they never came at Christmas and being informed that they bypassed us on Christmas to go further up the lane to our cousin's house. I was miffed until Mother smoothed it over with explaining that there were two houses of grand-kids up there and none of us, including me when I got older, wanted to combine three families of rowdy kids under the age of seventeen in one house. Don't get me wrong, I love my cousins, even the boy cousins my age, but twenty kids locked indoors for hours because it is too cold outside to do play or do chores? I'll take Grandma and Grandpa on Turkey day.

Every year had a few new and interesting twists, but of one thing I could always count on--Grandpa saying the prayer. Okay, so he is the patriarch and it is his right, but we kids dreaded that prayer. In his younger years, Grandpa was the Bishop of our sprawled community. Need I elaborate?

Didn't think so.

Love the man to death but when he prayed the sun went to sleep. He mentioned every kid by name and thanked the Lord for them and especially if the youth had accomplished something important in the past year-- learned how to milk a cow, including stripping it, graduate high school the previous spring, lost a tooth, anything at all. Lest you think that isn't bad, he didn't conclude there. He prayed over every field, I seem to recall two ranches and a lot of hay and potato fields. That done he would move on to the herd of sheep notated by how many lambs the ewes had dropped last spring. From there he covered the herd of cattle, both the milk cows and the ones going to market and the livestock expected to drop more offspring in the coming year. Did I mention the chickens, the geese, the gardens and the orchards? But wait, we aren't done! He had to mention those neighbors that had weathered an overly difficult year and those whose lives were prosperous before turning his prayer to one of blessing the coming year.

I shouldn't bore you with all this except that I really need you to sympathize with me when I admit to drinking my shrimp cocktail long before the closing "amen(s)". Hey, I was a kid and I knew the turkey would be cold--again, along with the homemade stuffing, the green beans and the jell-o salad.

All I can say is that these days the turkey still doesn't taste right if it isn't room temperature. Of course, the rolls were hot as they had been kept in the warmer, but if you weren't fast, you got the frozen ones that didn't fit. Can you really blame a kid for dreading the families Thanksgiving Tradition?

The Best Medicine by Tracy Brogan

The sexy and successful plastic surgeon, Dr. Evelyn Rhodes manages to survive the ninja birthday party complete with tiara and sparkly confetti on her thirty-fifth birthday, but a call to ER to stitch up one very perfectly symmetrical Tyler Connelly puts her happily single status at odds with her raging pheromones. 

Checkout the full professional review to this fun contemporary romance at http://indtale.com

From the Frozen Depths Children of the King – Book Three by Gloria Clover

Princess Padar Lacer arrives on Dharani Island anxious to meet the people she will rule and serve but a case of hasty misunderstanding sweeps her off to a rather chilling and dangerous encounter. Her medic training has not prepared her to be a sponge to the military commander, Jym Fountayn in this Inspirational Speculative Fiction.

If you like a mixture of your genres; Inspirational, Science Fiction, Speculative and Romance this may be the perfect fix for you. If not? Well, you will still want to check this one out. Start with reading the full professional review at http://indtale.com

Playing Cupid (Heavenly Bites Novella #3) by Christine S. Feldman

For Aimee Beasley living with Grams is a joy, a choice she has happily made even if it means being Grams favorite project, as in trying to fix Aimee up with every available bachelor in the neighborhood. Aimee knows Grams means well and is anxious to return the romantic favor... 

Check out the award nominated novella's review at http://indtale.com

I loved this story!

Silver Linings

Drew Westfall is running from a past he is ashamed of: The cold cruelty of money. What he doesn't realize is that running isn't the answer, especially when confronted with the late winter of Bridger, Colorado. 

This is the second book from Kaylee Baldwin that I've read and mentioned here. This one out shines the last if that is possible! Her books are filled with the same spirit she radiates in person.

Please visit http://indtale.com/magazine for the full review.

Well done Kaylee!

Love's Duplicity Update

Be the first to know and it's a secret--not the one related to InD'Tale e magazine, It is on its way (okay in a round about way) to Hollywood...






(SCREAM)  
                  Hands a little jittery at the moment.
                                                                     Skeeeee!!!!!!

Blackout

Aurora Black has very little memory of her life before waking up in a box with dead bodies. She should be dead; instead her ability to survive is complicated ...

Please visit http://indtale.com/magazine for a full review.

Sign-up for free subscription.

Love's Duplicity Update

May are aware, and some are not, at one time this project was slated for being published under three separate covers as a trilogy. Today it stands a a 600+ page volume, parts One, Two, and Three. Beta Readers have it in their hands, both those who have read two of the previously mentioned books and those reading this tale for the first time. Early reports are promising.
Now I have two tasks:
1) decide if I will Indie publish or submit to an agent. Hummm. Big decision.
2) Finish the review on my plate and get busy writing while the ideas are fresh and still not fleshed out...you see, I tend to get bored once I figure out all the details. I just know that the next one has several four foot critters in it. Getting you to love the critters and the characters is the puzzle to be solved on my end.

Tequila Mockingbird

Rachel finds the new and improved Kes gorgeous in spite of her friend's claims to his bad character. But when her sister is kidnapped, she can't turn to the police and finds herself needing Kes's help.

Please visit http://indtale.com/magazine for full review. While there, sign up for free subscription and get reviews of indie authors books every month.

The Case of the Killer Divorce

Jamie Quinn is a family law attorney nearing the end of yet another divorce case but this one has the parties in tears and issuing threats as the custody battle ensues. 

When the soon-to-be ex-husband turns up dead, Jamie finds herself in the middle of yet another murder needing to be solved. 
Please visit http://indtale.com/magazine for the full review and while you're there sign-up for your free subscription!

"Park" --maybe

Southern Idaho 1960's

Byline: June Bridger (One of my many aliases)

We lived about 500 yards from the old church. From the first snow until late spring we drove to church. Seems a bit silly now with gas prices well over $3.00 a gallon but my parents had their reasons; a passel of children as in too many to put in seatbelts the youngest barely toddling, cold as in below freezing temps, and dirt roads that were muddy until well into May and then the spring showers came so well, we usually drove.

Of course as we girls approached our teen years we were notoriously late getting ready. It wasn't because of the boys at church; we were related to most of them, the nice looking ones anyway. Who knows why we were always late, the church had a restroom fit for a queen with a mirror covering one wall. I know, I used to wonder how it would break after breaking the one at home. {Cringe}

If you are a churchgoer out in the farming community the fact is that church is your one time each week which affords adults to relate to adults on an adult level without the notorious party-line. Lest you think the women have a corner on this verbal frat party, I share this, my first--very first driving lesson.

Picture a beautiful spring day. It hasn't rained for weeks so the roads are dry, thus most of the family has walked home, including Mom with the younger children. I approach Dad. He is deep in discussion as to how crops are doing without the crop needed rains.

"Dad, um…" I don't stutter, but I think I did that day. "Can we go now?"

Dad hands me the keys with, "You take the car home. I'll walk."

I'm not sure if he forgot which kid I was or maybe how old I was (at the time I was eleven.) Maybe he figured I was like my older brothers, who were both driving tractors since they could reach the pedals.

"Daaaad." You know that sing-song-y voice a kid uses to convey anything from begging to horror? That's the one I used and somehow it got lost in translation 'cause I clearly recall my white knuckles as I peered over the steering wheel, my heel, all inch and a half of it, caught under the gas pedal. I honestly don't remember the drive, just the screaming of tires as I pulled into the yard, and the slamming on the brakes with both shoeless feet in order to stop before I hit the 500 gallon gas tank. Not sure I even put it in "park."

---

 [s1]Good Old Days 6/18/14

Out of the Ordinary Outhouse

Submitted to Good Old Days 6/15/2014

Byline Jules West (Jules, in case you haven't met her will be my alter ego for timetravel novels in the future - yes, pun intended.) (For my sister whose memories of this outhouse are quite different. Happy birthday sis.)

The Crapper has been long romanticized by Hollywood, but I wonder if the one we had when I was a kid was so unique. The typical Crapper has three walls, a roof to keep the rain and snow off of you and a door on the front that opens to a seat with a hole just the right size for an adult bottom. A roll of toilet paper is optional although my mother insisted on the necessity. Between German stubbornness and Danish ingenuity they came upon a solution. A bucket, by the time I came along an empty paint bucket was nailed securely to a 2x4 and the lumber then nailed to the side of the standard throne. If the roll ran out, the old Montgomery Wards Christmas catalogue sat on the back corner or the wide seat.

Having drawn you that picture, let me describe the reality of my earlier years and our Out of the Ordinary Outhouse. None of the cute little house here. Ours was positioned on the back porch--of an abandoned settler's house. The relatively solidity of the house stood between the crapper seat and the main road, but we lived on the northeast corner of the forty acres with a road on both the north and east side. Enter the efficiency of a Danish farmer long used to making ends meet. Along the north wall my father nailed up what I've come to know as fiber board, which is great at blocking the winter wind-- until ones big brothers get the brainy idea to drill a hole with a stick so as to terrorize their younger sisters while they, the sisters, are tending to necessary business. Those holes never got plugged and after there are about four of them, so as to get the occupant dead center of their back, a gust of winter can nigh freeze your tender backside to a frail pinkish blue.

But I get ahead of myself. I've only mentioned two walls. The west wall runs along a ditch bordered on the other side by a wide field often filled with growing crops, but the beauty of it is that it is not a solid wall. It doesn't reach the rafters overhead nor fully to the ground either. Many a visits I have watched the cats walk through that wall. Now, let's focus on the south wall, the one the occupant stares at while busy at work. Stare because the wall only covers roughly three quarters of the space from east to west leaving the south west corner open to the fresh air. Yep, I'm not lying. One does not visit this unique Crapper without learning how to whistle. Why? One must whistle while traversing the path once you round the corner of the chicken coop so that any occupant can hear you on approach. The occupant's responsibility is to whistle to let the newcomer know that the space is in use. This works well until the first time a young little girl, me, in this case, is startled in the middle of a major "push" to finish the job. I still remember that weak tweet of a dying baby bird. I knew the whistler by the tune he always whistled. My whistle, dead as it was, gave way to an urgent need.

"No! No! Don't come…" At that point I glanced over at the empty paint can to where the trusty roll should have been. Nothing, nada. Not even the empty roll.

I eyed the Christmas catalogue. Keep in mind that the catalogue was my reading, okay, not reading but dreaming book. How could one tear out a glossy page of ones dreams to finish the paper work of a necessary job? In all honesty, I don't remember really finishing that job.

Now, that isn't the end of the story. Remember I mentioned the chicken coop? Chickens attract skunks .One never, seriously, never visited the outhouse in the middle of the night. One could hold it indefinitely on a cold winter evening, thus having the very enjoyable (?) experience of a sleepless night. (My mother refused to have even one chamber pot, no matter how beautiful. They had to be cleaned and no amount of scrubbing refreshed them to a clean enough state for her as a German city girl.)

That being said, we had a herd of cats to keep the field mice in the fields and a dog or two that were kept close to home. As a kid, I never understood the reason until one morning my fragile, little girl bladder had experienced a very long winter night.  Dancing, I pulled on my winter coat and gumboots over my flannel night gown and headed for the Crapper with the cats and dogs along for company. As I rounded the corner of the chicken coop I realized the cats had scattered. This was nothing new as they often did when I passed the scrap bowl. But the dog was growling, and not at me. Let's just say I left a rather obvious trail as I ran from that smelly black and white critter. And the dog? Well, he got left in the cold until a tomato bath could be arranged in the spring.

July Update - Release in Paperback!

So, in the afterglow of my book's arrival in print, it is time for me to resume my usual writing activities. For those of you who don't know, I studiously try to complete at least one short story for freelance every writing day (that is five days a week), namely: Chicken Soup for the Soul, Good Old Days, Reminisce and True Renditions and I'm looking for others. I have too many psuedomyns to list but some stories will be in my 'real' name.  

For my 'day job' over at InD'Tale Emagazine. I need to read/review at least one chapter of a novel pretty much every day to complete my assignments. This is easy with some books, but feels like have teeth pulled with others. (You are welcome to slip over there, sign-up for a free subscription and find out what I've recently read and what I thought of it.) I'm not overly good at sharing partial reviews here.

And--the biggy that takes first position on my list of priorities, work in my WIP.

(Currently operating under the title of Love's Duplicity.) This is my baby--and he, yes he, is gorgeous! Therefore I am taking more time with him (Okay, I'm in love with Trevor and you'll have to pick up the book when it is published to find out why. Let's just say I make him suffer a lot because I'm so fond of him. Why not? He handles it, maybe not beautifully, but he comes to the last page knowing who he is, where he has been, and where he is going.) How many of us can say that?

Oh! And did I mention the continued promotion of Dark Days of Promise? You can help me with that one by sharing a link to this blog  or this link for Facebook on all your pages. Thanks in advance!

Bittersweet Secret

I recently submitted this short to Reminisce Magazine under the psuedonym of June Bridger. Please watch for it 

Bittersweet Secret

I swallow my last morsel of chocolate, the bitter biting my parched throat awakening a precious memory of my childhood. Southeastern Idaho in the mid 1960's. Dad drove a turquoise blue pick-up everyday to feed the cattle. The exceptions were when the cattle were out on the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) range for the summer. Summer in this case was just late enough in the spring that all the cows had calved and the snow had given way to tender shoots of grass.

On one of many spring days that Dad didn't take the pick-up out to work, I learned that being a small child left to her own devises could be very rewarding. The first time I stood tall enough to open the pick-up door and climb in was for purely innocent reasons--to play driving. Yep, we had an old car sitting in the driveway but its tires were missing. Thus the pick-up looked to much more inviting. It, after all, could really drive down the road.

Being a child of 3 or 4-years of age, I firmly gripped the steering wheel and happily "pretended" to drive and bounce down the road. I timed the trip to the distant corner, played with the blinker, making it click several times, and turned the corner. That's when I discovered the brown bag sitting on the seat beside me. A brown bag with "IGA" lettering.

Of course I knew that spelled grocery store and wondered why would Dad leave a grocery bag in the truck? Hum. Did he buy something that he forgot to take into the house? (Visualize me sitting a little taller with indignant righteousness-- even if I didn't know those words at the time, I knew the correct posture to adopt the appropriate attitude.)

I opened the bag and what do you think I found? No, my dad wasn't a drinker so it wasn't liquor. I found the biggest hunk of chocolate in the world. (Okay, my limited world.) It wasn't melting, the temps were still cool. But it was open… I slithered down in the seat, making myself invisible should Mom glance out the windows looking for me. Carefully unwrapping one end, (You may want to imagine "careful" for a pre-school-er) I sniffed, I licked and yeah, I bit. Problem with that first bite was that it wasn't big enough. I stretched my jaw wide and sank my teeth into the chocolate expecting it to break off as easily at the first nibble had.

Was I surprised! I have no recollection of how long it took me to whittle away at that hunk of chocolate to hide my teeth marks. Do you have any idea the skill it takes to etch a smooth line with your front teeth? Let it suffice to say that I never found a hunk of chocolate in Dad's truck again, at least not milk chocolate. I did find on occasion a hunk of white chocolate-- the real stuff that gives me a headache so I leave it alone. I've also found Spanish peanuts--I think I finished off most of the bag. And cookies…my favorite, and apparently Dad's too were Keebler's striped chocolate.

As a kid I thought I was so clever at hiding my thievery. Now I just smile knowing Dad kept my secret. He generally took the pick-up in the morning, bringing it home at lunch and often left it in the driveway in the afternoon. Of course I had to time it right, eat lunch with Dad, take a nap and steal treats before the older kids got home from school. Dad never spanked me for eating his goodies, nor did he say anything to me about it. But I know now--he knew and he helped his baby girl keep her Bittersweet Secret.

---

 [s1]Submitted to Reminisce 6/18/14

The End, My Friend (Prelude to the Apocalypse) Review

Tony and Evo Pernicano must leave their home to survive the general meltdown of society in a future world gone awry.http://indtale.com/reviews/suspense-thriller/end-my-friend-prelude-apocalypse for a full review.