Pamela Schloesser Canepa's Blog, page 49
July 18, 2019
Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA 7/18
July 16, 2019
Lofty thoughts. #RDP
Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA 7/15
July 15, 2019
Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA 7/15
July 13, 2019
Weekend Coffee Share, 7/13. A Writer’s Life.
July 12, 2019
Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA
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Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Around WordPress this week, members of the Rave Reviews Book Club will be sharing writing samples and information about other authors in this organization called RWISA, the Rave Writer’s International Society of Authors.
Today’s writing sample is from author Beem Weeks.
Dying for a Kiss, by Beem Weeks
It’s like one of those stories you’d read about in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a kiss? Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my spring break.
Okay, let me back up to the beginning.
My parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine. This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that engulfs our family—our collective lives.
Dad is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.
Dad’s the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom refuses to play the bad parent anymore.
“Sorry, kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this time.”
Amanda, being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.
“I figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.
Dad tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t go somewhere that’s almost as fun and exciting.”
When Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.
Amanda hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”
I don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things to do.
* * *
A little backstory.
My parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.
Dad, well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”
Hippies, they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.
Mom works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity to advance into a higher tax bracket.
Dad? He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly, maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.
Dad’s a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.
So, anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table. Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.
“It’s Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my hands.
Hiawatha National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.
“The Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.
Amanda despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate camping.”
* * *
Radio songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.
“I hate that song,” Amanda complains.
Dad says, “Well, I like it.”
Mom tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”
“Please don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug red!”
“Ouch!” And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.
“Slug bug green!” Thwack!
“Slug bug blue!” Thwack!
“Slug bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!
“Hey! No fair!”
Blondie sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.
Many hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.
But in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore. She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be able to afford it.
Evening spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.
“Andrew and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”
Kids—loud and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either direction.
“Too stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.
Mom gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”
* * *
“Andy and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are you two twins or something?”
“Or something,” Amanda says.
Her name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda, who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s their collie running wild.
“Five kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers and a baby sister.”
“Sounds kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.
She looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of her.
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”
* * *
Blue jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning. And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.
Mom’s not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s top.
“But you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”
Mom’s hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you kids going boating?”
It’s not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic. I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.
Nora sits in the middle—facing me!
I think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.
Nora talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well, the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend, but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce, but her mom ended up pregnant.
“Amazing how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.
It’s after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”
Only, she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.
We end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.
“You’re cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.
My cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.
And she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips press against mine.
My first kiss—well, first real kiss.
On her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.
What I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.
Amanda intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.
* * *
It strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.
Mom’s hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy to a hospital.”
Only, I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”
“But I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.
* * *
Two weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.
From a kiss!
Is that a Ripley’s story or what?
And what a kiss—totally worth dying for!
Well, almost dying.
*Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Beem Weeks RWISA Author page
“Take a Hike.” #RDP #amwriting
(c) Pamela Schloesser Canepa
John had been through this before. No one understood how he processed things. This was his third foster home in a row.
His foster dad, Mr. Biggins, spoke in a strange way., but John really wanted to know the workings of this new household and had a lot of questions.
Mrs. Biggins had shown John to his room. There were two smaller children in the home, but John got his own room. Mrs. Biggins was busy cooking dinner one day when John asked why there wasn’t much toilet paper.
“Oh, we try not to use too much paper. It’s Mr. Biggins’ rules, you know.”
John went to ask Mr. Biggins, because sometimes he needed a lot more than what was rationed to him each morning.
“Take a hike,” Mr. Biggins said.
“But, but, that doesn’t answer my question. Sir,” John added politely.
“Learn to use less. Conserve. Now, I’ve answered you. Go take a hike.”
John suffered for a year in that home, with people who did not understand his needs. Finally, he was adopted by a loving family. The Servos lived in the big city. John looked down at his hiking books. No woods to explore as he used to do for hours when living with the Biggins, where no one cared that he was gone for hours as long as he was back before dinner. Summers had provided a lot of education in nature.
“Would you mind if I take a hike?” John asked, longing for some movement and fresh air.
“Well, that’s an interesting thought,” Mr. Servo replied. “There’s this place a couple blocks away with excellent gyros. And the doc said walking would good for my heart. Come on! We can talk on the way.”
***The Ragtag Daily Prompt is given daily in the form of one word. Writers take it from there. This story was just short of 300 words. I hope you have enjoyed it! See other responses or learn about this challenge at https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/07/12/rdp-friday-hike/
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Photo by Lum3n.com on Pexels.com
July 10, 2019
The sequel to Detours in Time, just .99 through 7/14! #RRBC
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If you read and loved Detours in Time, you’ll love to see what’s next for Tabitha and Milt in Undercurrents in Time! Get it this week on a Kindle Countdown deal in the U.S. and U.K., and you’ll pay just .99 for the Kindle version, a full-length book (Or the equivalent in the U.K.)
Why you should read Undercurrents in Time, from one of the most recent reviews:
“A slow, but character driven start changes into a faster-paced thriller as we follow Tabitha’s adventures in the future where she encounters a cluster of interesting characters and even the enemy Milt had been preparing for himself.
Overall, Undercurrents of Time was a good mix of sci-fi, thriller and character focus, and it looks like there may be a sequel too.”
Undercurrents in Time also ties up some loose ends for the main characters, such as the dangerous enemy they’ve both never yet met, while diving into their pyschology a little bit more. Read it and see what happens!
Get your copy and start reading it today:
U.S. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07DCCQS3N
U.K. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07DCCQS3N
If you haven’t started the series yet, go here: Detours in Time Book Series
Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA
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Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Around WordPress this week, members of the Rave Reviews Book Club will be sharing writing samples and information about other authors in this organization called RWISA, the Rave Writer’s International Society of Authors.
Today’s featured author is Mary Adler, with “Black Notes Beat.”
BLACK NOTES BEAT, by Mary Adler.
I have studied and observed crows for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”
Over the years, I have told my family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that I don’t know where to begin.)
During the non-nesting period of the year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place. They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even dynamiting their roosting places at night.
Like many natural creatures, they are good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates their beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky–one small group after another–as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they are together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others where it is. They share, but only within their own flock.
One evening, after watching them move across the sky, I wrote this:
Black Notes Beat
Black notes beat
Unfurling dusk
Across the bruising sky.
Quarter notes, half notes
Rise and fall.
Whole notes
Rest on treetops.
An arpeggio of eighth notes
Silently swirls,
Scribing a nocturne
in the fading light.
Softly they spill
to the nighttime roost:
Rustling,
murmuring,
settling,
hushed.
Now the still moment,
the last note fading,
No bows, no curtsies,
No fear of reviews.
They need no applause to perform their works.
Mary Adler
*Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Mary Adler RWISA Author Page
July 8, 2019
Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA, 7/08
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Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Around WordPress this week, members of the Rave Reviews Book Club will be sharing writing samples and information about other authors in this organization called RWISA, the Rave Writer’s International Society of Authors.
Today’s featured author is Nonnie Jules, sharing “Silent Tears.”
SILENT TEARS
by Nonnie Jules
I cry these silent tears for her
For her loss, for her pain, for her heart
Breaking when she looks into their eyes
Her children –
she feels their loss, their pain, their hearts breaking.
The memories –
the hardest
Yet, there’s no getting away from the reminders of what used to be.
There once was a HE
HE sat, parented, loved, even laughed
Yes, towards all ends there is laughter some say
But his chair is empty now
Just as their hearts
Hollow as the tree he chose.
He left it all there
His back against a world filled with painful memories of a childhood unprotected.
His pain…
Bottled up in the bottles of poison he consumed
Reckless abandon he gave to it
But quit…
he could not
would not
was it his choice not?
In the end, the call of the poison was stronger
and he had to answer
he was forced to answer
given no choice but to answer…
was the way he felt.
His choice gave her no choice
Single parenting
A thing for some
but…
It wasn’t her thing
That is
until
he left her
no choice.
She’ll be fine
Kids are resilient
They’ll be fine
Time heals all wounds
All clichés but true.
Still…
I cry my silent tears for her
For the husband she once knew.
*Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Nonnie Jules RWISA Author Page
