Mary Angela's Blog, page 3

Grateful for Readers Giveaway

Writing is a solitary act. What happens between a writer and the page is personal. My kids tease me about going down the rabbit’s hole when I go downstairs to write, but it’s a pretty accurate description. With each step, the real world recedes. The laundry disappears, the grading disappears, the grocery list disappears. Copper Bluff comes into focus, and I am there again in Em’s bungalow, Dickinson at the porch window switching her tail.

But I am not alone. I was reminded of this recently at the launch of A Very Merry Murder, where I was surrounded by family, friends, and readers. Sharing something you love is never easy. There’s always the chance it will be rejected. Time, money, and effort can be invested without return or interest. And that doesn’t even acknowledge the personal risk of such an endeavor.

But the risk felt less risky surrounded by supporters, people like my husband, who has encouraged my writing dreams since the beginning; my daughters, who have been my cheerleaders on the bad days and my defenders on the really bad days; my mother, who has read so many drafts of my writing she deserves an honorary PhD; and my friends and relatives, who have bought my books and shared them with others.

That doesn’t even touch on readers, like you, who have taken a chance on an author who isn’t a best seller and who have invited the Prof. Prather series into your hearts. If you didn’t know it by now, the series is made up of a big part of mine. Your attendance at events, your emails, and your reviews have brought many bright spots into my days. “Thank you” doesn’t begin to express my gratitude for your kindness, but thank you.

Thanksgiving is the perfect time to remember our blessings, so go ahead! Share one thing you’re grateful for and/or a Thanksgiving tradition. When you do, you’ll be entered into the giveaway for this Barnes and Noble tote bag. Isn’t it fun? The giveaway runs from November 19-21.  I’ll notify the winner via email and post the winner’s name on the blog.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Gift of Education

Old Main, University of SD

Every semester, I tell my students how important school is, yet sometimes my words fall on deaf ears. I state it as strongly as possible: college can change your life. But for students who’ve always known college was in their future, it’s hard for them to understand. For me, it was much easier.

I graduated from high school early, at semester time. I was glad to escape the classroom and be out on my own, making money. At the time, a computer manufacturer had just moved into town, and I could make a nice wage working the night shift. I was eighteen, life was good, and college wasn’t part of my plans.

After a few years of technical support, however, life was no longer good. I was unhappy with my job, and the only other option was management, which didn’t appeal to me. Manage a bunch of people who disliked their jobs as much as I did? That didn’t seem like the path to freedom either, but at this point, anything was better than taking tech support calls. I entertained the idea.

I was writing in the morning and in the evenings, but I certainly didn’t have a plan for my work. I wrote as a hobby; it was a creative outlet, like reading. Publishing a book was something other people did, people I couldn’t even guess about. Even after completing a romance novel, I didn’t realize writing was something I should pursue.

Then my husband found a job that moved us to Vermillion, SD. I turned down the management job to go to school full time at the University of South Dakota, and the direction of my life turned, too.

I went to college to learn to write, but what I actually learned was that my life had possibility. All those things I thought I couldn’t do? I could. It wasn’t a quick transformation. It was slow, like a minuet: a high score on a history test, a compliment from a teacher, a scholarship. Even after graduation and writing a literary novel for my master’s thesis, I didn’t sit down and think, Ah! I can publish those books now. But I did start teaching.

Teaching was a second education. I belonged to a community I didn’t know existed, a community I’m still proud to be part of. The longer I taught classes, the more I thought about writing until, eventually, I picked it up again with a new idea: someone might want to read my stuff. It was then I began writing with a goal in mind.

It’s hard to teach possibility. You can feel it, you can dream it, but it’s not in a book. I can’t have students turn to page ten to learn about their potential, nor can I make them feel my past poverty. Sometimes I wish they knew what I knew: education is a beautiful gift. Whether or not they choose to open that gift, however, is entirely up to them.

 

 

Dreaming Again of Manderley

English Berries and Cream tea and one of my favorite mysteries

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” I could have uttered the best-loved first line myself. Though it’d been years since I read the novel, I instantly remembered. Manderley. How could I ever forget?

I returned to Rebecca for its strong sense of place. I, like the novel’s characters, am enchanted with the setting. The blood-red rhododendrons, the dark woods, the restless sea—they are as real to me as my own wooden fence. Never mind I haven’t been to Cornwall, the place Daphne du Maurier imagined as she wrote the novel (“Author’s Note”). I’ve been to Manderley, and that’s even better.

Du Maurier depicts the ancestral home using traditional gothic qualities: “a carefully described landscape and setting, a sense of the uncanny, and the impression that events are out of kilter with the rational world” (Buzwell). How readers suffer like our unnamed narrator, wanting to know the west wing’s forbidden secrets. We have the east wing and the rose garden, sure, but the large room in the west wing—the one that faces the sea—we long to fling open the window, tear away the coverings, and expose its mysterious past.

For a while, we settle for the library and tea, the dog Jasper at our feet. (It’s certainly better than old Mrs. Van Hopper and her bridge games.) Life at Manderley is good, or is it? Our curiosity must be satiated, so on we go. When the narrator finds herself in the west wing, the “mist upon the window-glass, as though someone had breathed upon it,” fear seizes us. This is Rebecca’s room; it’s herbreath upon the window. Must she take not only the book’s title but our dear Manderley too?

Isn’t this bookmark fun? It uses pressed flowers.

Although she never appears as a ghost, Rebecca dominates the novel, haunting much more than rooms. She lives in the minds of the characters, even our narrator’s, though the two never met. First we envy Rebecca; she must have been something very special. Then we start wondering about those rhododendrons. We wander through Happy Valley—down to the cove, the cottage—picking up clues like a child picks dandelions, mistaking weeds for flowers. By the end, we sense Rebecca laughing at us, “God how funny … how supremely, wonderfully funny.”

It’s hard to move on after a book like Rebecca. We pick up another novel, thumb a few pages, and set it down. We don’t want to leave, but when we do, we won’t leave empty handed. Novels with strong settings give us so much more than a story. They give us a place to return to. For us book gypsies, there’s nothing better. Like a traveler, we will always have our snapshots, our mementos, our memories of Manderley.

 

What books do you go back to, readers? Any special books you reread? How about books with strong settings? Please share for a chance to win a package of English Berries and Cream from Plum Deluxe, the tea featured in the picture, and the pressed flowers bookmark.

 

“Author’s Note” Rebecca. Daphne du Maurier. 1938.

Buzwell, Greg. “Daphne du Maurier and the Gothic Tradition.” British Library.

A Journey Down I-90 West, or Memory Lane

Recently, my family and I traveled to the Black Hills, a 365 mile drive across the state. I always look forward to the trek though I’m not sure why. I’ve made the drive many times, and not much has changed. I stop at the same places I did with my parents years ago on summer vacations.

As a kid, I liked to pick up brochures at rest areas, and my dad indulged me. In South Dakota, rest stops look like teepees, and I thought that was cool. Dad never minded stopping, and Mom never drove. If she had, we would have blown through the state in our Chrysler LeBaron like a black streak of lightening. But a stop with Dad was memorable. He made eating sandwiches at a dirty picnic table fun, recounting the previous miles with stories and jokes. The hours didn’t seem daunting at all the way Dad told them.

I was happy to get out of the car, away from my older sister and brother who monopolized the backseat. Always trying to catch a few Zs, they didn’t have a lot of patience for people who weren’t as interested in sleeping as they were. But there were too many things to look at—mostly the sweaty pamphlets accumulating in the backseat. Even though I knew I wouldn’t go to half of the attractions, I liked reading about them. And Dad was happy to get more.

When we came upon a brown road sign, I would get excited because I knew it signaled something important, and chances were, Dad would stop. I wasn’t particularly fond of history and in fact don’t remember the accounts of most of the places we went. But I do remember stopping and reading signs, walls, and plaques. Gazing over the prairie, the Missouri river, the Badlands, I thought they were interesting because he did.

Truthfully, I don’t remember much of our vacations. Fragments and souvenirs come to mind: a pink cowgirl hat, a Sioux Indian headdress, the feel of the spray of Old Faithful Geyser as I watched it with my mother. Knowing how hard it is, as a parent, to plan a family trip, I wonder at the fickleness of my memory. I chide myself. Who am I to forget the important stuff? Then I think of Dad. He would say this is the important stuff.

How easy it is to forget. To fill our schedules with activities until all we remember is how busy we were. Yet what I remember of summer vacation is stopping—and my dad, of course, whom I miss every day of my life, but especially on Father’s Day. It’s the perfect day to stop and consider the important stuff, and people, like Dad.

 

 

Malice Domestic Wrap-up

Malice Domestic logo

Last weekend, I attended Malice Domestic, a conference for traditional mysteries in Bethesda, MD, where writers and readers discuss topics related to the genre. If you’re considering attending a conference or wonder what happens during a typical weekend, read on!

Being a relatively new author, I’m always curious about what conferences work, and by “work” I mean add value. Malice Domestic works for me. I’ve attended the conference twice and both times was surprised at how intimate it felt despite the large number of attendees.

Friday morning, I participated in Malice Go Round, which is like speed dating between authors and readers. Each author has two minutes to “pitch” his/her book to a table of ten readers. Despite going too fast, it was a lot fun. I connected with many mystery fans that I never could have reached on my own.

Me and fellow tea drinker Samatha McGraw from teacottagemysteries.com

On Saturday, I met more authors and readers during the panel, Bookish Sleuths. Like me, the authors on the panel had sleuths who were bibliophiles, and we answered questions about our protagonists, settings, and bookish indulgences. I listened to a few panels, too, and even met someone in my tea group (Plum Deluxe)! I also met Marie from Cozy Experience who was doing live interviews on Facebook. To listen to my interview, click here.

Louise Penny is the one in red.

Rhys Bowen’s late afternoon interview with Louise Penny was a special treat for everyone. Louise Penny, the guest of honor this year, talked about her Chief Inspector Gamache novels as well as her personal triumphs and losses. She discussed writing, alcoholism, fear, and even the loss of her husband. The interview was truly heartwarming.

By evening, everyone had cast their ballots for the Agatha Awards and dressed for the banquet. The winners were announced by category: historical (In Farleigh Field by Rhys Bowen), contemporary (Glass Houses by Louise Penny), first novel (Hollywood Homicide by Kellye Garrett), nonfiction (From Holmes to Sherlock: The Story of the Men and Women who Created an Icon by Mattias Boström), short story (“The Library Ghost of Tanglewood Inn” by Gigi Pandian), and young adult (Sydney Mackenzie Knocks ‘Em Dead by Cindy Callaghan).

The weekend ended as quickly as it began, and Sunday I was on a plane back to South Dakota. For someone living in a rural state, I think attending conferences (when possible) is important. For readers, conferences connect people with similar interests. As one reader at my banquet table said, “I never knew this world existed!” The same could be said for authors. Living in a small city, I don’t meet many mystery writers, nor do I get to talk with them about the writing craft. It’s wonderful to share similar experiences, and I hope to meet more authors and readers next year.

Interested in finding out more about Malice Domestic? Click here.

Cover Reveal: A Very Merry Murder

I’m so excited to announce book three, A Very Merry Murder, coming in October 2018 ! 

It’s December in Copper Bluff, and from hillside to hallowed hall, everyone is merry—or will be as soon as semester break arrives. Students are studying, professors are grading, and Emmeline Prather is anticipating the university-sponsored holiday concert. Friend and colleague Lenny Jenkins will be accompanying the visiting quartet, Jazz Underground, and Em can’t think of a better way to kick-start the holiday season.

But before she can say “Jingle Bell Rock,” trouble arrives at Candlelight Inn, the bed and breakfast where the quartet is staying. One of the band members dies unexpectedly, and suspicion falls on Em, whose altercation with the man ends with him on the floor. He never recovers, and now she’s worried her reputation might not either.

When Emmeline starts to see parallels between an Agatha Christie novel she’s teaching and the victim, Lenny claims she’s read one too many mysteries. But as the clues unravel, so does the murderer’s patience. Em is close to finding the truth, but will the truth—or the murderer—push her over the edge? It will take a Christmas miracle to solve this case, but if there’s one thing in surplus this time of year, it’s faith.

Book Three of the Professor Prather Mystery Series

Lions, Lambs, and Spring Break

March 6 at USF. I’m counting this as “In like a lion.”

The March saying goes, “In like a lion, out like a lamb” or “In like a lamb, out like a lion.” But what happens when it’s lion in and lion out? South Dakota weather can feel that way some days. Well before the snow melts, I’m looking for a small sprout or seed to plant, anything to green up the gray days of early spring. This year, I traded seeds for paint and plants for brushes, and using the Neapolitan series by Elena Ferrante as my inspiration, I renovated my bedroom. I painted it “Sea Glass” and bought a furniture set called “Summer Breeze,” tossing in a Tommy Bahama comforter for good measure. I bet you can guess what I was thinking: island retreat.

My all-time favorite series

Short of an airline ticket, a nanny, and permission from my university, I’m not sure how else I’d get away right now. So I’m reading a lot of books in my new bedroom. Books have been my one-way ticket to all-inclusive delights for many years now. The blue-green paint and new bedding are just upgrades to my accommodations.

If you’re a college student, you might be lucky enough to take a spring break this month, and if you’re a teacher, you might be lucky enough to hear about one. I get to listen to all the exotic places my students will be traveling the next two weeks (and how their travel plans will be interrupting our normally scheduled programing). Sometimes, seven days just aren’t enough. I completely empathize.

Okay. So I bought ONE plant.

In Passport to Murder, Professor Prather is about to embark on the spring break of a lifetime. Prather is traveling to Paris for the week with a group from the university. Unfortunately, murder ensues midflight, and a colleague’s death brings her back to Copper Bluff—and reality. However, Emmeline decides she doesn’t need a trip to Paris to lift her spirits. She has a mystery, her beloved Copper Bluff, and her dear friend Lenny Jenkins to make it a spring to remember.

The Woman in the Window is on my spring break reading list. I save nail-biters for those late nights!

Like Em, I dream of getting away but soon realize books take me just about every place I want to go. Right now I’m reading a steamy historical romance that takes place in 1806 Scotland. How much farther away from South Dakota could I really get? Which reminds me of a quote I recently discussed with my classes. Frederick Douglass wrote, “Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.” Although he wasn’t talking about fiction, he might have been, for it also has the ability to free you from so many things: tedium, circumstance—even location. All I have to do to escape the remains of South Dakota’s winter is open a book and go anywhere this spring break takes me, no passport required.

 

Do you have any plans this spring, readers? Let’s hear them!

Love: The Beginning and End of Everything

F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote in a letter, “I love her, and that’s the beginning and end of everything.” He was, of course, talking about his own dear Zelda. February is the perfect month to celebrate love letters such as the ones between Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Unlike valentines, letters go beyond holiday love to reveal the myriad nuances of our strongest emotion.

Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald  is a remarkable collection. The letters are accidentally poetic, brutally honest, and thoroughly haunting. Beginning with the couple’s jazz age courtship in August 1918, they end with Scott’s final letter to Zelda just two days before his death (he died on Dec. 21, 1940). In the correspondence, both writers pour out their souls, writing about art, love, and inspiration, but Zelda’s passages, written at various states of mental stability, are especially poignant.

In the fall of 1929, Zelda tried to run their car off the road, and this was (in my opinion) the beginning of her breakdown. Some experts say she was schizophrenic, but I can’t be sure. Zelda wrote, “Twice horrible things have happened to me because of my inability to express myself.” One thing is certain, however: women suffered due to experimental treatments for mental illness and depression in the 1930s. Zelda herself died in a fire, locked in a room on the top floor of a sanitarium. Scott, an alcoholic, was no less tortured. Zelda was not only the love of his life but also his muse, and after her breakdown, life would never be the same. Like Gatsby, they both express a desperate desire to repeat the past.

“I wonder why we have never been very happy and why all this has happened—It was much nicer a long time ago when we had each other and the space around the world was warm—Can’t we get it back someway—even by imagining?”                                                                                         –Zelda, 1930

Sometimes imagination is the only way to get through these heart-wrenching passages, but they’re worth it. They will forever change the way you think about the famous pair—and perhaps love as well.

If you’re looking for a shorter (and lighter) collection of love letters, you might try the fun Letters to Juliet, which explores the phenomenon that inspired the movie by the same name. Each year, thousands of writers from around the world send letters to Juliet of Verona (the real-life inspiration for Shakespeare’s Juliet in Romeo and Juliet). They receive answers from her “secretaries,” volunteers who have taken up the mantle on Juliet’s behalf.

Early letters can be traced to the late nineteenth century, or at least the first picture of them can be. Seen here, it shows several notes behind Juliet’s sarcophagus. Who was the real Juliet of Verona? The answer could be its own blog, but Letters to Juliet cites Istoria della Citta di Verona (History of the City of Verona), dated 1336, as the first reference to the star-crossed pair: “The bodies of the unfortunate lovers were, by their common will, placed in the same monument, which of vivid stone was considerably above ground […]” (qtd. in Friedman 28).

Shakespeare’s inspiration for his famous tragedy, however, isn’t the most interesting aspect of the book. Much more detailed scholarship exists for true Shakespearean devotees. What recommends this book are the letters themselves. From lovelorn to love-struck, the writers wait for answers to age-old questions like these:

“I’ve asked myself many times, how it is that we fall in love: do we trip, lose our balance and fall, scraping our hearts? Do we crash to the ground, on stones? Or is it like staying on the edge of a precipice for all time?”                                                                                                    — letter from Poland

 

I’ll wait while you sigh and clutch your bosom, readers. Then please share your favorite love stories, poems, letters, or books in the comments below! I’d love to hear your picks for February.

 

Writing Workshop Winner!

A long-lost relative, a trampoline gun, or a hero named Jack? Why not read a mystery with all three! Today on my blog, I’m sharing Andy White’s short story “The Mystery of the Space Bombings.” Andy White is the winner of my 6th Grade Writing Workshop Contest at St. Katharine Drexel in Sioux Falls, SD. Please encourage this gifted young writer by liking, commenting, and sharing!

Chapter 1, The Place

There was once a little boy named Jack. I’m Jack. I love to draw and write. One day, I found myself sitting along the edge of a bridge doing my homework with my friend Will. Will is a smart friendly person who likes to express himself.

When we ate supper and got done doing our homework it was nearly midnight, 11 o’clock to be exact (we have a LOT of homework). Once we started walking home, we noticed some strange, out of the ordinary noises that did not make sense. It sounded like something between nails on a chalkboard and a dying goat.

Will and I both love to do things that we know we shouldn’t do and so, naturally, we both went in search of the strange noise. Once we thought we were near the sound, I heard a big crash to my left. I looked and noticed that the crashing sound was actually Will falling through some old, creaky floorboards. EEEE!! CSHHH!

“Will!” I yelled. “Are you okay?”

“I may have a twisted ankle,” Will responded. “But otherwise, yeah I’m fine.”

I noticed that he was hanging by his shirt on top of a ship-like structure. “Whoa,” I said. “That’s cool.”

“What, the way I fell on top of this … thing? Or the room that the thing is in?” Will questioned.

“Both,” I replied. To my left I noticed a ladder, so I climbed down to investigate the scene. Whatever made the sound before either left this unexplored place or was hiding, ready to strike at us.

By the time I got down the ladder, Will had only gotten halfway down the odd ship-like structure.

“What are ya doing in me lab!” something to my left screamed.

I whipped around as fast as lightning and noticed an alien-like figure standing before me. “I … It’s just … my friend fell and I had—”

“EXCUSES, EXCUSES!” retorted the alien.

By the time I had seen the alien, Will was already on the ground of the lab.

“Hey, what’s all of that yelling?” questioned Will.

“Shhh!” I hissed.

“And who is this that ya brought with ya?” the alien said.

The face that Will made when he noticed the alien was unexplainable. “Wha….”

Just then Will fainted.

“I see ya friend here couldn’t process the thought of an alien standin’ right in front of him,” said the alien. Then he pulled out a tranquilizer dart and shot me.

Chapter 2, Home

In the morning I immediately recognized the room that I was in, my room.

“Honey, time for breakfast!” my mom called.

“Ugh,” I groaned. By the way, my mom’s name is Alex, Alex Johansen. I look almost identical to my mom except for one thing, eye color. My mom has dark brown eyes, and I have deep blue eyes. After about a minute or two in my bed, I finally got the urge to start the day.

At the table, I did not want to talk about my experiences I had the night before since I thought that everyone in my family would think I’d gone psycho.

After I ate my breakfast, I called Will. Beep … Beep … Be—click. “Hi Will,” I said.

“Good morning,” Will responded.

“What do you think about the night before?”

Will shuddered under the thought. “Scary, very scary.”

“Yeah, it definitely was,” I responded.

After our little conversation on the phone, we both decided to go back and see what more there was to explore of the secret place. Once we got to the spot where Will fell into, we noticed that the boards that Will broke were fixed.

“Huh,” I said. “Wonder how he managed to fix the floorboard that quickly.”

“Bet he has a floorboard fixer on speed dial for occasional fall-throughs,” said Will.

Once we got done with that, I got out my pocket-knife and started to cut open a floorboard. Before we went down I whispered, “Remember, be quiet. We are not here to make enemies with that hideous alien.”

“ALIEN! That thing was an ALIEN?” Will yelled.

“Shh!” I hissed.

Chapter 3, Jake

As soon as we hit the ground of the secret base, I turned on my flashlight. I noticed some blueprints on the walls. “Hey, Will come check this out.” Once Will got over to me, I pointed out the blueprints. “They look like time travel machine blueprints.”

“Wow,” Will said. “You are such a nerd.”

“What?” I said. “I can’t help it.”

“Look at the name on the blueprints,” Will exclaimed. “They all say JAKE on them.”

“Jake,” I repeated. “Now THAT is an evil name!”

“It must be the name of the weird alien creature,” Will realized.

Chapter 4, Stealing A Ship

“I know what we should do,” I said in a mischievous voice.

“What?” Will questioned.

“I say we should steal the ship.”

“Okay,” answered Will.

“Just okay? You’re not going to argue with me?” I questioned.

“Nope,” Will responded. “I’m shooting towards an argue-free weekend.”

“Huh,” I said. “That’s the weirdest thing I have ever heard you say.”

Afterwards, we gathered up (I mean stole) all of the stuff needed for the trip.

“Oxygen tank, check. Suit, check. Money, che—wait, why would we need money if we are traveling to a different planet that probably won’t have the same currency as us?” I pondered.

“Beats me,” Will said back.

“Weapons, check. Alien Ships for Dummies, check. Okay, we are ready to get going,” I said.

Once we got in the ship, we heard the odd noise again. “Eeeraah!”

“GO, GO, GO,” yelled Will.

Right then and there, the alien swooped down with his hideous wings and caught Will in its grasp.

“Will!” I shouted “NO!” I pulled out a plasma rifle out of who knows where and shot the alien.

In agony, the alien dropped Will. “AHHHHH!”

Ploosh! I shot a trampoline gun at the place where Will was about to land, and he bounced all of the way up to the cockpit of the spaceship.

“Oh, my gosh,” said Will. “That was super scary.”

“And cool,” I admitted.

Finally, we climbed into place and started our adventure.

“Oh man, I think I’ve got the Hebejebies,” Will explained.

“Setting route for Hebejebies, the Planet of the Great Space … nothingness,” said the spaceship.

“And where is this?” I questioned.

“This planet is in between Kilefay and Hoogojay,” answered the ship.

“And how far away is that?” pondered Will.

“Approximately 6 light years away,” said the spaceship.

“Whoa,” I said. “That’s pretty far.”

Chapter 5, ATTACK!

After we took the spaceship, Jake the alien called up all of his minions, who were now attacking the ship from a second vessel.

“Incoming bogies,” said our spaceship.

“WHAT!” yelled Will.

“You know what to do,” I said. “SHOOT ’EM!”

PEW! PEW! PEW! The other ship shot at us! CSHHH! CSHHH! CSHHH! WEOO! WEOO! WEOO!

“First engine down … second engine down … loosing main power source,” said the spaceship.

“AH …” The spaceship hit the ground of a planet. “You have arrived,” explained the spaceship.

“Good,” I replied, holding my aching head.

Chapter 6, Hebejebies

When I woke up, I found myself in what looked like a hospital room, a heart monitor displayed to the left of me. Right next to that was an airbag.

“Finally you’re awake,” said Will.

“Wha—where am I?” I questioned.

“You’re in a Hebejebies hospital. Have you met the locals?” Will asked.

“Well of course not. I just woke up … what the heck are you wearing?”

“Oh, this?” Will said, pointing to his head. “This is just a cultural hat … they’re pretty cool.”

“I don’t think we have the same definitions of cool Will, and besides what is the currency here?” I questioned.

“I’m glad you asked my dear friend. It seems as if there is an intergalactic bank here and they exchange all types of currency including the American currency that we stole earlier,” explained Will.

“And how much did we steal?” I questioned.

“About 1,400 jebe-coins,” Will responded.

“And how much of that did you spend on the hat?”

“80 coi—”

We heard a loud bang. I got up as quick as I ever could before … and fell back down. “Uuugh,” I moaned.

“Bro, you need to rest,” Will explained. “Eeeeeugh! Are you drooling? Oh man I’m going to send this to the entire school of what-cha-ma-call-it prep!”

“Dude, the school is called Canyon Prep, and I’m NOT drooling.”

A nurse standing at the foot of my bed was talking an alien talk that I did not understand. The nurse jabbed a needle into my arm. “OUCH!” I screamed. The pain left me just as fast as it came. I stood still, frozen in shock about what just happened. It seemed as if all of the pain in my body had left me.

Slowly and surely, I got up from the bed, and we set out to find what made the loud bang.

Chapter 7, Mankind

After what seemed like hours of walking, we finally reached a big group of aliens.

“Hey, what’s happening?”

“Bgit,” replied one of the aliens.

“Oh yeah, you don’t speak our language.”

“Tbbbbb,” the alien said in what seemed like disgust.

“Well we’re the first to speak to an alien I guess,” Will said just as I noticed what looked like another human being.

“Will,” I said, tapping his shoulder. “I don’t think we’re the only ones here.” I turned Will around showing him the human. We walked over to him.

“FINALLY, someone that can speak our language,” I said, directing it to the man. It seemed like he was looking at something that was placed in his hand.

“Hey.”

“OH MY GOSH!” The man whipped around and we stood face to face. “You boys almost gave me a heart attack!” the man yelled.

“Sorry, we were just—”

“Hey what’s that you got in your hand?” interrupted Will.

“Oh, this?” said the man pointing to his hand. “This thing is like one of those rubix cubes you have back on earth.”

“Oh, cool,” Will said.

After about a minute or two, I finally said, “STOP! Will, you and this person we don’t even know yet are spending SO many minutes solving that … thing and we haven’t gotten anywhere deeper with that explosion we heard earlier.” I stopped, short of breath.

“You guys know about the explosion?” questioned the man.

“Yep,” we said simultaneously.

Chapter 8, At The Table

Once we finished the conversation and got to the man’s house, we did a little introduction on ourselves.

“Hi, I’m Jack, Jack Johansen,” I said to the man.

“Nice to meet you Jack. I’m George, George Fogarty,” the man explained as Will stood, mouth gaping open.

“I … I’m a Fogarty,” Will said, still in awe of what George had said.

“Then it may appear that I’m your father,” explained George.

Will’s assumed-to-be-dead father explained that he fell though the same hole that Will fell into, except he was alone and it was broad daylight outside. Instead of the JAKE that we found earlier, he’d found FAKE, who he assumed to be Jake’s son.

“Oh man, look at the time. I’d better get you two to bed,” George said looking at a weird gadget on his arm that was not a watch.

After we woke up, we ate a weird meal that was packed almost identically like the meals that they ate in The Giver (a book from my homework). There was something like beans except they were purple and there was a turquoise mush that looked like slushy snow. It actually tasted pretty good, and I could tell Will agreed because he made the face that explained so.

Chapter 9, Investigation

After our two-day, one-night stay, we finally started to investigate the explosion. When we got to the place that it happened, the whole street was evacuated.

“I wonder where everybody went?” questioned Will.

“We have no time for chit-chat. We need to get to the bottom of this mystery,” his father, George, said.

After about an hour or so, we found only these things:

One stinky sock

Three old newspapers

And a smoldering piece of wood

We kept all of the things that were needed, which were obviously the newspaper and the wood piece. We examined them both. Will and his dad noticed that things like the explosion were happening when we were asleep, and the evacuation also took place when we were asleep.

After the examination, we threw away the wood piece because it served no purpose. We heard the sound of a space shuttle overhead.

“Well, well, well, look who we have ’ere!” Jake said from a speaker overhead. “I’ve been settin’ off bombs all ’round ‘ere just to find ya!”

“Jake,” I said, except all that came out were muffled sounds because of the sheer sound of the shuttle overhead.

When Jake’s shuttle landed, he opened a hatch at the bottom of his ship that exposed a ray gun. “I’ve waited a long time for this,” Jake explained, and with that he started to charge up his gun.

“RUN!” George, Will and I all said in unison and ducked behind a trashcan.

On the verge of Jake shooting the ray gun, something strange happened.

“Well, come to think of it,” Jake said, powering down. “I should kill ya me’self.” And he opened yet another hatch, this time a walkway down to us. He came out, looking like a 1980’s superhero, cape and all, carrying a gun in his hand.

He took a shot, missed, took another shot, and hit. And guess just where it hit? It hit George right in the arm, just when he was about to unholster his gun, and it clattered to the ground.

Except, being the quick thinking me, I picked up the fallen gun and shot Jake as well. He also dropped his gun, and Will and I went to his ship, carrying the limping George.

When we got inside the shuttle, we immediately gunned it, leaving that crooked planet in the dust, heading straight back to earth.

 

 

 

New Year Vibes

I’ve been reading a lot of blogs, posts, and articles lately about everything new year: diets, planners, yoga. The one thing I’ve learned (besides that I should drink more water) is that January, at first blush, seems to be about change. Changing eating habits, reading habits, writing habits. More of one thing, less of another. Cynics say resolutions are pointless and that in three weeks or less, the gym will thin out, book sales will dwindle, and we will go back to being the same people we were in December. Why waste our time?

My answer is simple: time is never wasted when it’s spent on something or someone we care about. I’ve come to the conclusion that the new year is less about change and more about recommitting ourselves to the things we care about most: work, family, health. We know what matters; January just reminds us.

Take me, for instance. Yesterday was my kids’ first day back at school. The night before, I diligently wrote the notes for their lunch boxes, taking the time to draw the silly cartoons they love so much. I also packed their dried fruit and sugar-free pudding cups in advance. Do I know when February hits and I return to teaching that I will haphazardly shove crackers and smiley sticky notes into their sacks? Yep. Does it stop me? Nope. Because who knows? Maybe this time it’ll last a little longer—a day, a week, a month. One day I won’t send notes, and the previous days will add up to something meaningful, a happy memory.

Maybe in time, we’ll spend the majority of our day doing the things that matter most. Occasionally, I imagine myself as an old woman with all kinds of time on my hands. In this fantasy, I have gray spiky hair (yep, make-believe) and am reading books, lots and lots of books. I’m also attending the library and literary events that I always have on my calendar but often miss. Of course I have written a book in just about every genre I’ve ever imagined and often ponder about said genre. This fantasy mildly changes (in the summer, I have a garden, in the winter, a library with a fireplace) but always includes the people and things I enjoy most.

Like that fantasy, January reveals my greatest hopes, such as happy, healthy kids. The new year doesn’t have to be about doing more (although after making and eating two pounds of fudge, I am doing more crunches). It can be about prioritizing our cares and taking this month to discover just what they are.