Veronica Randolph Batterson's Blog, page 2
March 3, 2015
Old Norse Gale
"Old Norse Gale" is a short story I recently finished. I've shared over a dozen original short stories and poems on this blog, which can be found in the links to the right (on the blog itself). Thanks to all who take the time to read the stories, musings and such. As always, all work is copyright protected (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).
Old Norse Gale
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)
The wind howled. Its force shook the walls and rattled the old shutters, which barely hung on as they slammed against the house. The lights flickered in the dark, dimming then illuminating, fighting to stay lit as the nor’easter battered the coast with ferocious strength. Waves pounded the shoreline, leaping high over trees and flooding the earth.
He huddled in the corner waiting for the water to seep under the door. It would slip in and then recede, before invading the wooden planks like a snake creeping across the ground. The aftermath meant a musty and fishlike smell that lingered for months.
They told him he should sell the place and it was in times like this that he wished he’d listened. But the old homestead meant too much to him to part with it; the walls held secrets close to his heart. So he dealt with Mother Nature’s hell and fury, cleaned up after her and lived the rest of the time isolated with his thoughts. He’d die in the place, he was sure of it.
Thunder bellowed, fighting to be heard over all the angry sounds of the storm. Lightning accompanied it, the sudden flash causing him to jump. He pulled the coat tighter across his chest..." to read the remainder of my story, please visit my blog at http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo.... Thanks for reading!
Old Norse Gale
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)
The wind howled. Its force shook the walls and rattled the old shutters, which barely hung on as they slammed against the house. The lights flickered in the dark, dimming then illuminating, fighting to stay lit as the nor’easter battered the coast with ferocious strength. Waves pounded the shoreline, leaping high over trees and flooding the earth.
He huddled in the corner waiting for the water to seep under the door. It would slip in and then recede, before invading the wooden planks like a snake creeping across the ground. The aftermath meant a musty and fishlike smell that lingered for months.
They told him he should sell the place and it was in times like this that he wished he’d listened. But the old homestead meant too much to him to part with it; the walls held secrets close to his heart. So he dealt with Mother Nature’s hell and fury, cleaned up after her and lived the rest of the time isolated with his thoughts. He’d die in the place, he was sure of it.
Thunder bellowed, fighting to be heard over all the angry sounds of the storm. Lightning accompanied it, the sudden flash causing him to jump. He pulled the coat tighter across his chest..." to read the remainder of my story, please visit my blog at http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo.... Thanks for reading!
February 16, 2015
Yorkville Public Library - Author Fair
I've been invited to participate in Yorkville Public Library's first annual Author Fair scheduled for Saturday, March 28, 2015 from 10 a.m. until 2 p.m. in Yorkville, Illinois. It is one of many events scheduled over the year to celebrate the library's 100th anniversary. If you're in the Chicagoland area on that date and have some free time, stop by and say hello. I will be selling and signing copies of all three of my books, Daniel's Esperanza, Funny Pages and Billy's First Dance. Many other authors will be in attendance, too. If you can't make it to the fair and are still interested in some of my books, they can be found at the usual places such as Amazon, Barnesandnoble.com and booksamillion.com.
Also, I've added some new photographs to Fine Art America. Prints, pillows, cell phone covers and much more can be purchased from the images. Check it out at www.veronica-batterson.artistwebsites.... Let me know if you make a purchase.
Thanks for reading. I'm working on a new short story that I hope will be ready to share soon. As always, if you've read one of my books and liked it, please share the news. Reviews, shout-outs on Facebook and Twitter, plus word-of-mouth help so much. It's really appreciated.
Also, I've added some new photographs to Fine Art America. Prints, pillows, cell phone covers and much more can be purchased from the images. Check it out at www.veronica-batterson.artistwebsites.... Let me know if you make a purchase.
Thanks for reading. I'm working on a new short story that I hope will be ready to share soon. As always, if you've read one of my books and liked it, please share the news. Reviews, shout-outs on Facebook and Twitter, plus word-of-mouth help so much. It's really appreciated.
January 21, 2015
One Published Book and a Wedding
Three years and counting. I’ve kept this blog going for three years, which is a miracle for me. As I’ve mentioned many times, I struggle finding things to post. It isn’t because I have nothing to say; it’s finding something relevant to share in a sea of bloggers who think they do...and they don’t hesitate to tell you about it. There are many things I’d like to address and issues I would love to share that are important to me, however I think I’m a coward. As strongly as I feel about some things, there are those who are just as passionate and would argue the opposite. Maybe someday I will dip my toes in a controversial blog, but right now I’m not ready for it.
Two events controlled a large part of the past year: my younger daughter’s wedding and the publication of my third book. This year I will see my older daughter get married. As for anything else that might be in the mix for 2015…one trip is planned, another is in the works; also there’s a manuscript I finished about fifteen years ago that needs tidying a bit. I’ve finally decided to submit it to some literary agents. Could it be the fourth book? I’ve no idea. I do have plans to start writing another book (still working on the outline), but the post-publication requirements for my current book have been overwhelming and time consuming. Short stories continue and I’ll share them here, as well…some finished, some in the works.
Last January, I included a photo of a fortune cookie “fortune” for my post that month. I thought I would do the same this year. “You have a charming way with words and should write a book.” I love this one and it made me smile when I opened it…seemed appropriate to use now...
To read the remainder of this post and an excerpt of Daniel's Esperanza, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
Two events controlled a large part of the past year: my younger daughter’s wedding and the publication of my third book. This year I will see my older daughter get married. As for anything else that might be in the mix for 2015…one trip is planned, another is in the works; also there’s a manuscript I finished about fifteen years ago that needs tidying a bit. I’ve finally decided to submit it to some literary agents. Could it be the fourth book? I’ve no idea. I do have plans to start writing another book (still working on the outline), but the post-publication requirements for my current book have been overwhelming and time consuming. Short stories continue and I’ll share them here, as well…some finished, some in the works.
Last January, I included a photo of a fortune cookie “fortune” for my post that month. I thought I would do the same this year. “You have a charming way with words and should write a book.” I love this one and it made me smile when I opened it…seemed appropriate to use now...
To read the remainder of this post and an excerpt of Daniel's Esperanza, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
December 5, 2014
Holiday and Christmas Lists...Shop Amazon and Local Businesses
Thanks to those who purchased a copy of my book,
Daniel's Esperanza
, on Cyber Monday. Amazon started a sale that day for the paperback and it is still running. The Kindle version is available, too, with a free app to those who don't own the device. You can find the direct link for my book here: Daniel's Esperanza. My book is for sale on Amazon and also numerous other online retail shops, such as BarnesandNoble.com, Indiebound and BooksaMillion.My deepest gratitude to all who have bought the book and read it, thus far. Thanks also to those who have given me positive feedback. It is very encouraging to hear from readers. Too often, a writer spends years on a book only to hear crickets chirping once it is published. It's a lot of work, we love to hear from people who have read the book, especially if it is liked. Reviews help, too, along with giving shout-outs on social media and to your friends. Believe or not, all of this helps with potential sales.
Please remember to shop locally and frequent small businesses in your hometowns. However, please don't get caught up in the craze of boycotting Amazon. Some of us can only be found online, which includes Amazon. We're hard-working business people, too, trying to sell our work. While I won't get into specifics as to the war between Amazon and booksellers (along with traditional publishers), if you boycott Amazon, it hurts us. Perhaps, I'll reserve all that drama for a future post.
Finally, I have to say the following. Self-published = self-produced = independently done. Independents can include authors, local businesses and bookstores, plus musicians, singers, actors, movie makers, dance companies, theatre companies (community theatre, too), museums, visual artists, photographers, etc. If you buy the tickets, goods, CDs, paintings, photography, go to the shows and concerts, and give the business all in the name of supporting the indie (or local, or start-up, or unknown), why not buy the indie book? If you go to an indie movie or promote an indie musician, do the same for an indie author. Don’t judge a book by its publisher. Art in any form is subjective…it shouldn’t matter how it comes to be.
Happy Holidays to all.
To read more of my blog, visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
November 18, 2014
Hang the Moon, Molly Byrd
I'd like to share a short story I finished in 2006 called Hang the Moon, Molly Byrd. I tweaked it a little, shortened it a bit and now it is a flash fiction piece telling a basic story of two people. It's written simply to relay the simplicity of the characters.
I have shared over a dozen original short stories on this blog (on blogspot) and all can be found in a listing to the right of the posts. I'll continue to share more. Thank you for reading my work and I hope you enjoy this story. As usual, copyright (©Veronica Randolph Batterson) applies.
Hang the Moon, Molly Byrd
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
They say she talks to angels. She says they answer her. Most say she’s just crazy, but he thinks she “hung the moon” and he told her once.
He was proud when he did it and euphoric. It made him feel good and he wondered if people who got high on drugs had the same experience. Not the drugs he had to take but the ones people used to change their moods. He possessed no sense anyway, but telling her how he felt made him dopey and silly. He couldn’t focus on anything and he knew he wore a ridiculous smile on his face for the rest of the day. Others thought him simple but it was what she thought about him that mattered. And she told him.
“I think you make the sun rise, Harold Brown,” she said.
It was to the point and direct, but she smiled when she said it. And Molly Byrd never said anything she didn’t mean. He couldn’t remember his immediate reaction but it must have been good. He knew it because she asked if she could push his wheelchair. He had said yes and he never let anyone do that for him.
They became inseparable then. Wherever Molly Byrd went, Harold Brown was nearby, observing from his chair and admiring with all his being.
On clear nights, when the stars and moon hung brightly, Molly Byrd wandered the streets, face affixed toward the heavens, oblivious to her surroundings. Harold Brown watched out for her. It was during this time that Molly Byrd would have her celestial discussions, with the angels relaying their messages to her. So she said and he believed her.
One particular night, a shooting star sent Molly running. It took everything Harold could muster to keep up with her. He found her standing on a rock by a lake, her face upturned and her body still. Her silhouette reminded him of a statue, proud and strong. The sight made his heart catch in his chest. He wondered what messages were being exchanged as he watched.
When Molly Byrd finally slumped from exhaustion, the stellar conversation over, he thought she might fall right off the rock. He got as close as his chair would allow, which wasn’t near enough to grab her as she slid. She collapsed on the dew-covered grass; her face hung limp upon her shoulders.
When she finally gazed up at him, her eyes were drooping and confusion marked her face. She looked right through him.
“Harold Brown, what are you doing here?” she asked.
The question hurt him. Didn’t she remember they went everywhere together? He looked up at the sky as if he’d find the answer there. She lit up his life just as those stars illuminated the darkness. Molly Byrd was his guiding light.
Things changed after that night. Molly became more distracted than usual, often venturing off without Harold and forgetting him altogether. He tried not to be disappointed but despondency began to stifle him. He no longer wished to face the day each morning. Eating took effort and he lost weight and forgot to take his medications. Harold Brown hadn’t the energy or will for life. Others noticed.
They gave him words of encouragement, helped him dress and took him on outings. His new friends fed him and read to him, nursing him to better health. The will to live grew stronger; he began to care again.
When he was able, Harold ventured out alone, as he had before sadness took control of him. It had been weeks since he’d seen Molly. He remembered it clearly, as if only hours before. He forced thoughts of her from his mind as he watched children playing tag in the park, the parents mindful of their whereabouts.
“Where’ve you been, Harold Brown?” came the question from behind him.
He felt a grin begin to form and it spread so wide that he thought it might split his face in half. Everything appeared brighter, as if a light bulb had suddenly been turned on in a darkened room. He wheeled himself around to face her.
“Where I’ve always been, Molly Byrd,” he replied.
She stood before him, looking the same as always. A red balloon reached for the sky beside her, its freedom hindered by the string she held in her hand. He suddenly felt like the balloon, bridled and controlled by Molly Byrd. It confused him. She tied the string to the arm of his chair.
“I thought you might like this,” she said.
Harold watched the balloon dance in the wind, fighting against constraint. His voice cracked as he asked the questions he needed to ask.
“Why did you leave me, Molly Byrd?”
“The angels said to,” she responded.
“Will you leave again?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged.
It wasn’t what he wanted to hear but Harold Brown was glad he asked. And Molly was just being honest. She never said anything she didn’t mean. When the night sky was clear and it looked like the flickering stars were ropes of light hanging the moon in the darkness, he knew where she would be. She described those words to him and he saw it. And he believed her.
Harold untied the string and let the balloon soar above him. They watched the red orb grow smaller as it floated higher, finally out of sight.
“Goodbye, Molly Byrd,” he said.
Then Harold Brown turned his chair and wheeled himself away. He felt himself floating higher, just like the red balloon, but in control. Away from Molly Byrd.
To read more of my blog, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
I have shared over a dozen original short stories on this blog (on blogspot) and all can be found in a listing to the right of the posts. I'll continue to share more. Thank you for reading my work and I hope you enjoy this story. As usual, copyright (©Veronica Randolph Batterson) applies.
Hang the Moon, Molly Byrd
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
They say she talks to angels. She says they answer her. Most say she’s just crazy, but he thinks she “hung the moon” and he told her once.
He was proud when he did it and euphoric. It made him feel good and he wondered if people who got high on drugs had the same experience. Not the drugs he had to take but the ones people used to change their moods. He possessed no sense anyway, but telling her how he felt made him dopey and silly. He couldn’t focus on anything and he knew he wore a ridiculous smile on his face for the rest of the day. Others thought him simple but it was what she thought about him that mattered. And she told him.
“I think you make the sun rise, Harold Brown,” she said.
It was to the point and direct, but she smiled when she said it. And Molly Byrd never said anything she didn’t mean. He couldn’t remember his immediate reaction but it must have been good. He knew it because she asked if she could push his wheelchair. He had said yes and he never let anyone do that for him.
They became inseparable then. Wherever Molly Byrd went, Harold Brown was nearby, observing from his chair and admiring with all his being.
On clear nights, when the stars and moon hung brightly, Molly Byrd wandered the streets, face affixed toward the heavens, oblivious to her surroundings. Harold Brown watched out for her. It was during this time that Molly Byrd would have her celestial discussions, with the angels relaying their messages to her. So she said and he believed her.
One particular night, a shooting star sent Molly running. It took everything Harold could muster to keep up with her. He found her standing on a rock by a lake, her face upturned and her body still. Her silhouette reminded him of a statue, proud and strong. The sight made his heart catch in his chest. He wondered what messages were being exchanged as he watched.
When Molly Byrd finally slumped from exhaustion, the stellar conversation over, he thought she might fall right off the rock. He got as close as his chair would allow, which wasn’t near enough to grab her as she slid. She collapsed on the dew-covered grass; her face hung limp upon her shoulders.
When she finally gazed up at him, her eyes were drooping and confusion marked her face. She looked right through him.
“Harold Brown, what are you doing here?” she asked.
The question hurt him. Didn’t she remember they went everywhere together? He looked up at the sky as if he’d find the answer there. She lit up his life just as those stars illuminated the darkness. Molly Byrd was his guiding light.
Things changed after that night. Molly became more distracted than usual, often venturing off without Harold and forgetting him altogether. He tried not to be disappointed but despondency began to stifle him. He no longer wished to face the day each morning. Eating took effort and he lost weight and forgot to take his medications. Harold Brown hadn’t the energy or will for life. Others noticed.
They gave him words of encouragement, helped him dress and took him on outings. His new friends fed him and read to him, nursing him to better health. The will to live grew stronger; he began to care again.
When he was able, Harold ventured out alone, as he had before sadness took control of him. It had been weeks since he’d seen Molly. He remembered it clearly, as if only hours before. He forced thoughts of her from his mind as he watched children playing tag in the park, the parents mindful of their whereabouts.
“Where’ve you been, Harold Brown?” came the question from behind him.
He felt a grin begin to form and it spread so wide that he thought it might split his face in half. Everything appeared brighter, as if a light bulb had suddenly been turned on in a darkened room. He wheeled himself around to face her.
“Where I’ve always been, Molly Byrd,” he replied.
She stood before him, looking the same as always. A red balloon reached for the sky beside her, its freedom hindered by the string she held in her hand. He suddenly felt like the balloon, bridled and controlled by Molly Byrd. It confused him. She tied the string to the arm of his chair.
“I thought you might like this,” she said.
Harold watched the balloon dance in the wind, fighting against constraint. His voice cracked as he asked the questions he needed to ask.
“Why did you leave me, Molly Byrd?”
“The angels said to,” she responded.
“Will you leave again?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged.
It wasn’t what he wanted to hear but Harold Brown was glad he asked. And Molly was just being honest. She never said anything she didn’t mean. When the night sky was clear and it looked like the flickering stars were ropes of light hanging the moon in the darkness, he knew where she would be. She described those words to him and he saw it. And he believed her.
Harold untied the string and let the balloon soar above him. They watched the red orb grow smaller as it floated higher, finally out of sight.
“Goodbye, Molly Byrd,” he said.
Then Harold Brown turned his chair and wheeled himself away. He felt himself floating higher, just like the red balloon, but in control. Away from Molly Byrd.
To read more of my blog, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
September 18, 2014
Oswego Literary Festival
I know my last few blog posts have been about my book, Daniel's Esperanza, but given the amount of time I waited to get it published and how difficult the post publishing requirements are...it is what it is, I suppose. This is another of those posts, but it's a short one.
Many lovely things do come about once you publish a book. One is the opportunity to attend festivals and meet a lot of nice people. I've been invited to participate in the Oswego Literary Festival in Oswego, Illinois on October 4, 2014 from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m. I'll be signing and selling copies of my books, as will a host of other authors. Come out and meet me if you're in the area that day.
Finally, many thanks to those who have given generous reviews to Daniel on Amazon. This is sometimes the heart of a book...it helps generate interest and potential sales (positive word of mouth helps, too), allowing it to survive and sometimes stand out in a sea of endless stories. It is appreciated.
Many lovely things do come about once you publish a book. One is the opportunity to attend festivals and meet a lot of nice people. I've been invited to participate in the Oswego Literary Festival in Oswego, Illinois on October 4, 2014 from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m. I'll be signing and selling copies of my books, as will a host of other authors. Come out and meet me if you're in the area that day.
Finally, many thanks to those who have given generous reviews to Daniel on Amazon. This is sometimes the heart of a book...it helps generate interest and potential sales (positive word of mouth helps, too), allowing it to survive and sometimes stand out in a sea of endless stories. It is appreciated.
September 2, 2014
Now for Kindle Users and in Paperback
My book, Daniel's Esperanza, is now available for Kindle users on Amazon for only $6.99. Of course, if you prefer the paperback version, it's for sale, too. I always appreciate those who take the time to make a purchase and actually read my work. Icing on the cake includes feedback and reviews.
Independent authors have to hustle and work very hard to get anyone to notice their work. If you enjoy one of their books, please be kind and take the time to tell them so. Better yet, leave a positive review on Amazon, Goodreads or anywhere else you find the book promoted and sold. These things help sales and give much needed attention to some deserving individuals.
Also, my Goodreads Giveaway goes until September 15. If you're a Goodreads member, you know how to sign up for their giveaways. Autographed copies are up for grabs there.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To read more of my blog, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
Independent authors have to hustle and work very hard to get anyone to notice their work. If you enjoy one of their books, please be kind and take the time to tell them so. Better yet, leave a positive review on Amazon, Goodreads or anywhere else you find the book promoted and sold. These things help sales and give much needed attention to some deserving individuals.
Also, my Goodreads Giveaway goes until September 15. If you're a Goodreads member, you know how to sign up for their giveaways. Autographed copies are up for grabs there.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To read more of my blog, please visit http://www.veronicarbatterson.blogspo....
August 21, 2014
DANIEL'S ESPERANZA - Published - Finally!
The road to publishing my third book has been a long one. One of the literary agents who requested to read a full actually held on to it for ten months before giving me an answer. Yes, ten long months (the manuscript was submitted to her electronically, by the way). Of course, she passed on it, but ten months? I really didn't expect anything more, however the frustration came from the amount of time I wasted on her response. I suppose I'll dedicate an entire blog post at some point on the entire process, but for now I'll celebrate.
DANIEL'S ESPERANZA is a work of literary fiction and I'm very proud of it. Daniel's Esperanza The setting is beautiful, northern New Mexico on a wild horse sanctuary. The story focuses on saving wild mustangs and a family who saves a teenage boy from domestic abuse. There are a lot of other things going on which cause a bit of conflict including horse stealing, gambling and an abusive father resurfacing.
There is a Giveaway going on now on Goodreads until September 15th. I'll provide twenty autographed copies...you all know how the giveaways work. I hope you check it out.
Better yet, the paperback is now available on Amazon. The Kindle version is coming soon. I'd love to hear from anyone who reads the book and I hope you enjoy the story.
DANIEL'S ESPERANZA is a work of literary fiction and I'm very proud of it. Daniel's Esperanza The setting is beautiful, northern New Mexico on a wild horse sanctuary. The story focuses on saving wild mustangs and a family who saves a teenage boy from domestic abuse. There are a lot of other things going on which cause a bit of conflict including horse stealing, gambling and an abusive father resurfacing.
There is a Giveaway going on now on Goodreads until September 15th. I'll provide twenty autographed copies...you all know how the giveaways work. I hope you check it out.
Better yet, the paperback is now available on Amazon. The Kindle version is coming soon. I'd love to hear from anyone who reads the book and I hope you enjoy the story.
July 18, 2014
Old Wauhatchie
In this blog entry, I'd like to share a flash fiction piece I wrote recently. It includes a bit of history (Chief Wauhatchie and the Cherokee Nation, the Trail of Tears), paranormal and a dream sequence. As always, copyright applies, ©Veronica Randolph Batterson. Thanks for reading.
The mist rose from the river, its ghostlike veil spreading slowly and sensually through the brush of trees and along the path where she waited. It separated like arms, wrapping around her ankles, swirling, and gently enfolding her in an embrace she couldn’t feel. She watched as it continued and spread, caressing the earth like a familiar lover, confident and comforting.
Twilight was quickly turning to dusk; the colors from the departing sun created shadows that danced and angled before her eyes. The swelling mist played tricks, bringing the dark forms to life. The silhouette of a man jumped from a rock, only to be replaced by the contours of a bear running into the woods. An arrow shot from a bow near a tree, its momentum turning it into a bird with wings that spread and hovered over her until it glided out of sight.
She knew he was nearby and felt his presence throughout her body. Her senses were sharp; the slight snap of a twig brought her head up. She waited. Then the scent reached her nostrils, a woodsy blend of cedar and oakmoss, hints of evergreen and honeysuckle with a puff of tobacco. It lingered under her nose, intoxicating and light, keeping her still in anticipation.
Then drumbeats, faint and steady, filled the air and echoed through the trees, hinting at greatness to come. Or danger, but she wasn’t afraid. She knew she was being summoned, as it was her time, and he would be there waiting.
“Listen to the river,” the wind breathed.
Through the mist, lifelike forms appeared. They walked toward her, hundreds it seemed, women carrying babies on their backs and children dragging behind. Their faces etched with sorrow, in their arms they carried all they owned. Men intermingled, solemn and stoic, walking tall yet anger simmering at being driven from the only land they’d ever known. Their land.
And she saw Wauhatchie, Chief of the Cherokees, chief of these displaced souls, limping to follow. Stooped and aging, his face belied his youthful greatness; he was simply a man forced from his home now, like all his people.
This tribe of spirits walked past her and through her. She felt the rush of air, a whisper of breath touching her skin as they passed. Sadness and despair washed over her and the sense of loss was so great that she wanted to cry out at the injustice. This trail of tears left her cold and empty.
The drumbeats stopped and there was quietness all around her. She heard a pebble skim across the water. She turned toward the sound and saw someone emerge from the thicket of trees. He was there.
He was as she remembered, as he was when he left. His dark hair, touched with gray, looked damp from the mist. The smiling green eyes still smiled. For the first time, she wondered how she appeared to him. It didn’t matter, she thought, as he took her hand in his own.
She met him years before, on Old Wauhatchie, where winter brought an icy chill and summer bore scorching heat and singing cicadas. She lost him there, too, when the river rose and took him away. Then he joined the others, specters with tales and stories of their lives, sharing with those who could feel them. And he waited for her.
The drumbeats sounded again as darkness enveloped them. Her vision adjusted, allowing her to see everything as she would in daylight. The river reclaimed the mist, the wispiness retreating to the murky waters in wait for the next arrival. He looked at her and kissed her hand. They had a story to tell.
“Listen to the river.”
To read more of my blog, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
The mist rose from the river, its ghostlike veil spreading slowly and sensually through the brush of trees and along the path where she waited. It separated like arms, wrapping around her ankles, swirling, and gently enfolding her in an embrace she couldn’t feel. She watched as it continued and spread, caressing the earth like a familiar lover, confident and comforting.
Twilight was quickly turning to dusk; the colors from the departing sun created shadows that danced and angled before her eyes. The swelling mist played tricks, bringing the dark forms to life. The silhouette of a man jumped from a rock, only to be replaced by the contours of a bear running into the woods. An arrow shot from a bow near a tree, its momentum turning it into a bird with wings that spread and hovered over her until it glided out of sight.
She knew he was nearby and felt his presence throughout her body. Her senses were sharp; the slight snap of a twig brought her head up. She waited. Then the scent reached her nostrils, a woodsy blend of cedar and oakmoss, hints of evergreen and honeysuckle with a puff of tobacco. It lingered under her nose, intoxicating and light, keeping her still in anticipation.
Then drumbeats, faint and steady, filled the air and echoed through the trees, hinting at greatness to come. Or danger, but she wasn’t afraid. She knew she was being summoned, as it was her time, and he would be there waiting.
“Listen to the river,” the wind breathed.
Through the mist, lifelike forms appeared. They walked toward her, hundreds it seemed, women carrying babies on their backs and children dragging behind. Their faces etched with sorrow, in their arms they carried all they owned. Men intermingled, solemn and stoic, walking tall yet anger simmering at being driven from the only land they’d ever known. Their land.
And she saw Wauhatchie, Chief of the Cherokees, chief of these displaced souls, limping to follow. Stooped and aging, his face belied his youthful greatness; he was simply a man forced from his home now, like all his people.
This tribe of spirits walked past her and through her. She felt the rush of air, a whisper of breath touching her skin as they passed. Sadness and despair washed over her and the sense of loss was so great that she wanted to cry out at the injustice. This trail of tears left her cold and empty.
The drumbeats stopped and there was quietness all around her. She heard a pebble skim across the water. She turned toward the sound and saw someone emerge from the thicket of trees. He was there.
He was as she remembered, as he was when he left. His dark hair, touched with gray, looked damp from the mist. The smiling green eyes still smiled. For the first time, she wondered how she appeared to him. It didn’t matter, she thought, as he took her hand in his own.
She met him years before, on Old Wauhatchie, where winter brought an icy chill and summer bore scorching heat and singing cicadas. She lost him there, too, when the river rose and took him away. Then he joined the others, specters with tales and stories of their lives, sharing with those who could feel them. And he waited for her.
The drumbeats sounded again as darkness enveloped them. Her vision adjusted, allowing her to see everything as she would in daylight. The river reclaimed the mist, the wispiness retreating to the murky waters in wait for the next arrival. He looked at her and kissed her hand. They had a story to tell.
“Listen to the river.”
To read more of my blog, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com.
July 2, 2014
Man's Best Friend Could Do Without All the Fireworks
July 3rd marks the sixth birthday for my best canine friend. If you believe Merriam-Webster, she has finally hit middle age. Maybe that's why the fear of sudden and loud noises seems greater this year than in the past. In addition to crawling under any piece of furniture that will support her golden retriever's frame (something she has always done), a new sign of stress for her seems to be excessive panting and drooling during these times. Other noises will cause panic, too, such as thunder and loud trucks, and when we had our roof replaced, she spent the entire time in her crate (a place she feels safe). It's the July 4th celebrations, however, that do the most damage.
Our sweet dog has always been afraid of the fireworks associated with the July 4th holiday...going into sheer panic and running aimlessly and wildly throughout the house. We call it bouncing off the walls and sometimes it literally takes a wall to stop her. She's terrified and I'm terrified of her ever getting out of the house during these times. Too often our pets get lost this way because they take off when hearing these sounds and there are no walls to stop them.
I'm certainly no Fourth of July Scrooge, as I love to see fireworks to celebrate the holiday. It is symbolic, after all. However, I could do without some of the pre and post celebratory bangs. When you hear loud booms from dusk throughout the night, everyday, for about two weeks prior to the big event, well, that's a bit much. Add a week or two of winding down and our pets could use a prescription for Xanax. We might need it, too, simply for dealing with them. Of course, the normal concerns arise, such as fireworks legality (depending on where you live), fire, safety (kids can get hurt, after all). Yet, the celebrations continue for weeks. Maybe I'm just getting old. According to Merriam-Webster, I've been there awhile.
So, have a safe July 4th holiday, everyone. Take care of your pets, keep them as calm as possible. I have a feeling my girl will be secured in her crate for the evening. If she could understand me, I'd tell her we were all just celebrating her birthday. If she could talk, she'd just say a new can of tennis balls would suffice.
To read more of my blog, which includes some original short stories, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com. As always, thanks for taking the time to read my work.
Our sweet dog has always been afraid of the fireworks associated with the July 4th holiday...going into sheer panic and running aimlessly and wildly throughout the house. We call it bouncing off the walls and sometimes it literally takes a wall to stop her. She's terrified and I'm terrified of her ever getting out of the house during these times. Too often our pets get lost this way because they take off when hearing these sounds and there are no walls to stop them.
I'm certainly no Fourth of July Scrooge, as I love to see fireworks to celebrate the holiday. It is symbolic, after all. However, I could do without some of the pre and post celebratory bangs. When you hear loud booms from dusk throughout the night, everyday, for about two weeks prior to the big event, well, that's a bit much. Add a week or two of winding down and our pets could use a prescription for Xanax. We might need it, too, simply for dealing with them. Of course, the normal concerns arise, such as fireworks legality (depending on where you live), fire, safety (kids can get hurt, after all). Yet, the celebrations continue for weeks. Maybe I'm just getting old. According to Merriam-Webster, I've been there awhile.
So, have a safe July 4th holiday, everyone. Take care of your pets, keep them as calm as possible. I have a feeling my girl will be secured in her crate for the evening. If she could understand me, I'd tell her we were all just celebrating her birthday. If she could talk, she'd just say a new can of tennis balls would suffice.
To read more of my blog, which includes some original short stories, please visit http://veronicarbatterson.blogspot.com. As always, thanks for taking the time to read my work.
