C.Y. Bourgeois's Blog, page 10
May 16, 2016
Recipes and Memories
I've decided to take my rambling blog in a new direction. I hope you like it, and if you have a favorite recipe that brings back warm memories, please email it to me at cybourgeois.visions@yahoo.com and I'll include it in my blog.
Recipes and MemoriesAt our house, food was an extension of Mom’s love. Especially her baking and most especially her cookies. Friends used to ask for her recipes, then laughingly accuse her of leaving something out. Their version just didn’t taste the same. I can tell you honestly that the only ingredient left out was a pinch of Lois Schoppe’s love. You could actually taste her love in her baked goods. Our dad died on April 22, 2006 and our family was devastated. I miss him every day. But, we still had Mom. We still had half of the heart of our family. Then on December 8, 2014, at the age of 54, the remaining half of our family’s heart stopped beating. December 8 will forever be the day the Earth was ripped out from under me like a magician’s tablecloth. The day my heart shattered into a million pieces. The day my mom died.It’s been a year-and-a-half now, and I still haven’t regained my footing or found all the pieces of my heart. I miss Mom and Dad more with each passing day, each life event, and each milestone. But, instead of indulging my famously (at least in my family) maudlin tendencies, I’ve decided to honor Dad, the first man I ever loved, my hero, the Pied Piper of children and animals, and Mom, she who gave me life, my confidant, my best friend, and the super-woman-glue who held our family together, by sharing some Schoppe family anecdotes along with recipes from Mom’s brown recipe box.The infamous brown recipe box.There’s a story here and I think it’s the perfect one with which to begin my blog.
The Brown Recipe BoxI arrived at Mom’s little house in Palmer, AK, where she had lived alone since Dad had moved into the Pioneer Home across the street.“Mom! I’m here,” I yelled as I walked in the front door. I took a deep breath and filled my sinuses with the smell-taste of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. But they weren’t just any old chocolate chip cookies, they were mom’s locally famous Garbage Cookies. Loaded with everything but the kitchen sink and tasty as hell, a total party in your mouth. “Be there in a minute,” a voice slipped around the corner of the hallway and settled in my ears. It could have been either one of my sister’s, Lori, Melanie, or even my own, but it was Mom’s. We’d always gotten a lot of laughs by fooling friends and family on the phone with our identical voices. As a family of self-proclaimed comediennes, we cracked ourselves up. Anyway, I grabbed warm, melty cookie and took a bite. I closed my eyes and moaned. “Mmmm. “So good.”I opened my eyes just in time to see my mother, looking a bit frazzled, stepping around the wall and into the dining room/kitchen. Her short fuzzy, white-gray hair stood on end and her big green eyes peered myopically past my right ear through her big round plastic framed glasses. Mom was legally blind. Due to the ravages of her years long battle with diabetes, her eyesight consisted of big blind spots in her middle vision. She could see by using her peripheral vision, so when she looked a you, she seemed to be looking over your shoulder. Dots of perspiration glimmered on her upper lip and her fingers twitched. I quickly worked up enough saliva to swallow, and said, “what’s the matter?” “I can’t find my brown recipe box,” she said, swiveling her head from side-to-side like she was looking for the unseen recipes thieves lurking somewhere in her house. “Hmm,” was my thoughtful contribution.“Did Paul take it?” she said.I stopped chewing and blinked at her. “No,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to quell the huffiness rising in my chest. “Why would he take it without asking?”“I don’t know, but I can’t find it an anywhere,” she said, wringing her hands. “It has all my family recipes in it.” My huffiness vanished at the look on her face.“Don’t worry, I’ll find it,” I said. “It’s probably still packed away in the crawl space,”I headed down the hall to her office, moved all the stuff in the closet, and pulled open the trap door in the floor. As I monkeyed my way down the steep little ladder, I said. “Remember, you are not allowed to climb down here.”“I know,” she said, smiling sweetly as my head disappeared under the floor. “That’s why you’re doing it.”Thus commenced many years of me, my husband, sisters, and brothers-in-law being asked if we were sure we hadn’t “borrowed” her recipe box, professing our innocence, and then searching the crawl space in vain. The brown recipe box was nowhere to be found.Six months after Mom died, we found the darned thing in a box marked (and actually containing) “Slide projector & Slides”. We laughed so hard we cried. Then we just cried because we found it too late. But, I think she knows.
Lois’s Garbage Cookies2-1/2 C sugar 2-1/2 tsp. salt 2-1/2 C brown sugar 2-1/2 tsp. baking powder2-1/2 C shortening or butter 2-1/2 tsp. baking soda2 Tbls. Vanilla ½ C milk 6 eggs 5 C oatsAdd to taste, any or all of the following: Coconut, chopped nuts, peanut butter, peanut butter chips, chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, plain M&M’s, etc… Oh, and don’t forget… 1pinch of Love.Mix everything together, preferably in a very large mixer, drop on ungreased cookie sheets, and bake at 350 degrees for 12 – 15 minutes, and above all...Enjoy!
April 20, 2016
We never lose those we love...
While I was finishing my manuscript for The Whispering of Trees, my mom, who'd been helping me with the story, died unexpectedly.
Needless to say, I was devastated, a lost soul, and even the merest thought of working on that manuscript was too sad to contemplate. Then, one night, several months later, while I gazed up at the moon and stars, talking to Mom and Dad, Mom tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear.
"Carla Yvonne Bourgeois, you finish that book."
And, like Aggie, the main character in the book, when my mother used all three of my names, I obeyed. Finishing that book was hard. But, I took my mom's "advice" and finished it. A few weeks later, I was offered a publishing contract. Thank you, Mom!
I believe we are all connected to one another and to the earth by the electrical energy with which we are composed and that surrounds us in every living thing, every molecule of air, and every speck of dust in the universe.
When Mom died so suddenly, I was broken, shattered into a million pieces. But, I found that it helped a little to imagine her energy floating up into the universe to be rejoined with that of the love of her life, Dad. I close my eyes and envision them mingling with the energies of all those we have loved and lost, and dancing through the stars, and I smile.
Now, a little over a year later, I miss them more than ever, but when I look up into the night sky, I feel my parents smiling down upon me. I feel the energies of all those I have loved and those whose energies I have connected with even in a small way, and it brings me comfort to know that one day, hopefully many, many, many years from now, we will meet again, and dance through the universe.
March 15, 2016
The Whispering of Trees is available now!
I'm very excited to announce that my latest young adult novel, The Whispering of Trees, is available for preorder now and only at
http://www.blackrosewriting.com/childrens-booksya/the-whispering-of-trees.
If you would like to purchase my book prior to the publication date of April 7, 2016, you may use the promo code: PREORDER2016 to receive a 10% discount.
Thank you!!
C.Y.B.
http://www.blackrosewriting.com/childrens-booksya/the-whispering-of-trees.
If you would like to purchase my book prior to the publication date of April 7, 2016, you may use the promo code: PREORDER2016 to receive a 10% discount.
Thank you!!
C.Y.B.
January 18, 2016
The Whispering of Trees Publishing Contract
I have some exciting (at least for me) news to share!
I was recently offered a publishing contract for Then Whispering of Trees, my new young adult novel. My publisher, Black Rose Writing, has set the release date for April 7, 2016.
I'll keep you posted if there are any changes.
Thank you for reading!
I was recently offered a publishing contract for Then Whispering of Trees, my new young adult novel. My publisher, Black Rose Writing, has set the release date for April 7, 2016.
I'll keep you posted if there are any changes.
Thank you for reading!
November 17, 2015
How Would We Want To Be Treated?
I just found out that the governor of Idaho, Butch Otter, sent a letter to President Obama suggesting he halt efforts to provide sanctuary for Syrian refugees. Governor Otter decided that Idaho will not be open to any refugees. Period.
I'm guessing he has no family in Syria, but I wonder if his decision would be the same if he did. What, I wonder, would he do if we were under attack as are the people of Syria? He might, as would many others, pick up arms and fight, but what about his family? Would he leave them in harm's way or beg for safe refuge, from say, Canada or Mexico? How would he feel if they refused? I was raised to treat others they way I want to be treated, and, if under attack, I would want my loved ones to have the option of a safe refuge.
For me the threat from terrorists is more real and frightening now than it has ever been. Before 9-11, ordinary folks like me had very little perception of the looming threat from outside terror groups. Now we know and I don't know about you, but it scares the shit out of me. But, however frightened we may be, we cannot give in to the wishes of terrorists who, in seeking to wipe out anyone not like them, brutally and without a second thought, murder anyone and everyone in their path. They do so in order to create chaos and paralyzing fear, to separate and weaken us and in the process, force millions of people to flee for their lives, seeking safe refuge from any and all who will take them in.
If given a choice these people would stay in their homes, but they haven't been given one and Americans, of all people, should be willing to take in as many as refuge seekers possible. After all, that is how our country was formed in the first place and the very reason we are the greatest nation in the world. If we stop now and change who we are as a people and a nation, we are giving the terrorists exactly what they want. We have already sacrificed many of our freedoms in the war on terror, but if we give in to fear and close our borders and our hearts to those in need, "the land of the free and the home of the brave" will no longer be either free or brave.
I'm guessing he has no family in Syria, but I wonder if his decision would be the same if he did. What, I wonder, would he do if we were under attack as are the people of Syria? He might, as would many others, pick up arms and fight, but what about his family? Would he leave them in harm's way or beg for safe refuge, from say, Canada or Mexico? How would he feel if they refused? I was raised to treat others they way I want to be treated, and, if under attack, I would want my loved ones to have the option of a safe refuge.
For me the threat from terrorists is more real and frightening now than it has ever been. Before 9-11, ordinary folks like me had very little perception of the looming threat from outside terror groups. Now we know and I don't know about you, but it scares the shit out of me. But, however frightened we may be, we cannot give in to the wishes of terrorists who, in seeking to wipe out anyone not like them, brutally and without a second thought, murder anyone and everyone in their path. They do so in order to create chaos and paralyzing fear, to separate and weaken us and in the process, force millions of people to flee for their lives, seeking safe refuge from any and all who will take them in.
If given a choice these people would stay in their homes, but they haven't been given one and Americans, of all people, should be willing to take in as many as refuge seekers possible. After all, that is how our country was formed in the first place and the very reason we are the greatest nation in the world. If we stop now and change who we are as a people and a nation, we are giving the terrorists exactly what they want. We have already sacrificed many of our freedoms in the war on terror, but if we give in to fear and close our borders and our hearts to those in need, "the land of the free and the home of the brave" will no longer be either free or brave.
October 7, 2015
The Whispering of Trees
Here's an excerpt from Chapter 1:
Aggie, deeply asleep, snuggled into her pillow, arms wrapped around her well-loved Mr. Maple Tree stuffed toy. As the bright galaxy spiraled in, her lips curved into a smile in anticipation of another of her lively interactions with The Sister Whale. The sparkling lights of the galaxy suddenly went dark. Aggie flinched, her fist opened and closed. The middle of the spiral went oily black, and her smile morphed into an open-mouthed grimace. Her eyeballs moved rapidly from side to side under fluttering lids. A huge black sperm whale, his tail and fins tattered and bloody, flew at her. She moaned. He opened his mouth wide. Something dark and viscous boiled out of his gaping black maw along with words she couldn’t comprehend, but carried a clear threat. She tossed. His breath assaulted her. It smelled of death. Then he smashed bloody teeth together, and red mist sprayed over her. She threw her hands up to ward it away. Blood ran in rivulets and dripped from his ragged tongue. She thrashed. Flames danced and flickered from his flared blowhole. She whimpered. “Please. No.” He turned his demon head to stare at her with blistering red eyes. He opened his mouth again to scream at her with the fury of a thousand demons, filling her room with the sounds of hell.
April 10, 2015
I recently read a post and the c...
I recently read a post and the comments that followed in which the author of said post was making the point that as writers we are all in this together and should strive to be supportive of one another. I certainly agree wholeheartedly as did most of the commenters who followed the original subject of the post.
One, however, veered off subject a little to mention rude criticisms posted by readers of our work, not pointing the finger of blame at any one group in particular, just at readers in general. This particular comment opened the little can of worms I keep locked in an old rusty file cabinet in the back of my brain in a dark corner of my Vault of Nasty Comments from Readers. One fat, juicy worm squirmed to the forefront of my mind bringing with it the memory of that time I and my work were the unhappy recipients of a particularly mean-spirited and, I must say, highly inaccurate criticism that caused me to seriously doubt my skills as a writer.
While it is true that even one unkind criticism can open a writer's floodgates, inundating us with a million and one doubts about the quality of our work, being so unkind as to criticize a book that obviously hasn't been read past the synopsis is especially mean-spirited.
When it happened to me the first thing I did was shed a few tears and swear. Then I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and read it a second time, mining for tidbits of constructive criticism. I did find one or two helpful-in-general suggestions and took them to heart. The remaining comments went in the trash instead of the can of worms where I save the especially mean ones for later use in kicking myself when I'm already down. But that's a post for another blog. My point is that even the sharpest of criticisms can sometimes carry within them a helpful snippet or two, but please read the work, post, if not constructive, at least, accurate criticisms.
I, and I'm guessing all of my fellow writers out there, would be ever so grateful if commenters would, accurate or not and before hitting Enter, put themselves in the commentee's shoes and temper their criticisms with a just smidgen of kindness.
P.S. Luckily for me, a few months later that work I mentioned earlier (my first novel) won an honorable mention in the 2013 Paris Book Festival bringing with it a renewed faith in myself as a writer.
One, however, veered off subject a little to mention rude criticisms posted by readers of our work, not pointing the finger of blame at any one group in particular, just at readers in general. This particular comment opened the little can of worms I keep locked in an old rusty file cabinet in the back of my brain in a dark corner of my Vault of Nasty Comments from Readers. One fat, juicy worm squirmed to the forefront of my mind bringing with it the memory of that time I and my work were the unhappy recipients of a particularly mean-spirited and, I must say, highly inaccurate criticism that caused me to seriously doubt my skills as a writer.
While it is true that even one unkind criticism can open a writer's floodgates, inundating us with a million and one doubts about the quality of our work, being so unkind as to criticize a book that obviously hasn't been read past the synopsis is especially mean-spirited.
When it happened to me the first thing I did was shed a few tears and swear. Then I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and read it a second time, mining for tidbits of constructive criticism. I did find one or two helpful-in-general suggestions and took them to heart. The remaining comments went in the trash instead of the can of worms where I save the especially mean ones for later use in kicking myself when I'm already down. But that's a post for another blog. My point is that even the sharpest of criticisms can sometimes carry within them a helpful snippet or two, but please read the work, post, if not constructive, at least, accurate criticisms.
I, and I'm guessing all of my fellow writers out there, would be ever so grateful if commenters would, accurate or not and before hitting Enter, put themselves in the commentee's shoes and temper their criticisms with a just smidgen of kindness.
P.S. Luckily for me, a few months later that work I mentioned earlier (my first novel) won an honorable mention in the 2013 Paris Book Festival bringing with it a renewed faith in myself as a writer.
November 17, 2014
What the heck is taking so long?
Hi! I'm baaaaack!
I really thought I'd have a novel by now, but I didn't like my narrative in The Whispering of Trees (pretty bad when I don't like my own writing!) so I took some time off, attended some online writing classes, and am now in the final (I hope) throes of a complete rewrite. It's been challenging but I hope the final product reflects how much of my heart has gone into this project. I'm anxious to finish so I can send it out to my readers for opinions, corrections, and (fingers crossed) two thumbs up per reader!
Thank you, as always, for your patience.
C.Y.B.
I really thought I'd have a novel by now, but I didn't like my narrative in The Whispering of Trees (pretty bad when I don't like my own writing!) so I took some time off, attended some online writing classes, and am now in the final (I hope) throes of a complete rewrite. It's been challenging but I hope the final product reflects how much of my heart has gone into this project. I'm anxious to finish so I can send it out to my readers for opinions, corrections, and (fingers crossed) two thumbs up per reader!
Thank you, as always, for your patience.
C.Y.B.
February 1, 2014
The Whispering of Trees
I'm still adding, deleting, and experimenting, but I'm getting there. Enjoy reading!
Prologue “Hush-a-bye sweet baby, in your cradle on top of the tree, wind rocking you so gently to sleep. Hush-a-bye sweet Aggie, safe in your bough, and when it breaks your tree won’t let you fall.”
Sylvia had retooled the words to the lullaby to suit her own purposes and sang them to her beautiful baby girl, Agnesija, every night.
Now sweet sixteen, Aggie sang them to herself as she stood on a small rise of barren, windswept tundra overlooking the city in which she’d been born and raised. Aggie loved the stark, untamed coastline of her tiny city. She loved the months-long sunsets of winter and twenty-four hours of daylight during the short summers in the land of the midnight sun. She had spent the entirety of her sixteen years in Barrow Alaskaand couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
The only thing she missed was trees. There were no trees. No conifers, no deciduous, no hunter green needles, no supple leaves vibrant green in summer and bright gold in the fall. With the exception of the occasional arctic willow - which can grow to the impressive height of seven inches – until her freshman year of high school when she traveled to Valdez for the first time with the pep club, she’d experienced trees only in pictures and movies. She had seen tons of pictures and imagined the sound and smell of them for as long as she could remember. She’d read every book on dendrology (the study of trees and shrubs) she could find in their small school library, had gone online and pulled up every tree picture and article available on the world wide web. Aggie had even gone on YouTube and tried, without much success, to find movies about trees.
She ached for the link she’d read about, the one between people and trees. Tree whispering is the act of establishing that connection, one in which trees can comfort and heal you and you can do the same for them. Years ago she had attempted tree whispering with a small arctic willow she’d found a mile or so from town, Aggie had kept her hands on its tiny, twisted trunk for what seemed like hours, but nothing happened. No whispering, no healing, no connection, nothing except cold, stiff fingers. It was a beautiful tree and she couldn’t get it out of her mind so later she went back and dug up the tiny, gnarled willow. She hauled it home and planted it in a pot. It thrived in front of her bedroom window and had grown to a height of three feet and two inches. It was a lovely tree, reminding her of a large bonsai. It shed many of its leaves in the winter which made a pretty large mess but her dad had helped her hang a light for it so it would continue to grow even in the darkness of the arctic winters.
She had, with the help of her friends Jane and Ajax, named her tree Willy. They had laughed uproariously at the time, especially Ajaxwho went on and on about touching her Willy. The little tree took on a personality of its own and whenever anybody, even her parents, entered her room they’d say hello to the little willow, run their hands along the smooth bark and marvel at the shiny green leaves. She laid hands on it every day hoping for a connection. At first it was just for kicks, but in the last few months she’d become desperate for a message from her tree. Willy never made a peep but Aggie never gave up.
She scraped windblown hair from her eyes and pleaded with the sky. “God help me,” she whispered, rubbing her swollen belly. She waited a few minutes for a sign, any sign. “Somebody please help me.”
Hopeless, she trudged back to her empty house. Her dad was passed out on the couch as usual. Her mom was at the grocery store and then was having lunch with a friend from her book club. They’d both be out for hours. Perfect.
Aggie kicked off her shoes and hung her coat on a hook in the entryway. Her chubby brown tortoiseshell cat, Coco Chanel, greeted her with a leg rub and a loud “Yow.” She bent to scratch Coco’s back.
“Hey kitty,” she said, distracted. She had something to do and was determined to get on with it before she changed her mind. She hurried through the silent house to her bedroom, Coco trailing in her wake, leaving the door open she crossed to the gnarled tree silhouetted in her window. She knelt in front of Willy and placed her hands on the smooth trunk. Bowing her head in supplication, she prayed, “Please talk to me. I can’t do this anymore. Please help me.” The tree and the room were silent except for the purring of Coco sitting next to her.
She waited and waited for something, anything. Not a peep. Sighing, she struggled to her tingling feet and, supporting the bottom of her heavy belly, turned and went across the hall to the bathroom to empty her bladder, washing her hands and face afterward. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Haunted, tear stained eyes, sunken cheeks, lank hair. What happened to my beautiful hair, she wondered, running cold fingers through the black strands hanging over her collarbone?
She returned to her room, Coco padding after on silent paws, and pulled open the small top drawer of her dresser. She ran her fingers over the pretty scarves, hats, and gloves within, many of them handmade and given to her as gifts over the years. She pulled out the soft silken one her uncle had given to her a few years ago for her birthday. Fitting, she thought.
She looked around her room and tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, God,” she said, “I know this is a sin, but I just can’t take it anymore. I can’t – I’m so scared but I just can’t live like this anymore. I’m sorry Coco. I love you but I have to do this.” she sobbed, rubbing the cat behind her ears. Coco stared up at her with round, yellow eyes. She blinked twice and a sigh breathed through Aggie’s brain, “No,” it whispered. She caught her breath, “What?” She stared at Coco who sat and stared back as cats will do. She shook her head. “I think I’ve gone crazy Coco.” She started to cry, “I’m going to miss you so much.” She wiped her nose on the scarf. “Suck it up, Aggie and just do this.” She marched to the closet and yanked open the door, pulling some clothes out and tossing them on her bed. The rest she pushed aside. She looped the soft purple and red scarf over the rod. She turned and backed into the closet pulling the scarf around her neck, tying a firm knot up behind her right ear.
“Yow!” said Coco.
Prologue “Hush-a-bye sweet baby, in your cradle on top of the tree, wind rocking you so gently to sleep. Hush-a-bye sweet Aggie, safe in your bough, and when it breaks your tree won’t let you fall.”
Sylvia had retooled the words to the lullaby to suit her own purposes and sang them to her beautiful baby girl, Agnesija, every night.
Now sweet sixteen, Aggie sang them to herself as she stood on a small rise of barren, windswept tundra overlooking the city in which she’d been born and raised. Aggie loved the stark, untamed coastline of her tiny city. She loved the months-long sunsets of winter and twenty-four hours of daylight during the short summers in the land of the midnight sun. She had spent the entirety of her sixteen years in Barrow Alaskaand couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
The only thing she missed was trees. There were no trees. No conifers, no deciduous, no hunter green needles, no supple leaves vibrant green in summer and bright gold in the fall. With the exception of the occasional arctic willow - which can grow to the impressive height of seven inches – until her freshman year of high school when she traveled to Valdez for the first time with the pep club, she’d experienced trees only in pictures and movies. She had seen tons of pictures and imagined the sound and smell of them for as long as she could remember. She’d read every book on dendrology (the study of trees and shrubs) she could find in their small school library, had gone online and pulled up every tree picture and article available on the world wide web. Aggie had even gone on YouTube and tried, without much success, to find movies about trees.
She ached for the link she’d read about, the one between people and trees. Tree whispering is the act of establishing that connection, one in which trees can comfort and heal you and you can do the same for them. Years ago she had attempted tree whispering with a small arctic willow she’d found a mile or so from town, Aggie had kept her hands on its tiny, twisted trunk for what seemed like hours, but nothing happened. No whispering, no healing, no connection, nothing except cold, stiff fingers. It was a beautiful tree and she couldn’t get it out of her mind so later she went back and dug up the tiny, gnarled willow. She hauled it home and planted it in a pot. It thrived in front of her bedroom window and had grown to a height of three feet and two inches. It was a lovely tree, reminding her of a large bonsai. It shed many of its leaves in the winter which made a pretty large mess but her dad had helped her hang a light for it so it would continue to grow even in the darkness of the arctic winters.
She had, with the help of her friends Jane and Ajax, named her tree Willy. They had laughed uproariously at the time, especially Ajaxwho went on and on about touching her Willy. The little tree took on a personality of its own and whenever anybody, even her parents, entered her room they’d say hello to the little willow, run their hands along the smooth bark and marvel at the shiny green leaves. She laid hands on it every day hoping for a connection. At first it was just for kicks, but in the last few months she’d become desperate for a message from her tree. Willy never made a peep but Aggie never gave up.
She scraped windblown hair from her eyes and pleaded with the sky. “God help me,” she whispered, rubbing her swollen belly. She waited a few minutes for a sign, any sign. “Somebody please help me.”
Hopeless, she trudged back to her empty house. Her dad was passed out on the couch as usual. Her mom was at the grocery store and then was having lunch with a friend from her book club. They’d both be out for hours. Perfect.
Aggie kicked off her shoes and hung her coat on a hook in the entryway. Her chubby brown tortoiseshell cat, Coco Chanel, greeted her with a leg rub and a loud “Yow.” She bent to scratch Coco’s back.
“Hey kitty,” she said, distracted. She had something to do and was determined to get on with it before she changed her mind. She hurried through the silent house to her bedroom, Coco trailing in her wake, leaving the door open she crossed to the gnarled tree silhouetted in her window. She knelt in front of Willy and placed her hands on the smooth trunk. Bowing her head in supplication, she prayed, “Please talk to me. I can’t do this anymore. Please help me.” The tree and the room were silent except for the purring of Coco sitting next to her.
She waited and waited for something, anything. Not a peep. Sighing, she struggled to her tingling feet and, supporting the bottom of her heavy belly, turned and went across the hall to the bathroom to empty her bladder, washing her hands and face afterward. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Haunted, tear stained eyes, sunken cheeks, lank hair. What happened to my beautiful hair, she wondered, running cold fingers through the black strands hanging over her collarbone?
She returned to her room, Coco padding after on silent paws, and pulled open the small top drawer of her dresser. She ran her fingers over the pretty scarves, hats, and gloves within, many of them handmade and given to her as gifts over the years. She pulled out the soft silken one her uncle had given to her a few years ago for her birthday. Fitting, she thought.
She looked around her room and tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, God,” she said, “I know this is a sin, but I just can’t take it anymore. I can’t – I’m so scared but I just can’t live like this anymore. I’m sorry Coco. I love you but I have to do this.” she sobbed, rubbing the cat behind her ears. Coco stared up at her with round, yellow eyes. She blinked twice and a sigh breathed through Aggie’s brain, “No,” it whispered. She caught her breath, “What?” She stared at Coco who sat and stared back as cats will do. She shook her head. “I think I’ve gone crazy Coco.” She started to cry, “I’m going to miss you so much.” She wiped her nose on the scarf. “Suck it up, Aggie and just do this.” She marched to the closet and yanked open the door, pulling some clothes out and tossing them on her bed. The rest she pushed aside. She looped the soft purple and red scarf over the rod. She turned and backed into the closet pulling the scarf around her neck, tying a firm knot up behind her right ear.
“Yow!” said Coco.
December 4, 2013
In the Zone
Writing is interesting. I know, duh, of course it’s interesting or nobody would do it. What I mean is you have all these ideas popping into your brain and you have to attempt to pick out one or two that, if you’re lucky, will morph into a story. Hopefully a good one.
Writing is one of the most interesting and satisfying things I have ever attempted. It's also difficult, exasperating, and all consuming, but I love it and can't wait to sit down in front of my computer and put my ideas to paper.
I am, as stated previously (several times in fact), working on Visions of Mortality, #2 in the Visions series, but I've been hijacked by a story that I have to get out of my brain before I can get back to Larita, Shelby, and friends.
Tentatively entitled The Whispering of Trees, this narrative is thestory of Aggie, a happy sixteen-year-old living in the small town of Barrow Alaska, whose life is shattered when something unspeakable happens to her not long after her sixteenth birthday. She gives in to despair, thinking herself incapable of surviving the life-altering consequences, until an unexpected source of love and understanding encourages her to dig deep and discover untapped reserves of courage.
I will keep you posted on my progress and to those readers who liked Visions of You (thank you!) and are patiently awaiting Visions of Mortality, please bear with me, I’m typing as fast as I can.
