Ingrid Jennings's Blog

I Feel Like Writing

When you feel like writing and have absolutely no idea what to write about. What comes out, the stars, the sky, the evils buried deep within  but what if you don’t want to talk about buried pain and built up stress, what if you want to be happy and write happy fairy tales for the masses to read and feel all warm and hopeful on the inside.

Here it goes…………give me a second…. I’m searching for the words to escape the vault of all the feelings my heart holds.

Dread and pain

Anguish and hate

Here I am trying to be energy 

Trying to give off light and vibrate higher 

Gliding the line between good and evil

You can only serve one master.

Chose he now and forever hold your peace

Who will it be 

Biblical virtues or worldly mysteries that pull at your soul. 

The balance scale of life upon your back.

Falling down the rabbit hole, the longer you fall, the longer the hole. 

Atoms vibrating, bodies at war. Science in the mist and religion scared of the truth. 

All this and nothing more wrapped in a box under the tree, my present for Christmas. 

A string at a time I pull to discover the truth of why. 

A bunch of nonsense puzzled together. 

I stare at the board for what it may hold. 

Looking for answers 

Look no further

Answers are never there just a big why,

Why love, why hate, why travel life, why return to spirit, 

Why be

I felt like writing, but couldn’t find the words.

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Flash Fiction | Poetry titled: Who am I?

Who am I?

Once upon a time in the sky, I floated on a cloud to my sweet love, 

I tried to tell him my deepest thoughts, 

revealing my entire being 

and he lay and stare,

maybe into space or some distant memory whispers sweetness in his ears but my words float in the air waiting to be swallowed by a similar being. 

Someone who understands,

who cares,

who will wipe my tears away, 

and embrace my love. 

And until then alone I sit in a sea of people, 

wasting away, 

for no one hears my cries.

Not even my tantrums 

get seen or heard. 

Invisible me,

gliding the timeline of life,

squeezing between people in a crowded world. 

No one sees,

hears, 

or even catch a glimpse of my blues. 

Is it God telling me 

my problems are petty,

my sadness not true,

maybe, maybe not. 

Like splinters entering my body, agitating my inner being,

my longing, 

for a listener increases my struggle.

The war within, resist peace,

seeking a strong leader

to negotiate with my tormented mind. 

Inhaling my floating words I decide to save them for a receiving ear. 

Once they are captured in the crevices of my spirit. 

I hear his words

And I hear his words well,

You never talk to me, my lover tells me.

The words dance in my ears,

they vibrate my atoms. 

The molecules making up my body explode into rambunctious flames. 

Quickly my mind try to reason, dilute, if not put out the fire. 

Ego rolls in cascading like a waterfall carrying oil and grease. 

Then I notice the blood drenched knife. 

Then I notice his body lying their lifeless. 

What have I done? 

In the midst of my anger,

somehow,

could I, 

I just don’t know. 

A knife, 

A body,

I can’t quite explain. 

Huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf, 

but I am neither big, 

nor bad,

just frantic. 

Tears begin flowing like a raging river.

Parkinsons overwhelm my soul. 

Glancing at the body I wipe my tears.

A drift runs though me, 

full of feelings,

shock,

then sadness, 

but now happiness fills my veins. 

My frown turns upside down

Oh how I like the way that rhymes. 

His face so peaceful like,

his body lie limp,

Oh my,

Who am I?

Flash Fiction | Poetry by Ingrid Jennings

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Poetry by Marilyn Orr Cruz Author of Bridgewater State, Mackey, and Cops

   Ode To A Suicidal Friend…   

You dwell too much with death my friend,

There is no mystery. *

So rapt you are by the unknown,

You spin your fantasy.

Deep intrigue, 

And rituals,

Mahogany 

So neat,

Marble Angels…

Profound words,

Etched around their feet..

Oh! How we tend to glamorize death…

Remember Camille…

How beautifully she passed,

Smiling, Gardenia in hand…From tuberculoses.

I think not!

Romeo and Juliet…

How wonderfully romantic,

To die from love!  And Poison.

I think not!

And Jesus Christ, 

The Ultimate Love and Sacrifice…

Dare you compare!

I think not!

You dwell too much,

With death my friend…  

Yes much. And all for naught!

It is, for every creature,

The fate that Natures fraught.

Let go my friend of lady death,

Let go her magic charm.

Your union’s sealed in destiny,

Your end… No great Alarm!

Celebrate your life. My friend,

With things you’ve yet to know.

The passion from within you,

That makes your juices flow!

With Joy! Embrace the wonders,

That each new day imparts.

Laugh a lot. And Cry a lot.

Live only by your heart.

Dwell not too much with Death my friend.

The lady waits…. Fear not.

She waits, and waits, and you’ll be there,

When she selects your lot.

Marilyn O. Cruz

I Write

It’s what I do *

It’s what I love.

I live with an ache in my core  

That only calms with words

Extracted from the essence 

That is me.

The words have rhythm.

A cadence that sends them

Spilling across the page

Fulfilling a need to be free

To reveal the fierce grasp of

 Anguish or pleasure

That grips my heart

That tests my soul

Until stopped …

A powerful single dot

The period halts my flight

I touch the back key

It’s not the end

Only a pause

I breathe 

deep and long

fingers searching

I start again

And I write

It’s what I do.

Poetry By Marilyn Orr Cruz Author of Bridgewater State, Mackey, and Cops. Available on Amazon and Goodreads

Author Interview Coming Soon

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Kirkus Book Review for Lily Faye and the Mighty Oak

Reproduction Taken From: Kirkus Reviews

LILY FAYE AND THE MIGHTY OAK

BY INGRID JENNINGS ; ILLUSTRATED BY ESTELA RAILEANU ‧ RELEASE DATE: DEC. 17, 2020

A frog learns a little about science in Jennings’ picture book.

Lily Faye just wants to bask in the sun, but there’s a problem: An old oak tree is casting a long shadow across her part of the pond. She asks the tree, “Are you just going to stand there and block the sun? What use are you?” The oak frowns, and Lily Faye hops away. She runs into Bluefish, who tells her the building nearby is a school for mammals known as boys and girls. Lily Faye leaps up to the school window, where a human teacher is explaining how trees make all life on Earth possible by turning carbon dioxide into oxygen. She reconsiders her unkind words to the oak tree, returns to the pond, and apologizes. The tree accepts and parts its branches to flood the frog’s lily pad with sunlight. Raileanu’s illustrations are in a class of their own, eschewing the soft pastels many readers expect of picture books. Characters are highly stylized, and saturated colors, bordering on lurid, give the book a late-1970s Golden Book vibe. Some of the science may not be enough for curious readers: Bluefish says Lily Faye is an amphibian but doesn’t detail what that means, and how carbon dioxide becomes oxygen isn’t explained. That said, what’s presented is simple and easy to understand.A well-illustrated introduction to a few basic science facts.

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Summer’s Nightmare is available on Amazon’s Kindle Vella

Paperback comes out 2023

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Thoughts

Thoughts

Sitting in a deserted corner of a small village in the cervices of my mind.

 Lint balls, moth balls, powdery smells of old ladies perfume. 

This is a new place, a sad place, a place I didn’t know existed and I have been a lot of places. 

On the brink of suicide, extreme happiness, jumping up and down excitement but this place is different. It’s dark, it’s haunted by memories from the past and glimpses into the future. 

I don’t like this place. It wrings my soul, churns my stomach, and makes awful rotten egg tastes run though my esophagus bursting into my mouth and rolling off my lips, sickening smells.

But this place has become home, 

maybe not forever, but at least for a little while, 

so I stand here glancing around,

wondering how to maneuver in this new land.  

Shall I be myself or be who they want me to be 

but who are they,

do they really exist, 

or maybe they is my imagination and I am on an island of my own held hostage by consciousness, 

never reaching my full potential but this is all just a thought. 

Poetry by Ingrid Jennings

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Midnight’s Cruelty

Midnight’s Cruelty

Heavy lids,

Watery eyes,

A lite yawn flow in the air 

If only sleep could pierce my thoughts

But fear keeps sleep in a distance ream.

So here I sit and ponder away 

Keeping dreams in midnight’s mist. 

The cruelness of night,

laughing in the dark,

making fun 

of it’s victims nightmares.

Demons burrowing the brains at rest. 

They feed off panic,

causing anxiety. 

Weeping children crying out “monster”

Restless moms quivering to the coldness of spirits dwelling among them.

Men, big, and bad huffing and puffing out their chest,

secretly bowing, praying for a restful night.

Yet to their prevail,

Rest is stolen by low softly spoken whispers that hides in the darkness.

Such a scary scene, a full moon peeking though the clouds. 

Lonely souls tossing and turning 

A dark evil vapor circulating the night. 

Some miraculous pull tilting us 23.5 degrees away from the sun. And the great rotation slowly

thrusting us to midnight. 

My eyelids reluctantly drop,

Then pop back open, 

sleep’s fogginess 

overcoming all lucid thoughts.

Prickly nerves left behind,

no choice left but to drift to sleep.

Lay upon it’s bed, 

hope it grant me a peaceful night, hope it lock up all it’s demons. 

As my eyes close shut, 

to rest my body goes 

Til the rays from the sun resuscitate me back to life.

Poetry by: Ingrid Jennings

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Write

“God help me, God help me,” flew from my liquor stained lips. My grandmother’s hundred year old crystal scotch glass fell to the hard maple floor, and I dropped to my knees and closed my eyes in shame. The antique white walls begin to slowly warp, twisting and turning right before my eyes. My mind journeyed down a deserted path of subconsciousness and floated up to the darkened star studded sky spinning thought the clouds, they broke away for my ascension to the heavens. Along a linear path I traveled the dark solar system to shiny white gates. At the gates stood an angelic faced guard. He glared down at me as if I didn’t belong, my time of moving in had not yet arrived and once more I shouted “God help me.” The angelic faced guard put his hand over his heart and smiled.

The guard floated to the side and opened the tall shiny metal gate. I stood in fear, looking though the gates then glancing behind at the world below. He pointed his specter, gesturing for me to continue though the gates. Slowly stepping down the path that only the dead descend while observing the angel lined gold paved streets. A brilliant gigantic orb appeared before me. No words was spoken but in white capital letters W-R-I-T-E floated across the navy blue sky.

“Speak to me God,” came from my trembling lips. The letters W-R-I-T-E floated along my path again. Over and over I asked to hear his voice or a sign that this was reality and not a dream. The only things that appeared in my sight was the word WRITE. I opened my eyes, sunlight peered though my bedroom window, heaven was gone and I was back home.

I grabbed my laptop with doubt in my mind. I didn’t know what to write or think of this illusion. I opened the laptop, turned it on, glanced at the blue background upon the screen, then opened a document sheet. I still didn’t know what to say to the keys until a bright white light shone in the left corner of my room. It was different from the golden sun rays that gleamed in the air. It glistened, it sung, it spoke to my heart. A light from above, confirmation for me and at that moment words begin to appear in my heart and my fingers pounded the laptop keys with great pace and determination. I didn’t know what I was writing; my finger just hit the keys. Word after word they spelled out and somehow all the words went together and formed sensible sentences. It was no longer me typing but a force from within my soul. At that moment, I knew I had to write.

Written by: Ingrid Jennings

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Write

“God help me, God help me,” flew from my liquor stained lips. My grandmother’s hundred year old crystal scotch glass fell to the hard maple floor, and I dropped to my knees and closed my eyes in shame. The antique white walls begin to slowly warp, twisting and turning right before my eyes. My mind journeyed down a deserted path of subconsciousness and floated up to the darkened star studded sky spinning thought the clouds, they broke away for my ascension to the heavens. Along a linear path I traveled the dark solar system to shiny white gates. At the gates stood an angelic faced guard. He glared down at me as if I didn’t belong, my time of moving in had not yet arrived and once more I shouted “God help me.” The angelic faced guard put his hand over his heart and smiled.

The guard floated to the side and opened the tall shiny metal gate. I stood in fear, looking though the gates then glancing behind at the world below. He pointed his specter, gesturing for me to continue though the gates. Slowly stepping down the path that only the dead descend while observing the angel lined gold paved streets. A brilliant gigantic orb appeared before me. No words was spoken but in white capital letters W-R-I-T-E floated across the navy blue sky.

“Speak to me God,” came from my trembling lips. The letters W-R-I-T-E floated along my path again. Over and over I asked to hear his voice or a sign that this was reality and not a dream. The only things that appeared in my sight was the word WRITE. I opened my eyes, sunlight peered though my bedroom window, heaven was gone and I was back home.

I grabbed my laptop with doubt in my mind. I didn’t know what to write or think of this illusion. I opened the laptop, turned it on, glanced at the blue background upon the screen, then opened a document sheet. I still didn’t know what to say to the keys until a bright white light shone in the left corner of my room. It was different from the golden sun rays that gleamed in the air. It glistened, it sung, it spoke to my heart. A light from above, confirmation for me and at that moment words begin to appear in my heart and my fingers pounded the laptop keys with great pace and determination. I didn’t know what I was writing; my finger just hit the keys. Word after word they spelled out and somehow all the words went together and formed sensible sentences. It was no longer me typing but a force from within my soul. At that moment, I knew I had to write.

Written by: Ingrid Jennings

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New Up and Coming Author Jewel Beth Davis

SUPERWOMAN
By:
Jewel Beth Davis
Originally published in SN Review (snreview.org)

 

The red light on the answering machine flashes on and off in an alarming manner. Listen. To me. Answer. Me. Come. On. Don’t. Walk by. You better. Listen.

It’s New Year’s Eve. Nothing very exciting ever happens to me on New Year’s. Tonight I actually go out ballroom dancing with friends. I arrive home around 1:30 AM, weary from the drive back and forth from New Hampshire to Portland, Maine. My lids are drooping and small kernels of unknown disturbances in my eyes seem to have magnified into glass shards. I walk through my office on my way to bed and glance at my answering machine. It’s blinking with four messages.

Four. I never get four messages. The machine is like a loud, insistent relative that I’m obligated to interact with but would rather not. If blinking had a decibel level, this would be a nine or ten. This is intriguing. I pause. It had better not be bad news. But why else would anyone call on New Year’s?

I think about leaving it blinking until the morning. I mean, whoever is dead or hurt will still be similarly situated in the morning. But I can’t do it. I don’t have the self-discipline for that. I reach my hand, the finger pointing like the Ghost of Christmas Future, toward the message button hoping they’re all wrong numbers. GingerlyI depress the button.

“Professor Jewel? Jewel? You know who this is? Yeah, you do…Do you? Never mind. It’s Turk.”

Good Lord. Turk? Sam Turcinski, better known as Turk, is one of my college students at M______ College. He’s a rugged, handsome blonde boy who makes me laugh in class. He has taken two Communication classes with me and has signed up to take a third. He’d earned Ds in his first course with me until halfway through the semester. I told him it wasn’t good enough. Apparently, that was the only impetus he needed. His final grade for that course was a B.

“Professor Jewel. I need help. You’re the only one I could turn to.”

Help me, Obi Wan. You’re the only one who can help me.

All my energy is focused on the machine.

Why me?

Oh God, is he hurt? Is he in jail? I live an hour away, too far to get there quickly. I am immobile. Listening.

“You see,” Turk continues, “I’m at a party at my best friend’s house. His New Year’s Eve party.”

“I know it’s New Year’s, Turk,” I say to the machine.

“I won’t say I haven’t been drinking. I have. I mean, it’s New Year’s for Chrissakes, Jewel.”

“I’m aware of that. Get to the point,” I say to the inanimate object.

“Well, my best friend’s mother is here at the party. ”

Good lord.

“Jewel, my best friend’s mom is a hottie. She’s a MILF and she said she wants to do it with me tonight. You know, do IT.”  He emphasizes the words as if I might not understand his meaning.  “I really want to, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing.”

For those not familiar with the vernacular, MILF is an acronym for Mothers I’d Like to F__k. I didn’t create it and I wouldn’t admit it if I had.

“So what do you think Jewel? Should I do it with her? I trust your judgment. Tell me what to do. You always know the right thing to do.”

Turk doesn’t know me well if he can say that. Often, I don’t know the right thing to do. Besides, is there always one right thing to do? I don’t think so.

“Call me back, Professor,” Turk says. “I’m dying to go to bed with her but I’ll wait for your phone call.” He hangs up. He’ll wait for my phone call?  Try to picture that.

Since when have I become God or the arbitrator of right and wrong? I teach Communication, not Ethics. I’m Jewish. We don’t have a right or wrong that’s black and white. We argue about everything.

The answering machine gives a high-pitched bleep and Turk’s voice comes back on. “Jewel, where are you? You haven’t called back yet. Should I sleep with my best friend’s mother, or shouldn’t I? I really, really want to, but what would happen if I did? Would my friend be mad at me? Come on, Jewel. The clock’s ticking and I need an answer.”

I am not calling him back. It’s after 1:30 AM. Clearly my teacherly obligations do not extend to early morning phone calls about morality.

“You know what?” I say to the machine. “I think you already know the right thing to do because otherwise, you wouldn’t be calling your professor. In the middle of the night. On a holiday.”

The next call is more of the same from Turk. The last is my brother Mike wishing me Happy New Year. Now, the machine has stopped blinking red and shouting at me. No one has died and for that, I’m grateful. I move up the stairs to my bedroom.

At this moment, I’m struck by how much power teachers have with their students. And I feel how much it means that he has elected to call me at this moment and not someone else.

As I climb up to my attic bedroom, I’m feeling pretty good. Okay, Turk was over the top tonight. But still…

Three weeks later, I return to work. Turk has enrolled in my Interpersonal Communication class. I tease him about his New Year’s Eve calls to me, which he takes it with excellent humor.

“Turk, no one else can make ethical decisions for you.”

“I know that,” he says. “I had a bit to drink. And this woman was really tempting.”

I can feel the thought skittering around in my mind like a confused bat crashing into walls. What had he decided to do?

“But I want you to know,” Turk continues. “I thought of you at that moment and what you’d do in a circumstance like that. I did the right thing.”

I didn’t ask him what that was.

When Turk says this, my mind flashes to an image of when I was a girl. I used to dream every night that I was Superwoman soaring in the sky. I yearned to fly. Now I am.

Biography

Jewel Beth Davis is a writer and theater artist who lives in Rollinsford, NH. She has performed, directed and choreographed professionally throughout the U.S. and British Isles. She earned an MFA in Writing at Vermont College of fine Arts. She is a Professor of Writing and Theater at NHTI-Concord Community College. Since 2006, her creative nonfiction and fiction has been published in the Compass Rose, SN Review, Moondance Literary Magazine, Cezanne’s Carrot, Bent Pin Literary Journal, READ THIS, The Sylvan Echo, Poetica Magazine, Lilith, Scribblers on the Roof, Spirits Literary Magazine of IU, American Diversity Report, Damselfly Press, The Smoking Poet, Bewildering Stories, Fiction Fix, Spectrum Literary Magazine of UCSD, Entelechy International, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Spittoon, and Diverse Voices Quarterly, which nominated her story for Dzanc’s Best of the Web 2011. SNReview published Jewel’s first story and has now published her twenty-fifth in February 2013.

 

JEWEL BETH DAVIS

Bugjewel@yahoo.com

www.jewelbethdavis.com

 

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