Leta P. Hawk's Blog

Resolving Not to Resolve…

I’m almost a week late, but some things can’t be rushed, especially for a master procrastinator.

That said, I’m not one for making New Year’s resolutions, but I decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to lay out some goals for this year. So here goes.

Make progress on, if not finish, Book 7 of the Kyrie Carter: Supernatural Sleuth series. I really hadn’t intended to even begin writing this one for a few months, but thanks to an article by my favorite Clinton County historian, inspiration struck, so here we are. Finish my first cozy mystery, tentatively titled “It’s a Wonderful Death.” I’ve been working on this one off and on for a few years. I recently realized that there are actually two separate stories in what I have, so I’m reworking the premise. Finish the children’s book based on my dog Raven and her canine companion William. This was just a fun story I wanted to write as a gift for William’s humans, who actually watch Raven when we go on vacation. It’s just not as easy as I expected. Unearth the YA fantasy I started years ago, “The Knight and the Not-Quite Lady” and at least outline it. Since the BBC series “Merlin” ended, I’ve lost my inspiration for this story. But there are a few folks who would like to see Wynifrog’s story be completed, so… Continue developing my drawing skills. Since I’ve been sitting in art classes with the English Language Learners I’m assigned to, I’ve begun drawing again. I’d like to keep up with it this time and learn some new skills. Sign up for more in-person author events. I never really got back in the swing of things after Covid screwed everything up, and with the end of my series in sight, I’d like to get back to doing readings, author talks, and vendor events.

Like a lot of other people, I suppose, every year, I vow to do this, that, or the other thing, but usually I keep those vows to myself. I’m hoping that by putting my intentions out there, I’ll be at least a little more inclined to actually meet those goals. Lord willing, I’ll see you back here in a year with good news.

October Frights Blog Hop 2024

Excerpt from Outwalk the Light, Outrun the Darkness, available now!

Caine and I both spun around to see Officer Dixon emerge from the trees. Seeing his gun drawn and pointed at us, we both put our hands up. A moment later, the plainclothes officer also stumbled into the clearing, out of breath. I looked back at Caine and gestured toward the campfire. Rain was beginning to fall faster, and we couldn’t afford to waste time on distractions, even distractions with guns. I hoped I could distract Dixon long enough for Caine to do what he needed to do to lure the Flying Head to us. Either he missed my cue, or he was too intimidated by the sight of Dixon’s weapon to move, because he just stood motionless. I turned back to Dixon and matched his energy. “Why don’t you just give it up? Like Papa Schuy said, your bogus kidnapping charge isn’t going to stick.”

“We’ll just see about that,” he said, his face locked in its usual sneer. “Besides, I could arrest both of you for trespassing on State Game Lands. Did you think that iron gate back there was just for show?” He aimed his gun toward Caine. “Son, why don’t you go with Officer George here? He can take your statement about this deranged criminal forcing you out into the woods against your will.”

“But she didn’t–”

“Caine Mee-hah-lak, it is time. Throw the tomahawk stone into the fire.” The disembodied voice seemed to come from all around us.

“What the devil? Who’s there?” Dixon and George both looked around wildly, trying to find the source of the voice. I took advantage of their distraction to turn toward Caine, who was likewise looking around. “Caine,” I hissed. “Yes, it’s the Swamp Angel. Do what she says. Throw the artifact into the fire. Now!“

Startled out of his stupor, Caine turned quickly and tossed the tomahawk head into the campfire. It landed right in the middle of the flames, sending a shower of burning embers skyward. The sudden flare drew Dixon’s attention, and he spun around to face us again. “What did you do? What did you throw into the fire, boy?”

Caine put his hands up again. “N-nothing. Just a…just a rock.”

“Just a rock,” Dixon mimicked before looking over his shoulder at George. “Did you see it? What did he throw in the fire?”

“I…I don’t know, sir.” Officer George’s gaze drifted between Dixon and me. “I wasn’t watching.”

“A distraction! That voice was some kind of trick to distract us while they threw evidence in the fire.” Dixon’s eyes glittered crazily in the firelight as he focued his gaze on the pouch strapped to my side. He shoved his gun back in his holster and reached for his handcuffs. “Young lady, I’m done with you. What else have you got? What’s in that pouch? Give it to me!”

“No!” I yanked the pouch, breaking its cord and tossed it to Caine. “Keep a hold of this. You know what to do.”

“But I–”

“Just do it,” I said, trying to dodge the angry officer.

“Why, you–” Dixon lunged for me and fastened the cuff around my left wrist. 

“Stop it! Let me go! I didn’t do anything–” I wasn’t going to make it easy for him; what if he went after Caine next? As he reached for my right hand, I writhed and fought, keeping my free hand away from his grasp. Rain was falling harder now, making the ground muddy and slick.

“George, get over here and help me!”

Officer George had just taken a tentative step toward us when an ear-piercing shriek cut through the night. He stopped in his tracks, looking around with wide, terrified eyes. “What…what was that?”

“What do you mean, what was that?” Dixon replied, likewise looking around with ill-concealed fear. “It was the wind. Can’t you see it’s storming? Now get over here and–”

A second shriek echoed through the trees, closer than before.

Officer George shook his head. “Uh-uh. That was no wind.”

A bright flash followed immediately by a loud BOOM! back in the trees made all four of us drop to our knees. Lightning! That was a little too close for comfort. I attempted to use the momentary distraction to break free from Dixon’s grasp, to no avail. “I don’t think so, Miss Carter.” He pushed me face-first into the mud and fastened the other cuff around my right wrist, rendering me all but helpless. Thankfully, Caine had the pouch, as long as he—where was Caine?

“Caine! Where are you?”

Caine slowly rose from the opposite side of the log where we’d been sitting. I was about to ask him what he thought he was doing when I noticed that he was staring into the trees. “Ms. Carter…it’s…it’s coming!”

Dixon still had his knee in my back, so it was all I could do to lift my head and shake my hair out of my eyes to see what he was looking at. As soon as I saw the red-orange glow, I began struggling to get up and cried out, “The Flying Head! Dixon, let me up!”

“Sir?” Officer George had likewise spotted the eerie glow moving toward us. “I think there’s a fire–”

“Caine Mee-hah-lak, the Kanontsistonties is coming. You must throw the pouch into its mouth to destroy it.”

He shook his head, never taking his eyes off the rapidly-advancing glow. “I…I can’t do this. Ms. Carter? I can’t do this…”

“Caine, you have to!” I struggled to push Dixon off me so I could get up, but he was likewise staring into the trees, mesmerized by the approaching horror, and made no move to release me. “Dixon, get off me! Caine, I can’t help you; you have to do this!“

“You must trust me, Caine Mee-hah-lak, or you will be lost.”

I continued struggling, trying to push Dixon off me. “Listen to her, Caine! You have to listen to her! Dixon, get off!”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s a fire,” Officer George said, his voice rising an octave. “What is that?”

Dixon’s knee abruptly came off my back, but it was immediately apparent that the goodness of his heart wasn’t the reason. “What in the blue blazes rising from the pit of hell am I looking at? Miss Carter…what…what kind of stunt are you pulling here?”

I rolled onto my side and turned my eyes toward the trees, squinting through my wet hair and the rain that was now falling in sheets. What I saw made my breath catch in my throat. How is that even possible? The Flying Head was coming closer…closer, its fiery eyes and flaming hair glowing ever brighter, and its gaping maw and razor-sharp fangs coming more and more into focus. However, as if that wasn’t terrifying enough, we could–or at least I could–see it clearly as though the trees had disappeared. It was as if the Flying Head was creating the illusion that the forest no longer existed in order to further intimidate us.

“Ms. Carter?” Caine had skirted the log benches and was scrambling toward me, still looking for the help I was in no position to give him. He clutched the leather pouch tightly, holding it in front of him for protection. “Do you see that? Where’s the forest? Where are the trees?”

So it wasn’t just me. “Yes, Caine. I–”

“The fire! You must keep it burning! It must not go out!”

The Swamp Angel’s urgent voice jarred me, and I tore my eyes away from the horror before me to look at the campfire. It was still burning, for now, but the rain hissed and sizzled as it hit the fire, extinguishing some of the flames. My eyes darted between the fading campfire and the swiftly-approaching spirit. “Caine! Dixon! Someone! Get some more wood on that fire! Don’t let it go out!”

Dixon and George stood rigid with fear, unable to move or speak; thankfully, Caine responded quickly, still clutching the pouch with one hand while he tossed random sticks, twigs, and small branches into the fire. The added fuel did little to build the fire up, but at least it kept the flames from going out. In a few more seconds, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

“Caine Mee-hah-lak, it is time.” The Swamp Angel’s voice was louder and clearer, so much so that I expected to see her emerge from the trees. “When the Kanontsistonties comes into the clearing, you must throw the pouch into its mouth. You must not fail.”

The fear in the clearing was almost palpable as all eyes focused on the flaming horror coming toward us. If its malevolent gaze hadn’t been fixed on us before, it was now. As it barrelled toward the clearing, fire flew from its eyes, and it let out anotoher shriek as its jaws widened, displaying its fangs and the screaming souls within.  Another shriek behind me made me strain to turn my head. In a scene that would have been comedic were it not for the seriousness of our situation, Dixon and George were dancing around one another, each trying to hide behind the other to escape the Flying Head. “Kye-ree Carter, I take back what I said about you! You are a witch. You summoned that…that…that thing!“

I had no time to throw a retort at him, because at that moment, the Flying Head exploded into the clearing, white-hot flames erupting from its mouth and eyes. As the evil entity let out another shriek, the clearing was engulfed by a sudden whirlwind, and the foul stench of sulfur and rotting flesh filled the air. I was vaguely aware of Officer George shouting, “Saints preserve us!” and I guessed that he and Dixon fled the clearing at that moment.

“Caine!” He had fallen to the ground next to me and was choking and staring in terror at the scene before us. “The pouch! Throw the pouch! Now!”

I was afraid he’d be frozen with fear, but he gathered his last ounce of courage and hurled the pouch at the Flying Head. Whether by miracle or skill, the leather pouch soared through the maelstrom right into the spirit’s gaping maw. Neither of us could have expected what happened next. As soon as the leather pouch found its mark, a burst of magenta light exploded from the center of the campfire and engulfed the Flying Head. At the same time, the Swamp Angel, surrounded by a ball of bluish-green light, burst out of the trees on one side of us, and the white doe, surrounded by a ball of silver-white light, bounded into the clearing on the other side of us. All three engulfed the Flying Head, and Caine and I watched the pulsing, swirling rainbow of light as it became larger and brighter, and the wind in the clearing spun faster and faster until I could hardly see. 

The last thing I remembered was the Flying Head melting away into the swirling light. It let out one final shriek and exploded in a shower of sparks, and then everything went black. 

******

Thanks for stopping by! If you’re in the mood for more spooky fun, check out any or all the blogs listed below, as well as the October Frights Book Fair!

October Frights Book Fair: https://afstewart.ca/october-frights-book-fair/

Participating Blogs

Be Afraid of the Dark

Frighten Me

An Angell’s Life of Bookish Goodness

Reading Fiction Blog – Paula Cappa

GirlZombieAuthors

Corpse Child’s Sanctuary

M’Habla’s!

Carmilla Voiez British Horror Author

Minnesota (Horror) Nice

Rob Read – Author

A Bad Dream Come True?

Friday night, I had a tornado dream. Tornadoes are a fairly common theme in my dreams, and they most often show up when I’m under a lot of stress, have too many irons in the fire, or have a lot of general chaos going on. Things are winding down right now — school year just about done, no job interviews looming, nothing really weighing on my mind — so the dream was a little out of place. Anyway, here are the specifics of the dream, and then I’ll lay out what happened Saturday morning.

I was outside in a backyard somewhere, and I kind of feel like I was with my dad. The yard rose up in a low embankment similar to the yard of the house I grew up in, but there were quite a few trees.

While we were outside, I looked up in between the trees and saw kind of a funny looking cloud. I pointed to it and asked if that was a tornado. No sooner had I asked than it became obvious that yes, it was.

We ran inside and started scrambling for a safe place to ride it out, but there was no basement and nowhere in this house that was really sheltered. There were so many windows and no interior rooms, and the ceilings were really low. What really had me upset, though, was that I couldn’t find my kids. I knew I needed to get them to safety, but I didn’t know where they were.

Now, usually when I have these dreams, the tornado just passes over, and everything is okay. This time, the tornado directly hit. I wasn’t hurt, and neither was the person I was with, and my kids seemed to be accounted for at that point, but the house we’d sheltered in was pretty much destroyed, and we had to start cleaning up.

Again, this tornado dream was different than usual, and I just had a bad feeling when I woke up. My kids were planning on going to yard sales, a flea market, and a birthday party with friends, and I. Did. Not. Want. Them. To. Go. No logical reason why not; I just didn’t want them to go.

They went.

Not an hour later, the phone rang. It was my younger son. They’d been in an accident. My older son had been driving, and he (usually the calm one) was shouting, “Oh my ******* ***, we got in an accident!” Both immediately assured me that everyone was okay.

Unlike my son, I do not handle anything calmly. I immediately started bawling, yelling at them that I knew they shouldn’t have gone, and running to find my husband who had of course disappeared somewhere outside. When I finally did find him, I basically threw the phone at him and took off to get my kids.

I won’t detail the accident scene, but my son had rear-ended another car and totalled both vehicles, so he ended up getting a citation (officer was lenient since my son admitted fault and didn’t try to shift blame), and he’s now without a vehicle a week before having to start two summer jobs.

So what about the dream? As I was reliving the phone call and everything that happened after, I realized that the dream, as well as my trepidation the next morning, may have been a bit of a premonition. Seeing the danger approaching, not knowing where my kids were (when they called, they gave me a route number for the road but couldn’t freaking tell me WHERE they were), the destruction and damage that had to be dealt with, and most importantly, the fact that ultimately there were no injuries.

But it does give me pause. I used to have dreams that came true, either in part or in whole, but it hasn’t happened for a long, long time. Is that unwelcome ability coming back again in some form, or was that dream come true just a fluke?

I don’t know, but I’ve got a feeling that I should pay more close attention to my dreams, as well as my intuition, from now on.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

It seems as though it’s been a hot minute since I’ve had a dream significant enough to remember much past waking, so it’s notable that I’ve had two dreams this past week that have me scratching my head and wondering if they’re related. There has been a lot going on in my life lately, and I’m guessing my subconscious is trying to weigh in and give me its opinion.

In the first dream, which I had a few nights ago, I was standing at our deck door looking out into the back yard where a lot of different animals seemed to be running around and doing their thing. Rabbits, squirrels, deer, and several different kinds of birds–nothing out of the ordinary, and all animals I see on a regular basis. However, all at once, I noticed an unusually large (almost as big as me) bald eagle perched on the railing next to the door. He didn’t seem to know I was there, but seeing him, and seeing the size of him, I was terrified and shrank back to shut the door. The eagle then spread its wings and flew away.

Last night, I had another dream. In this dream, I was in my hometown of Millersburg, Pennsylvania, and I was in the park at the town square sitting on a bench and talking to a number of teens who had gathered around. I don’t remember most of the previous conversation, but we somehow came around to the topic of church. The teens mentioned that Trinity United Church of Christ, the church I’d attended while growing up, was looking for a pastor. It seemed that the congregation wanted someone who would make the children and teenagers a priority again. One of the teens asked if I would take the job if they offered. I responded with the usual “I’m not qualified, I don’t have the necessary degree, I doubt they’d want me…” The teens were still trying to convince me to consider it when I woke up.

At first glance, these seem like two completely unrelated dreams, but the more they percolated in my mind, the more I realized that they both speak to the same theme: my current employment state. I’m still quite happily employed as a substitute teacher, but I’m in a position where I need to find something full time with benefits, as my husband is nearing retirement age. I’ve submitted five or six applications in our school district in the past year or two, with no success. Three of the last four I’ve submitted have been the most promising, but I’m finding myself paralyzed with fear, not that I won’t get one of the jobs, but fear that I will. I’m truly not cut out for secretarial work, which most of the available jobs happen to be. I love being in the classroom, but alas, my teaching certification is inactive, and I’d have some work to do if I wanted to reactivate it.

So what does any of this have to do with the dreams I’ve had? Well, I was curious about what the eagle in the first dream might signify, so I did a bit of research. Eagles can, of course, signify strength and freedom, but they can also represent transformation, a crossroads in life,or God’s protection. The idea of a crossroads is an obvious application, given the decisions I’m faced with. The level of fear I felt over seeing the eagle in my dream goes right along with my anxiety over my job situation, and the size of the eagle is also significant, as these thoughts are overwhelming. The eagle flying away when I reacted in fear tells me that I will lose these opportunities if I continue to let my fear prevent me from acting.

The second dream in some ways seems like it came out of left field, because I’ve long since abandoned any thoughts of being in the ministry. However, it’s still something I think about, especially after I’ve visited my hometown and attended my home church as we did on Easter Sunday. One of my former pastors still nudges me from time to time, saying he thinks I would be an excellent fit for that congregation, since it is now quite small and sadly possibly in decline. Before I got married and moved away, I had been very active in the Christian Education Ministry, so seeing that part of the church fade away has truly broken my heart. But am I being called back to that ministry? I guess it’s possible. In that church? That would be quite a stretch due to the distance from where we live now, but at the same time, I’m unwilling to serve in the church we currently attend…because, reasons. But is that still something that lies ahead? Not a clue…

​It all boils down to the fact that it’s pretty obvious where these dreams are coming from. If only, if only, I could dream up the answers I’m seeking…

Mom’s Christmas Sweater

I’m generally not a neat and tidy person, and I’m almost always surrounded by some level of clutter. Usually it doesn’t bother me, but at times it does get to be a bit much, and I feel the need to get rid of stuff.

I’ve been in one of those moods lately.

Whether it’s the onset of what my cousin called “Swedish death cleaning” or just a desire to not trip over junk every time I enter a room, I’m just clearing out things I don’t use anymore. I’ve set aside bags of clothes that the kids have outgrown or that I haven’t worn for months or years; toys, dishes, or small appliances that haven’t seen the light of day for ages; and of course the various pieces and broken things that someone says they’ll fix or find a use for. For the most part, the decision to toss something is easy, and I know there won’t be any regrets.

And then there’s this sweater.

It was my mom’s, part of a set that my dad bought her one Christmas. The black velvet pants have long since been discarded; they were not well made at all. But I still have this sweater that I seldom wear. Why not, you may ask. It is lovely, and very warm, and the colors fit into my preferred palettes.

Well, as is the case with a lot of my clothes of late, it doesn’t fit and honestly hasn’t for a long time. It’s very snug, so much so that I’m always afraid I’ll stretch it out or tear it trying to put it on or take it off. You see, my mother was smaller than I in both stature and girth. In fact, I was already taller and bigger than her by the time I was twelve, so even as a teenager, I was reluctant to borrow it.

So why have I kept it all these years? Why is it still in my closet? The obvious response would be sentimentality. I want to keep it to remember my mother.

But let’s be honest. I did not have a good relationship with my mother. More often than not, we were at odds, and she always managed to say something scathing that left me with hurt feelings. Even now, sixteen years after her death, I still read social media posts from friends extolling the rich relationships they have with their mothers, reveling in the friendship and the shared interests they have with their mothers, and I envy and mourn what I never had. I’m not sure I’d have it even if she were still alive.

So why do I keep this sweater if not to keep alive the precious memories I have of her? The answer is, I really don’t know. I suppose in some way it seems wrong to get rid of something that was a token of my father’s love for my mother. But why should it be wrong? They’re both gone, together in their eternal rest, and neither needs the sweater to remind them of their shared love.

Maybe I’ve kept it as my own reminder, not only of my mother, but also of my parents’ marriage, which had lasted fifty-four years before my dad died. They had their share of good times, and more than their share of hard times, but they stayed together and faithful through it all. That Christmas sweater is just one such memento of something I do want to remember.

But I ask myself as I have many times before, do I need this sweater to remember my parents and their love for each other? Or is it just another piece of clutter in my closet? After all, aren’t I building my own family and my own love story, both of which come with their own souvenirs, which I know my boys will have to deal with someday.

So much in life is holding on and letting go, and knowing when to do both.

October Frights Blog Hop 2023

An excerpt from Outrun the Darkness, Outwalk the Light, Book 6 in the Kyrie Carter: Supernatural Sleuth series

“How are you going to remember where we left the car?” Caine asked, stopping and looking around every few steps as if trying to memorize our route.

“If it would make you feel any better, Hansel, I could leave a trail of breadcrumbs,” I quipped, glancing back to make sure he was keeping up. I mentally acknowledged that his concern wasn’t unwarranted; I’d had to park a bit further away than I would have liked, in a random spot along the shoulder where the car wouldn’t be easily visible to anyone who might drive past. Still, this section of forest had become very familiar to me. “This is starting to feel like Groundhog Day,” I mused aloud.

“Feels more like Blair Witch to me,” Caine muttered. “I swear if I see any stick people hanging from the trees, I’m outta here, Swamp Angel or not.”

His comment did nothing to ease my own nerves as we picked our way through the underbrush, and neither did the pieces of branches that hung askew from several storm-damaged trees. The atmosphere grew heavier the closer we got to our destination. Every sound seemed amplified, and in my growing unease, I found myself holding my breath as I listened for any noise that didn’t belong.

At last we reached the clearing where the fallen log lay. It seemed darker here tonight without the brightness of the moon to illuminate the small space. Still, the darkness allowed the foxfire to glow more brightly. Caine gasped and shrank back as he stepped around me and spotted the eerie bluish phosphorescence close to the ground. “Is that…”

“Yes, that’s foxfire,” I replied, my voice trembling. Even though I was now familiar with the fungus and its properties, Caine’s overt nervousness had set me on edge as well. I hesitated, looking around and wondering if Loop Hill Ike would be here in spirit form—or at all.

At last, I approached the log. I broke off a large chunk and carried it back to where Caine stood. “This should be enough. There’s still plenty left for tomorrow night,” I sad, more to myself than to Caine.

“Why do we have to do this two nights in a row? Why can’t we just give her a bunch of those mushrooms and be done with it in one night?”

Why, indeed, I grumbled to myself. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you. It’s just the way it works.” We started down the narrow path through the trees that would lead us to whatever waited at the confluence. “Actually, this had to be done three times; remember, I already did this once last night. After the third time, the Swamp Angel appears.”

“Okay, so why three nights? Why is three the magic number?” He persisted, reminding me of some of my preschoolers.

“I don’t know, Caine. The number three must have some special significance in the spirit realm.” I paused, squinting, as I tried to keep to the path. I thought about turning on the flashlight on my phone, but I didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves in case any nearby residents were outside. “Loop Hill Ike said the Swamp Angel is a spirit, not a ghost, so maybe that has something to do with it.” As an afterthought, I quickly added, “And no, I don’t know what the difference between a spirit and 

a ghost is.”

********

Check out the other blog hop participants, as well as some spooky giveaways!

October Frights Book Fair: https://afstewart.ca/october-frights-book-fair/

October Frights Giveaway: https://storyoriginapp.com/to/fPAZCcZ

Participant List

Hawk’s Happenings

Always Another Chapter

Crymsyn Hart

Be Afraid of the Dark

Camilla Voiez, British Horror Author

Frighten Me

Angela Yuriko Smith: Exercising My Writes

GirlZombieAuthors

James P Nettles

EV Whyte, Author

Silver Hollow Stories

Confluence/Where I’m From

Yesterday, I came home from work exhausted and not feeling the greatest, so I sat down to rest and scroll through social media and my emails. I got one email regarding a poetic memoir challenge for March. I can’t afford to pay to join the challenge right now, but I did some Googling for poetic memoir prompts just to do some playing on my own. I couldn’t find much of what I was looking for out there, but I did find one site that really sparked my creativity.

On this site, I found some examples of Where I’m From poetic memoir forms, and I decided to write my own as a springboard to starting my own poetic memoir. I really like what I have so far, and I can see quite a few poems sprouting from this. The title Confluence comes from a facination with a place I hold dear, the spot in Millersburg where the Wiconisco Creek meets the Susquehanna River–the confluence. I had the idea that much of who I am comes from the confluence of people, experiences, and ideas.

Confluence/Where I’m From

I’m from California to Pennsylvania.

I’m from March Air Force Base to Millersburg.

I’m from the Susquehanna River, the Wiconisco Creek, and Hen Hottenstein’s pond .

I’m from Berry Mountain, the Millersburg Ferry, and The MYO Park.

I’m from haunted old Victorian house to newly-built haunted two-story.

I’m from German farmers and career military men.

I’m from my first dog Fox to my first cat Crickett.

I’m from baby and only girl to elementary school aunt.

I’m from crowd-following Shaun Cassidy fan to closeted Culture Club and Barry Manilow fan.

I’m from solitary cemetery creeper and never-lonely library visitor.

I’m from straight-A student and socially-awkward teen

I’m from shy, soft-spoken people-pleaser to bold-dressing creative independent.

I’m from ghost stories and Halloween to church plays and Sunday school teacher.

I’m from judgmental Pharisee to belief-shamed outcast to doubting deconstructionist.

I’m from unwavering faith to soul-shaking doubt.

I’m from liturgy and hymns to Spirit-led and praise choruses and back again.

I’m from traditional church to pantheistic practitioner to Metaphysical Christian.

I’m from needing love and acceptance to wanting to be free and independent.

I’m from hair dyed red to camouflage dresses.

I’m from Matchbox cars to Barbie dolls.

I’m from dreams that have died to dreams that I’ve lived.

I’m from friends who became family to friends who were family all along.

I’m from damsel in distress waiting for a knight in shining armor to self-sufficient broad who donned the armor and rescued herself.

I’m from dandelions in the front yard to violets on a secluded woodland path.

I’m from lost in my mother role to strong in my family ties.

A Strange Rite of Passage

For some reason this year, I’m having the hardest time getting into the Christmas spirit. It was a struggle putting up the decorations, and I wasn’t overly motivated to do any shopping or gift making. Even now, I should be finishing up my gifts and cards for the ladies at work, but I just don’t feel like it.

And cookies. I’ve usually got my baking done by now, but I’ve been putting it off and putting it off. Today, I finally pulled a few recipes and decided to get to it. Well, I got through one batch of molasses cookies before my spatula snapped in half. I was just done after that.

So as I sat here stewing in my bah humbug, something occurred to me. I’m 53 years old. This is the age my mother was when she declared she would no longer bake Christmas cookies. She just hated doing it, and after doing it for almost thirty years and four kids (at 13, I was the youngest), she was just done.

And so at 13, I took up the spatula and continued the tradition of baking tons of cookies for Christmas. I made my dad’s favorite hermits, cutouts, chocolate chip, peanut blossoms, and others as I found recipes. For a long time, I loved doing it, and of course, I loved eating the fruits of my labor.

It seems like things have come full circle as I’m now just disenchanted with the whole mess. Is it just my age? My life circumstances? I’m not sure. My older son started college this year, and while he’s home on break, it’s obvious that he’s on the verge of spreading his wings and leaving the nest. My younger son will be 16 in a few days, and he’s ready to find a job to start saving for college or whatever he decides to do after high school.

I always vowed not to turn into my mother–something I suppose a lot of others have said at one time or another–but it seems in some ways, I have. I’m looking at the broken spatula as a harbinger of this new stage of life. I know change is inevitable, and is really the only constant in life, but I can’t help feeling a bit sad, as well as a bit apprehensive.

What will this new stage of life bring? What will my kids do with their lives? And who will carry on the tradition of baking Christmas cookies?

A Visit from St. Pickle-as

A Visit from St. Pickle-as(with apologies to CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE)

‘Twas the night before Crispmas, when all through the fridge

The pickles weren’t sleepy, not even a smidge;

The mason jars sat on the counter aware

That St. Pickle-as soon would be stopping by there;

The chow-chow was nestled all snug on the racks,

While sealed bins of pickled beets sat in neat stacks;

Papa Pimento in the crisper, and I on the door,

Sank down in our brine for a night’s nap or more,

When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,

I jumped from my jar to see what was the matter.

Away to the top shelf I flew like a flash,

Shoved open the icebox, hit the floor with a crash.

The moon through the window up above the sink,

Shone so brightly it made my pickle eyes blink,

When what to my moon-blinded eyes did appear,

But a brine barrel and eight tiny dill-deer,

And a little old driver with eyes bright as nickels,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Pickle.

More rapid than relish his cornichons came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Vinegar! now, Viney! now Garlic and Dilly!

On, Cukey! on, Cumin! on, Briney and Billy!

To the top of the pantry, and then in through the larder!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away harder!

“As the pickling spices that swirl in the souse,

When they meet with the stirring spoon, and season the krauts;

So into the kitchen they whirled into view

With the sleigh full of fixings, and St. Pickle-as too

—And then, in a twinkling, the countertop clicked

As those cornichons landed so smooth and so quick

. As I took a step back, and was turning around,

From the sleigh St. Pickle-as jumped with a bound.

He was covered in dill, from his head to his stem,

And the leaves on his vine sparkled bright just like gems;

A sackful of seasoning was slung on his back,

And it was fuller than full, like a baker’s spice rack.

His eyes were so shiny! His green skin was on fleek!

His expression so Kosher! His nose like paprika!

His droll little mouth was drawn up in a moue,

And the beard on his chin was as white as a roux;

The stump of a clove he held tight in his teeth,

And green vines, they encircled his head like a wreath;

He was verdant of face and had a little round belly

Like the olive oil bottles on display at the deli.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old cuke,

And I laughed when I saw him, no fear of rebuke;

A wink of his eye and a flick of his vines

Soon gave me to know everything was just fine;

He spoke not a word, but went to the icebox;

He filled all the jars, and he loaded the crocks,

And then leaping up to the top shelf of the fridge,

He crossed to the counter, without need of a bridge;

He sprang to his sleigh, tossed his team mustard seed,

And away they all flew like the downy green dillweed.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight

—“Happy Crispmas to all, and to all a good night!”

October Frights

All Hallow’s Eve Morning

Outside
Looks like winter.
Slate gray clouds hang
Low,
Just above the ridge tops.
Between cloud base and horizon,
The magenta-orange haze
Portends a chilly dawn.

Out back,
A carpet of frost
Dulls the still-verdant grass.
Twisting paths
Of darker spheres
Tell of predawn visitors
Crossing the yard.
Raven roams,
Adding her own path of prints
As she sniffs the story
Of night-beasts passing through.

I sip coffee and smile.
Thoughts turn to the spooky souls
Who will come knocking
Tonight
Seeking sugary treats
Under cover of masks and darkness
Before flocking to frightful festivities.
Memories rise
Of childhood parties past,
And tales told in dark rooms
With flashlights beneath our chins.

One reminiscence crisscrosses another,
And I soon recall
Superstitions whispered by elder aunts
On dark October nights.
I cackle into my cup;
My logical, modern mind
Doubts and discards
The old beliefs of veils parting
And souls slipping
Between worlds.

Still,
I watch as my breath ascends
Ghostlike
To vanish in the icy air,
And I know
That summer has slipped
Beyond the veil of time,
And winter will soon materialize
In its place,
Amid a hoarfrost veil.

That thought
Makes me shiver
More than the spooks
And skeletons
And super-villains
Who will visit in the night to come.
With a final glance
To the gray sky,
I whistle for the dog
And retreat inside.

While you’re here, check out these other blogs for more spooky Halloween fun!

Always Another Chapter

Be Afraid of the Dark

Carmilla Voiez Dark Reads and Intersectional Feminism

GirlZombieAuthors

Frighten Me

Brain Matter – The Official Blog of JG Faherty

Angela Yuriko Smith

James P. Nettles

 Giveaway link: https://storyoriginapp.com/to/oyHMogF

Book Showcase page: https://afstewart.ca/october-frights-book-fair/

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