Quiche #poem

Under my fork
Indescribably flavorful, like
Coming suddenly
Home from an

Telling Stories #poem

Telling stories in poetry:
Take 1 entire lived experience,
1 memorable scene
Add 2 dashes quicksilver words
And read.

Dawn #poem

As dusk comes softly

So does night flee
Creeping away

On blue-gray cats’ paws
Batting the night softly into
The golden light of dawn

Blue Skies #poem

The mournful sound of old love songs

Half heard on the edge of memory
Take me back

To the long ago days
When you loved me
And I loved you.

Sandcastle #poetry

Sand — carefully packed and shaped

Carved into a castle
Complete with moat

The waves wash higher on the shore
Closer and closer
Until the castle crumbles away.

Raven: Clever Bird #poetry

All about
Venturing into
Everyone’s business,
Never still.

Emily: The Burglar Jo #fiction

Jo was very, very good at her job, burgling houses. Not quite as good as Chris and Emily at their height, but still very good. She didn’t know it yet, but that tiny bit she was lacking was putting her in danger. Because, you see, the bit she was lacking was the bit that kept Chris and Emily from ever being tracked home. Someone had followed Jo home last night. And that someone had ratted her out to both Detective Wilkes and Mr. Big’s second-in-command. Now they were looking for her.

Read the rest of the Emily series.

Life of a Nomad

For J.B.: good luck on your travels

Like steady rocks in the oceans, steady, stable people stay in one place. They build community, relationships, and traditions. From beyond their borders come the nomads: journeymen, travelers, balladeers, minstrels, traders, gypsies. The nomads swirl through and around the stable rocks of villages and communities, bringing music, color, and change with them. And then they are gone, leaving behind the rock. A scarf around a neck, a snatch of music hummed during chores are all that remain, if that. And the nomad journeys on, remembering the warmth and the welcome he received. But his destiny lies elsewhere, beyond the stable village borders.

Listen! #fiction

You should listen more, mama says. Listen, listen, listen, the child hears. Listen to the birds, listen to the wind, listen to the trees calling you to play. Listen to the sky calling up a summer storm, listen to the cicadas chirping of storm’s end. Listen, listen, listen.

But you’re not listening, mama cries. The child smiles serenely.

Don’t mess with Black Jack #fiction

Note: I was inspired by what Marc wrote in response to his daily prompt over at Daily Writing Practice today. You might want to read Marc’s words first.

The hitman was smirking at her. She was sure of it. She glanced around the seedy bar one more time. Now the bartender was glaring at her. Geez, what was with everyone tonight? Just ’cause she wanted to get rid of her husband …

Forget it. She’d do the job herself. She stood abruptly, throwing some money on the table. “Thanks for your time, mister, but I’m not going to need you after all.” She turned away, pretending not to notice her companion’s eyes narrow ominously.

He lunged forward and wrapped his forearm around her throat. He hissed in her ear, “It’s not as simple as that, lady. You don’t mess with Black Jack.”

She struggled, but soon went limp. He checked her pulse. Good, she was just out, not dead. He tied her up and left her in the back room of the bar with a note.

When she woke up, the first thing she saw was the note propped in front of her. It said, “I bet you can get out of there. When you do, your husband will be dead. You know what you owe me. Don’t mess with Black Jack.”

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