Grateful for the invite, I think — Dear Nice Man Who’s Following Me on FB, Okay, I’m taking a leap of faith here in assuming you are a nice man and not some stalker or would-be scam artist, but your breezy assumption I am missing out, and your insistence “we must connect” begged for a response, so…

Second time’s the charm, mayhap? — Elizabeth Barrett-Browning was a great admirer of Harriet Beecher Stowe, George Sand, and other feminist artists of her era. One can only wonder how her love sonnets might have been influenced were she writing in our modern era. How dost thou irk me? Gods! In countless ways. I’ll curse thee down…

Is this the bus to Grandma’s house? — “Ya gettin’ on, or what?” The burly bus driver didn’t mean to sound gruff and scary. But his whiskey-bass rasp was loud. His deep-set, dark eyes peered from under a bushy black unibrow. …

Hold yer horses, kitty — “Martha, the cat’s in front of the TV again.” The huge marmalade cat’s tail gave an eloquent swish. One ear flicked back. He knew I wasn’t going to do anything. Cat, also known as J.P. Cat (for Just Plain Cat), was a keen student of human behavior. Martha’s voice floated…

Ay caramba, Martha, get that cat a parachute — “Martha — the cat’s in my sweater drawer again.” The huge marmalade cat named “Cat” opened one eye. He regarded me for a moment, as only a cat could who knew he was master of all he surveyed. He’d wandered in one rainy afternoon almost twelve years ago. A soggy…

Stumbling Towards Gilead — Chapter Ten — Luc jerked awake. His bed-chamber was dark and cool. He raised a hand to his forehead. Why am I sweating? Whatever’d startled him from sleep was gone. He tried to hold onto it. But, it faded, leaving behind a snatch of song. Where do I begin To tell the story of…

Lit Up Summer Holiday Prompt — What the hell was I doing, standing in the middle of the weed-filled, over-grown, fair-grounds? The carnival folk had faded into the night ten years ago. Left everything — burnt-out trailers, broken rides, flattened concessions… I stared at my reflection in the grimy, fly-specked glass of the Fortune Teller’s booth…

A cautionary tale — The dreadful addiction of Atticus Lee was driving his parents apart; His poor mother moaned, but his father condoned What brought joy to his only son’s heart; The dreadful addiction, bad habit? affliction? …

Stumbling Towards Gilead — Chapter Nine — The little boy skipped towards the central plaza. One of hundreds of school-age boys. Hair slicked down, shoes mirror-bright. All with identical brown leather knapsacks over identical blue-blazers. The only thing to set this boy apart, aside from his singular gait, was the awkward bulge in his knapsack. …