The Ghost….

My short story, The Ghost in Her Room, has been published by Dreamers Writing.

The editors were very sweet. Kat mentioned in an email how much the story touched her.

Working with Dreamers Creative Writing has been an extremely pleasant experience.

Thank you!

Can we be real honest here for a moment?

2020 was traumatizing, yes.

Then the spring culling of faculty was horrifying.

The death of friends and family,

then continued torment by people who are unhappy and unhealthy.

The past 17 months have been horrendous.

We’ve all been in some type of survival mode. We’ve all been hurt and scared and scarred. We haven’t reached out enough or we reached out and didn’t received a response.

We’ve been told over and over, this is the new normal, this is normal, now we’re getting back to normal.

The world is an angry place. Karens rule. Mass shootings. Building collapse.

Nothing is right. Nothing is normal. And it’s okay to be upset, to feel dismayed, confused, unsettled. Nothing about the last year and a half has been comforting.

And you’re not alone.

But

hang in there

we

will

all

be

okay.

Found Objects

I walk a lot. On these walks, I happen upon things lost or left.

I’ve found many feathers. Owls. Parrots. Crows. and once a hawk feather.

My friends remind me feathers are signs and have meanings. A black feather is protection. A white feather means an angel is watching over you.

The hawk’s feather represents clear vision.

When I found this hawk’s father, I was ecstatic. Such a wonderful and rare find! I immediately shared the news.

One person questioned how it’d come to be there on the sidewalk in the middle of the day.

I assumed a hawk lost it as he flew overhead or stopped for rest on a nearby tree. I guess he could have swooped down for a mid-day snack and the feather fluttered to the ground.

Yet – this person seemed convinced the feather it belonged to someone else. Does a child live at a nearby house? I considered it. Actually, no. Could it have belonged to a neighborhood child walking by? And she went on. Had they bought it somewhere and then dropped it? She seemed set on believing that it had been lost by a person and it belonged, not to me, but to someone else.

Did I need to explain there were hawks in the neighborhood? Did I need to say, there’s a nearby tree where I’d seen ravens and the occasional hawk? I didn’t want to explain or analyze or concern myself with such things.

I believed a hawk had molted it. And it was meant for me.

Maybe it’s like believing there’s a little magic and mystery left in the adult world.

Maybe that person had no more magic.

Of all things in life, I choose to indulge in the ever small myths and mysteries of found objects.