Someone Else’s Miracle

The apartment was small and tired, but at least Jenna had managed to keep a roof over their heads.  But now, two days before Christmas, she knew providing presents for her ten-year-old son Nathan was going to be impossible.  She glanced around the room, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.  How had it come to this?  First, the loss of her husband, then the loss of her job, piles of medical bills, and the final blow: foreclosure.  Jenna shook her head.  She never realized how quickly life’s roller coaster could plummet out of control.  She collapsed at the little kitchen table, and fingered a scrap of paper.  It was Nathan’s Christmas list.  His desires were so simple:  a kite, some games, and a baseball glove.  She dropped her head down on her arms and tried to cry quietly, so Nathan wouldn’t hear.

Suddenly his arms were around her.  “Don’t cry Mama,” he said.  “It’s okay.  I understand.  I’m all grown up now, and I don’t need all that Christmas stuff.”  He took his wish list out of her hand, tore it up and threw it away. 

Jenna pulled him onto her lap.

Nathan wiped the tears off her face.  “Mama, we can still have eggnog and ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, right?”

Jenna nodded, hugging him close.  It was a ritual handed down in their family, the reading of the traditional poem accompanied by gingerbread and what her husband had dubbed “The Nighty-night Nog”.

 “Of course, Nathan!  We’ll always be able to have that.”  She buried her face in his hair, but abruptly jerked her head up.  What was that noise?  She slid Nathan off her lap and motioned for him to stay put.  Jenna crept toward the front window and peeked through the blinds, but saw nothing amiss. She unlocked the front door, eased it open a crack and peered out.  Everything looked normal.  She started to close the door but something caught on the bottom.

It was a small, yellowed envelope.  She picked it up and flipped it over.  It was completely blank.  Was it really intended for her?  After all, they had just moved in.  They hadn’t met many neighbors yet, except for newly widowed Anna Smith, a young woman whose circumstances were even worse than their own.  She had a son Nathan’s age and a new baby.  Jenna closed the door and lifted the flap on the envelope.  She pulled out a Christmas card with a picture of a starry night on the front.  As Jenna opened the card, money fell out!

Her hands shaking, Jenna scooped up the bills and counted them.   One, two, three, four!   Two hundred dollars!  It was a true Christmas miracle!  Where had it come from?  Who put it there?  Why?  Still trembling, she read the message inside:   Someday, when you can, be someone else’s miracle.

Jenna threw open the door and ran outside, hoping to catch her benefactor, but she was greeted by nothing but swirling snow.  Shivering and choking back sobs, she ran back inside and laid the money on the table.  Now Nathan would have a Christmas!  She could buy gifts to put under the tree, and some to put in his stocking.    Excitedly she said to him:  “Look!  It’s a miracle!  A real one!”

Nathan gazed, wide-eyed, at the four bills.  He picked up the card. “Be someone else’s miracle…” he spoke the words slowly, under his breath.

“Yes!  Nathan, someday we’ll return the favor.  I promise you that!”

Nathan continued to stare at the card.  “What about now?” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

 “Mrs. Smith,” he said simply.  “She needs a miracle too.”

Jenna’s eyes welled with tears.  Nathan was right.  One hundred dollars was more than enough for the two of them.  She was ashamed she hadn’t thought of it herself.

 She replaced two bills in the card, slipped it back in the envelope and taped the flap down.  She handed it to Nathan.  “Shall we sneak over there and slide it under her door?”

He grinned, bouncing up and down.  “Yes!”

After they returned, laughing harder than they had in a very long time, Nathan sat down to write out a new Christmas list.  Jenna sat beside him.  She picked up a pencil and wrote a personal ending to the poem she would read on Christmas Eve – and for many Christmas Eves to come:

“…and laying his finger aside of his nose,

With these final words, up the chimney he rose:

‘Be someone else’s miracle,

And never let them know….’”

EPIC Award Finalist Violet Rightmire (Debra Webb Rogers) is the author of two novels:  Dancing in Time, a time-travel romance, and A Windfall Christmas, an inspiration romance.    Visit her website: http://debrawebbrogers.com/

CELEBRATING RESILIENCE

Among all the doom and gloom in the media, CNN's Heroes of the Year reminds us that there are ordinary people in the world making extraordinary differences.  Not only was it inspiring to meet this year's heroes and their causes, but these were only the top 10 picked out of an even wider number of nominated heroes out there doing good.

Whether motivated by their own tragic life-events, or the desire to make life better for others, these heroes didn't just whine and complain.  They did something to right wrongs, support  forgotten and unseen sufferers, and turn despair into hope.  Each had to face building something meaningful from nothing.  Finding funding to put their good intentions into practice was a daunting task, to say the least, but each hero faced that task and persevered.


It impressed me that most of the 10 heroes were women, and two Young Wonders were young indeed.  Will Larsey was only 7 years old when he started FROGS to supply food to the needy.   He's only 9 years old now and, with a staff of his young friends, raised $20,000 for a Food Bank.  Because of young Cassandra Lin, 210 homes in Rhode Island have been heated by 100,000 gallons of used cooking oil.  What might the future hold for these two Young Wonders?


The heroes came from the U.S. to far away Afghanistan, South Africa, Nepal, and Haiti.  Each had a burning desire to right a wrong.  Each improved other people's lives in some way.  Mary Cortani wanted to stop the suicides of veterans through service dogs whose wet noses and wagging tails helped them see life as something worth living.  Pushpa Basnet wanted to get children out of the prisons in Nepal where their parents were incarcerated to give them laughter, joy, and beauty.  Malia Villard-Apollon brought comfort and sisterhood to rape and domestic violence victims in Haiti.  Thulani Modano, Catalina Escobar, and Razia Jan have also found ways to make life better for others in their countries.


Grief was a powerful motivator for Wanda Butts who set up The Josh Project that has taught 1200 mostly Afro-American children to swim after her son drowned because he couldn't swim.  Scott Strode wanted to share his own success out of drug addiction through sports with others in Phoenix.  Leo McCarthy turned the loss of his dear 14 year old daughter because of a drunk teen driver into 8,000 signatures of teenagers so far who pledge not to use alcohol and drugs when underage.


What differentiates these  Heroes, and those of previous years, from the rest of us?  They are a tribute to passion and resilience and I look forward to seeing  many more years of CNN's Heroes of the Year awards.

Suellen Zima                         
Comments?? E-mail Suellen at ZimaTravels.com
Member of www.NLAPW.org

Short Story Review

"Article originally published for Helium Website  

'What Christmas is as We Grow Older.'
Originally published in 1851, Dickens speaks directly to the reader, using the voice of “we” to create an informal tone that connects him well to the reader.
Dickens explains that adults should celebrate relationships during the Christmas season the same ways they did as children. Dickens begins the short story with joyful images of Christmas Day experienced by many children. He compares the day to a “magic ring” within the first sentence and describes youth with “resolute hope” who are doted on by parents.

When these children grow to become adults, explains Dickens, a different type of Christmas emerges. Adults often look for a “pearl,” which is a desire to obtain fame or honor. The message is clear that there needs to be a return to the bright hopefulness and joy experience by children. Be thankful for the fond Christmas memories experienced as children.

Dickens writes several times about the Christmas “fire” families gather around at the holidays. The fire is noted within sentences that describe families who are affectionate toward one another and experience quality time. Although the fire could be explained solely as a literal object of wood and flames, it likely symbolizes warmth and gentleness of people as they relate to one another.
Dickens pleads for readers to remember the positive moments of childhood gathered around the Christmas fire. He points out the importance of embracing the qualities of forgiveness and friendship once felt as children at Christmastime. Be thankful, he writes, for relationships developed throughout the year and pay respects to loved ones who have passed.
Dickens spends a significant portion of the short story discussing the sadness many people feel at Christmas over the loss of loved ones. While many stories look solely at positive images of Christmas, Dickens acknowledges that the holiday season may evoke sadness and loneliness.
The writer proposes readers “receive” those people now by celebrating their lives and fond memories of the lost friends and family members. Dickens does not shy away from death or dark images, but instead tells readers to embrace memories of the deceased and hold them close by the Christmas “fire.”
Dickens has written several acclaimed novels and short stories.  Other Christmas short stories published by Charles Dickens include 'A Christmas Tree' (published in 1850) and 'The Poor Relation’s Story' (published in 1852).  The message to maintain childhood optimism as an adult remains a current theme of literary works today.
Christy Birmingham 
http://christywrites.hubpages.com/

http://www.midsizeinsider.com/en-us/profile/ChristyBirmingham

http://christy.knoji.com/expertise/all/articles/

Christmas Together

It is snowing again as I back the car out of the garage for one final trip to the store. I could have sworn the package said four D-cell batteries, not eight. One lonely strand of battery operated lights to adorn an eighteen-inch Christmas tree and tiny plastic ornaments will fill the last few inches of a tightly packed box. I find it difficult to pack and ship "Christmas" to a Soldier deployed in active combat, especially when that Soldier happens to be my son, the only child I have.

My little boy, who once wore red Dr. Denton pajamas with feet, will proudly
dress in Desert Camouflage and combat boots this Christmas. My son
Tanner will flush his eyes with Visine in 100-degree temperatures instead
of feeling snowflakes falling gently on his face. Military cuisine mixed with
desert sand will be his dinner, consumed while sitting on the floor of a tent,
in place of his normal holiday meal at home surrounded by family and
friends. Bombs and bullets will replace the revelry of Christmas carols.
For 25 years, Tanner and I have created and shared our own
traditions. As a child, my son was allowed one "early" present on the
afternoon of Christmas Eve…one that would occupy him while I finished
cooking and setting the dinner table.

I wrap that special present this year, its label clearly stating, "Early
Christmas Gift," and place it in the box on top, separated by paper. I can see
the smile on his face when he realizes that although a world apart, our
tradition will continue.

I manage to include a small canned ham, pop-top cans of vegetables,
potatoes, and fruit. There are candy canes and homemade Christmas
cookies, gently set in tin containers surrounded by bubble wrap. Hidden
inside brightly colored paper, is a CD player with Christmas music and a
month’s supply of AA batteries. I add a brand new calendar, allowing him to
mark the days until his return. What am I forgetting?

Ripping open boxes of decorations from years gone by, I finally find his
miniature stocking, a small snow globe, and the most important piece of
tradition: the matching snowman candle holders and tapers. Both lit with
one match, our candles have cast a warm glow on the table every year.
These symbols will separate for the first time…one making its solitary
journey to brighten the darkest Christmas. Gathering the remnants of happier times, I gingerly place this candle among Tanner’s holiday cheer, along with the stocking and globe.

"My son, I am striving to provide you with the best Christmas I possibly
can. I wish I knew how to wrap my heart, my love, and send it nestled
among the tissue paper. Do you recognize the significance of each item I have sent? Can you see past the contents of this box, Tanner? Are you able to feel the Christmas spirit, tucked inside and sealed tightly with packing tape? Can you feel me holding you as I whisper softly, ‘Merry Christmas, my son?’ I am there with you. We both know that I am. Miles may separate us, but nothing can keep us apart at Christmas."

It is now 8:00 a.m. in Connecticut on the morning of Christmas Eve, making
it 4:00 pm in Iraq. I picture a Soldier on his bunk, opening a corrugated box
containing a cache of love and prayers, folded delicately among layers of
papers. My tears blend with a slow smile as I wonder if my son actually waited until 4:00 pm to open his early present. I think not, and my imagination creates a cascading slideshow of images … ones that find me alternating between tears and laughter, while I visualize Tanner’s reaction to each carefully chosen item.

Sitting in a tent in the desert my son opens "Christmas" with a smile,
inter-fused with sorrow and a longing for home. As he lights his candle, he
daydreams…forming his own picture show…of me packing the car with gifts
for our family, along with my contributions to the evening meal at my
sister’s house. His eyes close as he forces the heat and sand to restructure
itself to winter’s chill and swirling snowflakes.

I sit at a bare table, placing my lone candle in its center. As I strike the
match, I feel the presence of my son…traveling within the glow of his
candle, to be by my side this Christmas Eve. My eyes close, holding the image of my little boy in his red Dr. Dentons.

Arlene R. O’Neil

All rights reserved

The Independent Authors International iAi holiday book Extravaganza

You’re an awesome gifter — you got someone special a brand new e-reader. But what’s a great e-reader without great reads?

Just in time for the holidays — Independent Authors International brings six great books from six great, independent authors for just 99 cents each.

  

On Unfaithful Wings, by Bruce A. Blake —

Icarus Fell was alive, then he was dead, now he’s stuck somewhere in between. Icarus Fell is a harvester, brought back to Earth by the archangel Michael to collect souls and help them on their way to Heaven. If he gets enough of them before the bad guys do—if he does a good job—he can have his life back. But people he knew in life are dying, killed by a murderer’s knife, their bodies defiled, and the cops think he’s the killer. How does a man who no longer exists stop a psycho? Icarus Fell know he has to stop him before the killer gets to his son.


“Icarus Fell is officially my new favorite anti-hero.”

 The Bones of the Earth, by Scott Bury — Eastern Europe, the Dark Age. The earth besets human civilization with earthquakes, floods, famines and new plagues that wipe out nearly half the population. Half of the mighty Roman Empire disappears. And the only man who can save humanity is one society rejected because he’s different.

“A marvelous read. I spent most of a day in The Bones of the Earth in spite of the things I had to do!”

 Velvet Rain, by David C. Cassidy — Kain Richards is the last of his kind--and a man on the run. So when this mysterious drifter falls for a beautiful and sensible Iowa farmwoman, he knows full well the perils of getting too close. And yet, for the first time in his miserable existence, life feels normal ... feels real. But as those around him soon realize, reality is not what it seems. For when a tragic accident forces Kain's hand, his astonishing secret--and godlike power--changes their lives, and the world, forever.

“It took my breath away right from the first line."

 The Funny Adventures of Little Nani, by Cinta Garcia de la Rosa, illustrated by Almudena 
Romero Sánchez — Little Nani is a little girl who likes helping people, but when she does, the results are unexpected. Why? Because Little Nani is a witch! Or at least she wants to be a witch. She tries to cast spells to help her friends, but she didn’t finish the magic spell course. Little Nani’s extraordinary friends include funny ostriches, horses that love reading, super-fast turtles, grumpy zombies ... Little Nani has lots of friends! You can also draw your own characters! Little Nani is willing to become a good witch. Will she manage to do it? Who knows? 


“Children will love this book of short stories and they will fall in love with the beautiful image.”

 American Goddesses, by Gary Henry — When two small-town women find themselves with nearly unlimited powers of mind and body, their lives get complicated. Things turn nasty as a shadowy organization attempts to use Megan and Trish for their own evil ends, and destroy them, their town and the USA in the process. 

“A ton of girl power … Highly recommended!”

 Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula, by Elise Stokes — Fourteen-year-old Cassidy Jones wakes up the morning after a minor accident in the laboratory of a world-renowned geneticist to discover that her body has undergone some bizarre physical changes. Her senses, strength, and speed have been radically enhanced.

After exploring her newfound abilities, Cassidy learns that the geneticist is missing and that foul play is suspected. Terrified that her physical changes and Professor Phillips' disappearance are somehow connected, Cassidy decides to keep her strange transformation a secret. That is, until she meets the professor's brilliant and mysterious fifteen-year-old son, Emery. An unlikely duo, they set out to find Emery's mother and are forced to confront a maniacal villain willing to do anything — including murder — to achieve his goals.

"Elise Stokes ranks up there with other YA masterminds! This is a definite must -read book!”

Looking for more great fantasy from independent authors? Check out the eBooks Make Great Gifts book blitz from the Guild of Dreams fantasy authors collective.

Home Wrecker...the one?

Do you believe in “the one?” Are you of the opinion that there is just one person out there for you?

When I married my (ex) husband I threw away the idea of a soul mate. I just tried to convince myself that he was right for me because he came on so strong. His intensity convinced me that he was “the one.”
Did I go against my instincts? I absolutely did! Have you gone against your intuition and it still worked out?
When I met my present boyfriend there was a just a certain chemistry that even I didn’t understand.
Have you ever met someone and right off the bat you felt as if you knew that person?
Well, that is what happened for me. There was a certain “something” that drew me to him. I just can’t be sure what it was. Had we known each other in a past life, was it an animal attraction, or was it plainly just the right time? I do believe timing is everything. If you are not open to it and the timing is off that can change everything  It might very well change your destiny.
For me, this man is my destiny. I will never understand it completely but at the time we were getting to know each other I knew there was a higher power that brought us together. Sometimes I tend to over analyze things but with this relationship I haven’t done that because it has felt so natural from the start.
He may not be “the one.” That might just be a romantic notion but as things stand now he is the only one I want to spend my whole life with.
My book Home Wrecker is dedicated to this man. His love gave me the strength and motivation to trust in my writing.
A friend once asked me about the early beginnings of this relationship.
“Don’t you feel like your love is tarnished because it started out so ugly, she asked?”
My response to that was a big fat “no.”
Just being able to find this kind of love is a crapshoot. I feel so lucky that I didn’t just smile and walk the other way.

Brenda Perlin

http://homewreckertheblog.com

FB:https://www.facebook.com/pages/Home-Wrecker/166853390108387 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/HomeWreckerbook

Mama's Accent

Because my immigrant parents were serious about learning English, the only time they spoke Sicilian was behind their bedroom door or when they gathered with family and friends from their old mountain village in Sicily.
Papa worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard where learning the new language from “the Americans” came much more easily than it did Mama who was a homemaker, or as Papa called her, “a house maker,” something we kids never could figure out.
Mama tried so hard, bless her heart! But English was difficult. It followed rules, yes; however, it seemed to her most rules had exceptions and, unlike Italian, not a single word was pronounced the way the letters were arranged. She’d begin a sentence in English, then break into Sicilian for those English words she did not know. Or she’d say something in Sicilian and complete the sentence in English or an almost-English. For example, once a water pipe below the kitchen sink sprang a leak and Mama told my older sister Anna, “Chiami lu plumb’!” Go call the plumber! Or the time I hadn’t yet thrown out the overflowing garbage bag and Mama for perhaps the third time yelled to me, “T’row outa la munizza!”
During my childhood years in Brooklyn, New York, I seemed to live two lives: that of the American kid at Most Holy Trinity School and the other as the Sicilian boy whose mother talked like a foreigner just off the ship, so un-American that I kept my school chums at a distance, never invited them to our second-floor tenement cold-water flat, and rarely spoke of my home life where English was butchered and Sicilian was some secret language my parents jabbered away in bed late at night.
One Saturday I answered a knock on our door. There stood Al Cimino, Vinnie Accardi, and Joe Murray, classmates from fourth grade, classmates who had suddenly invaded my territory where I had managed for a couple of years to hide my mother from the jeers of “the Americans.”
“Allo, boyza,” said Mama. I cringed. In my head I was praying this was all a nightmare from which I’d awake, take a deep breath, and go on with my life. Quickly I hustled my friends into the parlor where we flipped baseball cards and then watched a kids’ show on a tiny-screened Philco TV.
From the corner of my eye I saw Mama approaching. In her hands was a large plate stacked high with cookies she had baked while we played. She set the plate down on an empty chair, returned to the kitchen to bring us four glasses of milk. As we all helped ourselves to the cookies and drank our milk, Mama talked to my friends. “Itsa so gooda meeta you boyza, Sal’sa frans.” Then, “You like a la scuola, de school?” And my friends nodded, but we all knew they were lying just to please my mother who fed them the cookies.
When the ordeal was over, I headed down the flight of stairs with them. I just couldn’t take the chance, once outside, one or more or all of them would burst out laughing, say cruel things about my mother, how she could hardly get her words right, maybe even call her a foreigner, so I blurted it out first, “My mother talks funny, don’t she?” But Alfred said, “So what! She makes delicious oatmeal cookies.” And Joe laughed, not at Mama but at me. “You’re lucky. My mom never got any time for me. Always busy and not with baking like your mom either!” I unclenched my fists, smiled feebly, and remember saying something like, “You should taste her meatballs!”
Over the years Mama did improve her English. She read the daily newspaper from cover to cover. She read books and then would write on the inside cover, “I finish,“ then date it. She even asked me while I was in high school to teach her English, which I did for a week or two and then I got distracted and the lessons ended.
How ironic that Mama and Papa as well, both who struggled with English would be the two people who encouraged me to become a writer one day. I was nine and gung-ho about playing stickball on the street, but one or the other would ask me to sit at the kitchen table and write a poem or a story, then have me read it at suppertime (to the dismay of my sisters who could not leave the table until I was done reading it).
On her deathbed at Hackensack Medical Center, her final words were addressed to me and my wife Sharon. We had made the ten-hour road trip to visit with her, not expecting to find her condition so critical. “Ma, we’re here and we love you.” Mama’s eyes flickered open long enough for her to answer back in what I will always remember as without accent at all, “And I love you too!”
Salvatore Buttaci

Winning essayist on REDROOM:

FLASHING MY SHORTS    http://tinyurl.com/3vluybu

200 SHORTS                        http://tinyurl.com/3rzg7ae

A FAMILY OF SICILIANS...       http://tinyurl.com/b9foht4

IF ROOSTERS DON'T CROW...  http://tinyurl.com/7ssnzg4