Saturday, January 10, 2015

Dance of Truth…





Meet Bertha
Bertha is Jane Carroll’s voice of inner wisdom. She takes on a zany personification in Jane’s writing, standing on her soapbox wearing spandex and high-heels…telling it like it can be.


Dance of Truth...
She…says…there’s always another truth…to find…to own…to live…and the more I live my truth…the more truths I will discover…she also promises we will be discovering many truths this coming year…
So…today…Bertha…is whisper-shouting to me…that…I don’t have to listen to what they say…
She reminds me that…everyone…has an opinion about what and how I should do things…and that while I actually will listen to them…that…I don’t have to accept their opinion as my truth…I don’t have to become their puppet…and allow them to pull the strings for my dance…
Instead…she tells me it’s okay to weigh their opinion against my truth… accept what resonates with me…and…dance my own dance…
Jane…
How do you handle the opinions of others?"


 
Jane Carroll, Life Coach, assists women in finding, owning, and living their truth. She is the bestselling author of Bertha-Size Your Life!, Becoming Bertha, and Where the Joys Are: Bertha's Guided Journal. Jane divides her time between coaching, writing, blogging, and working as a school nurse with a little social media thrown in for entertainment.

Links:
Website http://www.janecarrollauthor.com
Twitter https://twitter.com/janecarroll10
Facebook https://facebook.com/janecarrollauthor
Amazon Author http://www.amazon.com/Jane-Carroll/e/B007M0TY44

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

FREE THAT SEAGULL IN YOU

That Unforgettable Story: Bestselling Author Anu Lal at Capitol Mall, Kannur, Kerala
Jonathan Livingston Seagull is a small volume of fiction written by Richard Bach. Some of you have read it. Some of you haven’t. It’s a highly readable novella with a seagull named Jonathan Livingston as its titular hero. The totality of the essence that shines through this story is not just about a seagull and the quest for success. More importantly, one must look at this book as a motif that corresponds to the inner voice of an individual. When I read this book, as a young student of English literature, I immediately associated it with a writer’s journey. I contemplated on the many nuances Mr. Bach, who I consider one of my gurus, must have employed to reveal his own life through the pages of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. The reason I considered the possibility of an autobiographical element in this book is that in every writer, there is a seagull.
Image Courtesy: Google

Those very few successful authors are able to free the seagull engraved in their consciousness by the same creative power that generated their life force. Is it possible to live without consciousness? Perhaps, but think about the quality of life one must be missing under an unconscious state of existence. Every writer goes through stages of evolution. We evolve into being who we are. This evolution need not be biological. It could be spiritual or intellectual. Just like an ordinary person having lost his consciousness, a writer struggles if one does not free the seagull within one.

Image Courtesy: Google
What do I mean by “the seagull within us?” The seagull within us is our inner voice. This same voice sometimes gives a character in one of our stories, a unique individuality, and the narrative a significant identity. Voice is literature has a different meaning. It is not literally an audible sound. But in a novel or a story, ‘voice’ is the narrative style and peculiar alignment of thoughts and words. In order to achieve a unique and poignant voice on paper, one must achieve the same in life outside the paper.

There may be a multitude of concerns that haunt you each day—electricity bill, water bill, cable and internet bill, food, family, house maintenance or mortgage, etc. Often, these many concerns put a lock in the cage in which our inner seagull resides. This inner seagull came with us while we were born, within the same package that is we.

Once we realize our karma that is the cause of our restlessness, the path that we need to travel, we must take the courage to let the seagull free. Let it fly, away and above, everything we have known and seen; let it find new horizons; let it guide us. Let your inner voice take up thoughts that were, until then, impossible for you to handle, or improbable. Let your imagination accompany that inner voice. This is where fiery books were written.

Image Courtesy: reutersmedia.net
In the last decade of the previous century, a woman had a dream-like idea. It was highly improbable and senseless. Had she been living in Kerala, her own self-respect might have prevented her from penning down this story. But she lived in Europe, and she took the courage to free her seagull that is in her. In a few years, her book became a phenomenon. You must have heard of her, everyone does. She goes by the name, J. K. Rowling.
About The Author:
Anu Lal is the author of Wall of Colours and Other Stories, Book-1 in the Hope, Vengeance, and History Trilogy. He resides in India. His upcoming book is Clenched Hands, Bloody Nails. His second book You Should Know How I Feel has been a bestseller in Amazon India.
Author Page: Here
Twitter: @Anulalindia

Sunday, January 4, 2015

Sometimes You Can Go Back




I sit in a room from the past.
Never thought I 'd find myself here
again nor that I'd be welcomed
at this veterinary office.

He drones on about ear mites, wax
and cat allergies even as his big hands with
familiar arthritic knuckles manipulate her small
body to investigate every fold & cranny. 
Her dilated pupils, outrage.

I realize his face was the last you saw, his laughing
blue eyes, that slightly hooked nose. His voice, the last
you heard urging you to stay. Yes, he was the one you chose

when it came your time to pass. Not me who loved
you with winged desperation, but this man. I remember
the threat of tears in his voice when he phoned to tell
me he had tried everything to save you.  I remember.

So, I bring this kitten now to offer her to his hands.
to the last place you were alive. Power here, 
though many years and several Hells have passed.
I have not heard your purr for over a decade.

He finishes his examination. Holds your great-granddaughter's
neck in his hand like a lily  or a chalice. She stretches her paws,
her pupils shrink.  My blue-eyed Egyptian queen showing me 
that everything will be alright.

Sometimes you can go back.

Rachael Z. Ikins
Rachael Z. Ikins is Social Media Editor & 1st Vice President CNY Chapter, National League of American Penwomen








Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Ringing in the New Year



"New Year’s Eve in Germany normally is a noisy affair; people like fireworks and having parties. That was not the case in Ireland, neither on the farm nor in our village. Fireworks were and still are illegal in Ireland unless you have a license- e.g. for a public, official display. Living in the countryside, the most light we would see on a clear night were the stars—unless cloud coverage left us in the dark.  City lights never offer such a spectacular view above your head.
After a long day of work around the yard and tending to the animals, a farmer wants an early night. Every day of the year  has the tendency to be of a similar structure and work schedule because of the critters you take care of. Being early birds and having two small children, our night life suffered. The only sound on New Year’s Eve that I heard while lying awake and thinking of what life in Germany would be like was the ringing of the bells of the Killaloe Cathedral. Our trusted housekeeper, Pauline, had earned the privilege of ringing in the New Year at the old Protestant Church. For her it was the highlight of the season.  Mac, my Ex, usually away with the fairies already would be disturbed by the sound of the bells and mumble in his sleep. ”Can’t they keep it down a bit? I want to sleep.”

Excerpt from my upcoming book I Once had a Farm in Ireland 


Happy New Year, everyone, noisy or otherwise…!
The Ex Farmer's Wife

Saturday, December 27, 2014

New Free Olympus Union Novella "Arrival of the Elite"


We're so happy when our contributors release a new book. Congrats, Gary Bloom!



Olympus Union Releases 2nd Ticonderoga Novella: “Arrival of the Elite”.... click here to read the full press release!  l





Excerpt:
The two Ares Elite arrived at precisely eight fifty-nine the next morning. Instead of knocking, however, the pair proceeded to wait patiently outside Captain Deane's door until nine. Their new CO shook his head and stifled a smirk. How strange it was to go so many months without humor. Stranger yet was that the behavior of the Olympus Union’s super soldiers, of all people, brought him a reason to find mirth. Their maniacal attention to orders was ingratiating, all the same.
The Captain knew he wouldn’t actually need to invite them into the office. This breed of soldier was so utterly predictable sometimes. Silas couldn’t decide if that was amusing or sad. None of these men had always been like this, he knew; it was all about the conditioning program. 
Perhaps he’d be able to ease that conditioning. Complaints had been levied about the Ares Elite in the past. Often, however, it came across as jealousy from the lower soldiers. Never had a commanding officer sought to divert from the stringent drilling. It was something that bore consideration.
Moments later, when the clock struck precisely nine o’clock, the soldiers stepped inside. He looked up from his thought as they marched in, one behind the other. They arrived precisely on time, just as they were ordered the afternoon before. There was no arriving early, because he didn’t say ‘by nine’ but at nine. As a military man, he should be pleased. For some reason, though, he wasn’t.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Earth's wars were never exclusive to Earth! http://olympusunion.com

Jeremy Hunter   http://bit.ly/16v3IYg
The Past Repeated http://bit.ly/1cNTDZP
Drawing Battle Lines http://bit.ly/1cNTIwz
The Future Reborn http://bit.ly/1cNTLsl

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

How to Wean Kids from Santa




Christmas time brings back memories of my childhood and that of my children; memories of decorated   trees, real trees adorned with real candles. I can even smell the fragrance of Christmas once again: bees’ wax and the delicious aroma of baking cookies. Most exciting for me was the secrecy that surrounded our German Christmas tradition. We celebrated on Christmas Eve. The living room was locked all day while the tree was put up and decorated by my mother.  I wasn’t allowed to watch. I was an only child and the excitement almost killed me every year. From time to time, I detected conspicuous noises from behind the closed door─ that only added to the wonder of it all. Because somehow and sometime during the evening, Santa Claus would manage to arrive surreptitiously.
Since we didn’t have a chimney, I wondered at an early age how the big man would sneak into the flat. So I kept an eager eye on the comings and goings at that door. My parents mastered the art of hide and seek by pretending my father had to go out to buy some indispensible item for the meal; curiously, when it was about to fall dark. It was me to accompany him in the car because Mother needed to prepare dinner. The meal always consisted of fillet steaks and mushrooms in my house, accompanied by good German fried potatoes, and followed by some yummy chocolate pudding.  
We drove through town for about half an hour; surprisingly we never bought anything.  Well, the shops weren’t even open at that time. But as a little girl I didn’t know that. Store opening hours dictated that all the shops closed by 1 o’clock p.m. for the duration of Christmas (from 24-26 December). Yes, like many European countries, Germany has two full days of Christmas in addition to the big gift giving celebration on Christmas Eve.  
I remember the crucial Christmas after I had just turned five. My big wish was a bike. While we cruised through my home town I saw several Santa Clauses in the streets in the dusk, laden with heavy sacks over their shoulders.
“Will Santa make it to our house in time if he is here, so far away from our street?” I asked my father anxiously.
“He always does”, my father answered laconically.
Something was still bugging me. “How come there is more than one out and about?”
My father didn’t hesitate with his answer. He was prepared for this question that had to surface one day.
“It’s impossible for one old man to visit all the children in the world. Therefore he needs many helpers. Think about it.”
I mulled things over, slouched in my seat. The penny eventually dropped. By the time we arrived, my excitement had waned. But there it was, my gleaming new orange-red colored bike under the sparkling tree! What a sight! “And you are his helpers too!” I exclaimed.
“Yes”, my parents admitted it. “Besides, how could one man afford all these gifts for all the children in the world?”
When I had children of my own, I anticipated their question and wanted to give them a similar answer. However, I was in for a surprise. Miriam was five and Christian almost three the year it happened. Being in kindergarten and talking to the other children, Miriam had figured out that parents were involved in the big mystery that surrounded Christmas. She approached me and suggested playing Santa Claus for her little brother. “I know he still believes in him, which, of course, I don’t, being so much older.”
When it started to get dark, she donned her red bathrobe that had a hoodie and put on her red wellington boots. Her father gave her the burlap sack he kept for harvesting potatoes. Kitted out like that, Miriam set off to walk through the garden.  “Make sure he sees me!”
Christian was upstairs tidying up his room ─ a quintessential task for a good child to make Santa Claus come to his house. I looked out of the window ─ as if by chance. “Chris, quick, quick, come here! I don’t believe it! Look who is there!” And there he was walking below the window with the sack over his shoulder, Santa Claus!
Miriam kept a smug face all evening and guarded her secret so that Christian could believe for a little longer. His face was beaming with delight having seen Santa and he proudly told everyone for days.
  
Siggy Buckley

Monday, December 22, 2014

Magic

My brother Herbie watched Dad flip an invisible coin up in the air and then heard it clunk into the brown paper bag Dad held open in his hand.
“How’d ya do that?” Herbie asked, completely taken up with Dad’s magic.
Dad smiled and this time flipped up three coins in quick succession and Herbie’s blue eyes lit up as the three invisible coins fell from the ceiling, plunk plunk plunk, into the paper bag. I could hear my little brother’s sighs heaving from his red and green-sweatered chest.
It didn’t make sense to Herbie. Dad said Santa was too poor to bring Christmas presents this year. Why couldn’t Dad stand there in the middle of the kitchen and flip coins into the air, maybe pitch paper ten-dollar bills like planes soaring upwards and nose-diving down into a big brown shopping bag?
“You could be Santa this year, Dad.”
PublicDomain.ChristmasTreeI watched Dad’s eyes go misty on him. With the back of his hand he brushed away whatever tears would come and betray a father’s strength, a father’s knack for making magic.
“I can only bring down pennies from heaven,” Dad explained. “Let’s just wait and see. Maybe Santa will think of something. Maybe deliver whatever he can so we can find at least a few small gifts under the tree Christmas Day.”
Herbie looked so sad I put my big-brother arm around his shoulder and said, “Maybe Dad can do a little magic and stuff Santa’s pockets with something for you.” But Herbie was not consoled. Santa was poor. Dad could make money drop loudly into an empty brown bag. To Herbie it made no sense. No sense at all.

This story was first published on MorgEn Bailey'sWriting Blog. Thank you Morgen!

Sal Buttaci is the author of two flash-fiction collections Flashing My Shorts and 200 Shorts, both published by and available at All Things That Matter Press 
His book A Family of Sicilians… which critics called “the best book written about Sicilians” is available at www.lulu.com/spotlight/ButtaciPublishing2008

Sal lives in West Virginia with Sharon the love of his life. He can also be found at: