Woebegone, hang-dog shame is what he felt. His shoulders slumped and his head drooped momentarily. He’d been caught then accused. Now, he’d been charged with a lifetime of deceit. He had a choice and could have answered honestly but he did it again anyway.
He was compulsive.
He looked the Judge in the eye – denied everything.
The one honest thing he had learned during his life was that no one believed a liar anyhow.
The horse and rider paused at the crest of the hill.
“Should we take the wagon trail home or cut through the coulee, Mari-bell?” Sarah asked unsure of her own mind. If they took the wagon trail, it would take her another 5 miles to reach the ranch, an easy ride in good weather like it had been that morning but potentially deadly in the inclement weather which had suddenly appeared. She wasn’t prepared for this.
It had been unusually mild weather for January, like a spring day – they called these warm winds Chinooks she’d been told. They were “snow eaters,” that lasted from hours to days. Water had been dripping from the barn roof forming streamlets and pockets of water on her path to the barn. She side-stepped numerous puddles on the way to retrieve her little golden mare with creamy mane and tail. Mari-bell had nickered her usual soft greeting when Sarah opened the barn door.
She had loved Mari-bell from the first moment she’d laid eyes on her. Her father had threatened to sell her at first. “Too small for any of the ranch hands,” he’d said but Sarah rallied for the little palomino. “The horse has a huge heart,” he’d admitted after seeing the girl and horse work cattle. “She won’t quit until the job’s done and did everything and more that you asked of her Sarah!” The girl and horse had an unnatural bond he figured after seeing how the two responded to one another. In the end, he relented and gave the mare to his daughter. It was a rarity not to see the horse and girl together now-a-days.
Mari-bell perked her ears forward and arched her neck over the edge of the stall as Sarah approached. “Too warm for this thick woolen sweater Mother knit for me at Christmas that’s for sure Mari-bell,” Sarah crooned to the horse as she shed her jacket then removed the heavy sweater and hung it on the peg by the stall. “A long sleeved shirt and jacket are all I’ll need today.” She grinned as she pat the horse on the side of the neck, led her to the door of the barn, mounted and trotted away from the ranch toward the school.
She was giving and kind. They worshipped her like a Saint. She was of the earth and moved about the land like a breath of fresh air.
They said he was the Devil. His was a craggy, worn exterior. People avoided him. He was hard they observed – probably cruel. He was fire and ice. He’d burn you if he could.
No one knew for certain how they’d come upon one another but they were concerned for she epitomized all that was good – but he was evil.
It was pure magnetism that pulled them together. Opposites attract or so it is said.
It so happened that she’d heard a sorrowful sound and followed it until she happened upon him. When she’d found him, he was like a pool of iced over water cracking, groaning and crying for help. He craved warmth, she could see it. The magic happened when she looked beyond his icy blue depths and into his soul.
To him, she was like a downy white quilt that wrapped his hardened exterior in warmth. When he looked into the darkness beyond her eyes – that is when he melted.
She held out her hand and he readily took it. Holding her tightly in his arms, he waltzed with her over the tapestry of the earth to music of the Universe.
With their spirits entwined, they balanced and danced, bringing the world alive with beauty.
And, the people worried over the change in him. It seemed unnatural.
Now, consensus is that she’s a Sorceress – wicked.
While he…, he is merely a man who has fallen under her spell.
‘But not all opinions are equal,’ she reasoned. And, she did not hold the opinions of others.
She had awareness; an awareness that the others did not; for she knew what had happened when the eyes of fire and ice met the eyes of earth and air – two souls collided and became one.
‘Eyes are the windows to the soul,’ she knew and she knew the power of ‘love.’
She held the opinion, ‘When souls unite in balance and beauty, love is neither wicked nor evil. Love is a gift found within the eyes for any who dare look into their depths.’
We have undergone seasonal changes on the prairie. Snow finally fell to coat the land. It was a welcomed sight. The fall season has been mild this year – dry and windy without much moisture. This has made life for the smaller prairie animals easier than in prior years as they are able to forage uninhibited by deep snow.
The jack rabbits have been extremely prolific. There are dozens of them careening across the landscape camouflaged in their new winter apparel of white. They move in large groups like snowballs with legs as they bound across the land imitating the whirling drifting swathes of snow.
Some of them like to race, zigging and zagging along the edge of the road at 35 mph. They are flexible, their agility saving them more often than not from an untimely demise under vehicle tires. If they zig when they should zag, they become fodder for hungry scavengers happy for an easy meal.
The jack rabbits blend into the winter environment easily now that their coats have turned white. It takes a keen set of eyes to spot them when they stand frozen and alert atop the snow covered horizon where they listen attentively for predators lying in wait for them. Jack rabbits need to be aware of the dangers lurking about them.
Not all danger abounds on land. Above, another creature has changed colors with the season. It perches above proudly displaying its white plumage as its wise eyes scan the prairie to find a rabbit to bring home for lunch.
And so, the circle of life continues as the seasons change on the prairie.
She drifted on an endless tide. Emotions lapped at her sides like waves. Some passed her by believing her to be redundant. Others saw her value and tried to bring her aboard. She was very desirable, a streamline, timeless vision. Her knotted, gnarly appearance only added to her mystic. Along with her intrigue, she held little bark. Truly, a quality piece, one that they could work with but her weight was camouflaged within her well hewn exterior and to their surprise, she was heavy.
They pulled, tugged, heaved and attempted to rope her in to no avail. Continue Reading »
The world seems momentarily peaceful – the autumn gales have been horrendous.
My body is grateful for this temporary respite – a gentle wind is such a welcome change from the cold icy blasts that have beseeched the prairie lately. I exhale calmly. The windy onslaughts seem to be unleashed on the world when the urban inhabitants are uneasy – their angry fearful outbursts unbalance natural order with dissention. It is not global warming that beseeches the land; it is heated rage or callous icy innuendos that extricate the gales.
I breathe in clean fresh air as I follow a curvy path that leads south. It is the same direction the snow geese are following. The sun hits their feathery bodies and they shine silver in the calm fall air above me. I can clearly hear their calls as they fly above me in a familiar “V” pattern. Each member of the flock has their view unimpeded. All can see what lies ahead on their path. There are some geese that are falling behind. It is communicated to the leader. The leader adjusts its pace so that the flock remains together but it is still moving too fast and the flock honks out their distain.
I confess; I believe the real problem with my childhood is that I lived in a fantasy world.
When I got older, I searched for enlightenment.
Along with enlightenment came an intense sense of disillusionment.
No one warned me that enlightenment would cause my fantasy world to dissolve into chaos.
Enlightenment is destructive. It makes you take a look at the world as it really is. I didn’t like what I was seeing. People whom I adored were not who I’d envisioned – they had faults – perfect faults – faults I’d over-looked, faults I’d blinded myself to. I became very angry, disillusioned and broken. Continue Reading »
“When the gruesome wind howls in the darkness and claws with destructive fingers at your barriers, you will be tempted to curl up into a ball and hide. You may feel more inclined to seek a dark place to hide away and to think deep thoughts or to nurse an emotional wound. It may seem like the natural thing to do. It may even seem like the safest thing to do,” the demonic entity taunted. “But in the end, these things will drive you to madness and I will win!”
“You have already won,” she conceded.
There was a certain acceptance and graciousness in the voice of the woman. Her surrender infuriated the entity. Continue Reading »
Many say her spirit still lives on the mountain, and some have seen her spirit when the pine trees are bending. She’s an ancient presence. Her breath to this day carries power in her songs. And her name was changed in the days when the sun became brighter, from First Woman….to Wind Walker. It’s true […]
This beautiful poem has been shared from Rivers Renewed where nicodemaplusthree shares beautifully inspired Native American stories. Please be sure to stop byand check out her wonderful site.
I am beyond the circle today, racing toward freedom. “Oh, how I love to run.”
There is strength in my legs and courage in my heart. My vision is keen. I am galloping into uncharted territory but ancient wisdom within tells me I have traveled this path before. I am not afraid. With this knowledge, I strive forward gathering increased energy and speed. The air on my face feels good. It is cool and fresh. My white mane and tail flow out behind me uninhibited. I am breathing deeply, nostrils wide. The inhalation of crisp translucent air has cleansed all senses. My exhalations are mere puffs of white. Purity has allowed my feet to float above the obstructions below so that I may glide along like wind. All restrictions have been removed. I have become a leader. But, in my exuberance with the race toward freedom, I have forgotten my herd. They have fallen behind. Continue Reading »
Stone Soup is a folktale about sharing during a time of hardship.
The age old tale begins with the arrival of a poor starving beggar at depression struck Village. The Villagers hardly have enough provisions for themselves so refuse to feed this stranger. The beggar then offers to share his meal with them. Obviously, the beggar has no food but he is an alchemist. The magic begins when he adds a stone to a boiling pot of water. Curious, the untrusting Villagers gathered around the beggar to watch as he prepared the special soup. Since none of the villagers had enough in there larder to share with others, they found the generosity of the poor beggar peculiar.
“What are you doing?” they asked.
He smiled politely at the unfriendly villagers while he wordlessly placed his pot of makeshift soup over a fire.
“I’m making stone soup. It’s delicious. I’ll be glad to share it with all of you when I’m finished.”
The villagers watched in awe as the beggar dipped his ladle into the mixture and tasted it. Continue Reading »
Little Britches eyed his father suspiciously, even at the ripe old age of two; he’d mastered the art of discernment.
Little Britches’ father was his hero. Still, he wasn’t totally convinced that petting that little bunting cow at the edge of the deck sniffing lilacs was in his best interest. Heck, the cows buddy, a young golden lab, knocked him over in exuberant body wriggling, tail wagging licking episodes – and, that farm dog wasn’t as big as the mini black cow with the white face they called Mable!
Little Britches shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his jeans and shifted his weight from one rubber boot to the other, his bright inquiring eyes peering up at his father from below his Blue Jays ball cap. He needed a tidbit more encouragement before attempting, “Mission: touch-the-cow!” Continue Reading »
It was summer now and all was calm. I was outside playing one evening when I spotted my run away pony, Judy. With her head down, she stood quietly in the corral by the barn, stamping her small hooves and flicking her thick white tail back and forth in an attempt to fight off the hoards of black flies that bit at her small golden body. Slowly, I walked towards the barn and nonchalantly swung the gate closed to trap Judy. I turned to find myself cornered.
I was frozen to the spot. Man Eater dove at me, white rimmed eyes full of hate and black ears flattened to the back of his head. Grabbing me with his teeth, he flung me into the air. The world exploded as I hit the ground and in half a daze, I crawled under the corral to safety.
Luckily for me, the jacket I had been wearing was my brother’s and being four sizes too big, I had slipped out the bottom. I sat and watched in mute silence as Man Eater tore the jacket to shreds, then turned heel and headed for the hills. I was soon to learn that this would only be the first of many attacks by the insane stallion. Continue Reading »
I was only a small girl but I’ll never forget the first time I saw that wild horse. He was crazy-mad and full of hate.
We stood still as Daddy and Frank brought him through the yard, fighting and screaming. His nostrils were flared wide and red and his white rimmed eyes were full of hate. His head and short mane were caked with blood and lather covered his huge black body.
The angry stallion fought the ropes that circled his neck and held him between the two other horses. He dived at Daddy’s horse only to be brought up tight by Frank’s rope. He turned and charged at Frank but was thrown backwards when Daddy’s rope pulled tight. He was a mass of flying feet and catching one of the ropes in his teeth bit down on it with such fury that the rope snapped but, Frank was too fast and another rope whistled through the air and landed over his head.
I was sick. I thought the poor horse would kill himself before he would stop fighting. It took the men an hour to corral the crazy, mad fighting horse. Continue Reading »
I have always been fascinated by the power of words to convey a message. When I was young, my mother used to read us stories some of which were her own. I loved those stories.
J.V. Andrus Dec. 2, 1934 – Oct. 10, 1989
Sometimes, however, an artist’s work isn’t fully recognized or appreciated until after they are gone – the following story has never been published but, it needs to be. It is a story I have never been able to get out of my mind.
Written by my mother, J.V. Andrus, Man Eater is about a wild mustang captured in the Alberta Foothills before the majority of wild horses disappeared from the range.
Many people like to romanticize the good old days – truth is, times were hard back then and the bitter reality of that truth can be harsh. The story of this wild mustang is raw. It’s real. It is a battle between a wild animal fighting for a territory being encroached upon by man. So, let’s take a step back into our not so distant history and enjoy my mother’s story of a wild stallion who roamed free in the foothills of Alberta in the 1939’s or 1940’s.
Proudly, I present:Man Eater by J.V. Andrus.
The following is Chapter 1 of 3.
Man Eater
By: J.V. Andrus
When I was a little girl, my family lived on the CC Ranch southwest of Nanton. The Ranch, situated on Willow Creek was silhouetted by the wild and beautiful Rocky Mountains.
The land was filled with bush and farther in towards the mountain was thick timber. I remember that it was not uncommon to see bear, moose and deer on this land. We knew that many wild horses made their home in the mountains although they were rarely seen.
My story is about a black stallion who gained the band of wild horses and who was snared in the mountains by my Dad and his best friend Frank.
I had only seen the wild horses a few times. My Dad, who was foreman of the CC Ranch, said the wild horses were inbred. They had large over-sized heads, crooked legs and big pie feet. Some were very small. The wild horses usually had long unshed hair and the older mares had matted manes and tails that hung to the ground.
They stayed high up in the mountains most of the year and grazed on the tender grass that grew along the timber line. Their bands were very small. The cold harsh winters and deep snow found the colts and weaker mares starving. Some were pulled down by Timber wolves, some by another hungry predator. During these times, wild horses usually descended from the mountains into the foothills.
The moon was still high when Vesta emerged from the lean-to. She knelt by the fire and added kindling to the embers coaxing it to flame then added larger pieces of wood. She could hear steady rhythmic breathing and snores. The babe still slept soundly as well. Vesta was certain her daughter was in good hands. She needed to go and quietly sit away from camp in order to decipher the dreams that so disturbed her rest.
A movement to her right caught her eye, a red fox. It had stolen a meaty bone and was scampering away from camp. Sly little fox, they were never to be trusted Vesta had learned. They’re too smart for their own good she remembered as she thought back to the time she’d watched one get over confident when trying to steal from a wolf. Its greed had been its undoing. But, that was nature’s way. The strongest and more intelligent species survived.
She wrapped a fur blanket around her shoulders and started walking through the foothills toward the flat land. From the edge of a grove of trees, yellow eyes followed her.
Xheng’s eyes widened. It was the first sentence Amarelle had spoken. The Captain relieved Amarelle of her abusive captor, the Preacher, almost a fortnight ago but she’d fallen into a mute silence after being rescued. He noticed a spark of life in her eyes. Stiffness in her stance fore told a stubborn determination to have her way in this discussion.
“You are still too weak for a voyage over the ocean to the Canada’s, Amarelle,” Chin spoke his words softly and carefully so as not to cause the girl duress.
“I’ll not stay!” Amarelle stated with forceful intent.
“Well, she’s correct in thinking she can’t stay Chin! The moment we are gone the Preacher will be claiming her once again and we can’t have that. Gather up what tinctures you can for her and all the cheese, fat meats and bread makings you can to get her weight up while we journey. Then procure some proper foot wear and clothing for the girl. She will be relegated to the Captain quarters while we sail.”
Smith gave Amarelle a quick once over. The girl, although healing, was frail. Outward bruising had disappeared but she had not overcome the trauma she’d endured at the Preacher’s hands.
“Deny her nothing Chin. Take her with you to gather her needs. I suggest you hurray we leave on the tide come morning light.” Continue Reading »
Vesta sat cross-legged near a grove of red willow and weaved a basket from their flexible stripped branches. In this basket, she would carry any collected red bark back to the settlement. The medicinal properties of the bark were much needed to subdue fevers, aches and pains during the outbreak of the springtime influenza which the colonies residents were now suffering. Continue Reading »
I have submerged myself into something unknown. The path, still curvy feels pressurized. It is turbulent at times and if I move against the flow, tire more easily. But, I know that is necessary to go against the norm. My instincts drive me to do this.
Determination to reach my destination has caused me to focus on inner power. This instinctual power causes adrenaline to surge through my body and I leap into the light only to splash down slightly further ahead. The journey is almost complete. I can feel it. I have worked hard. Soon I can rest but not right now. My body is aching. I am hungry. I have used up nearly all of my reserves just to get this far. Surely, I will die completing this labor of love. I must eat. That is when I spot it, a tidbit to feed my starving soul. I snatch it up barely missing a hook. Next time I will be more careful, not everything edible along this path is safe.
I hope the morsel will be enough to propel me to where I need to be. A knowing fills me and I dive deep into dark shadowy depths. My lungs feel like they will explode as a vise-like grip grabs hold of my body and forces a vaporized bubble from my lips then I hit bottom. Continue Reading »
In spirit form, Nell lingered unseen and unheard while Vesta gathered willow bark for her benefactor. She listened somewhat bemused as her apprentice invoked the ‘Power of Three’ then hurled words like poisonous darts from her mouth; words which were aimed at the Preacher. Vesta and Amarelle were both still her students – even though neither could see her while she was in spirit form; Nell could guide them. Her protégés, Vesta and Amarelle had both taken an oath. They had sworn not to use their ‘powers’ to cause fear or harm. However, Amarelle did deserve justice. Perhaps, just this one time, she could let Vesta’s slip-up pass. In a way, she wished she’d used such ingenuity for Amarelle’s justice. Perhaps, this faux pas was more of a spell than a curse and one that she agreed was for the “good of the whole!” As Nell faded away into the ethos she realized that Karma alone would decide the positive or negative results of this spell on Vesta and the Preacher.
His name was Xheng but no one could pronounce it properly. They just referred to him as ‘Chin.’
Xheng was a sensei; a teacher but he had not yet achieved status of senpai – master of the healing arts as he had been taken hostage by pirates who invaded the shores of his homeland seeking slaves to sell. When Captain Smith came upon the pirate ship called Black Betty, they’d done battle. Xheng was one of the few survivors of the sunken Black Betty. He had been hauled aboard the rescuing ship by none other than the Captain himself. Xheng had always been a fast learner. He could speak some broken English. “You heppa me?” he’d questioned the intrigued Captain.
Captain Smith was a scholar and gentleman. Xheng dubbed ‘Chin,’ and Captain Smith became friends and colleagues on their voyage toward the America’s where they sailed to colonize a new land. Continue Reading »
This golden flower is known as a buffalo bean, prairie bean, golden banner and prairie pea. These flowers bloom during
late May or early June. The buffalo bean can be found in open sandy areas of the prairie and aspen forests where water tables are high.
The golden bean flowers were once used as a cure for stomach disease and its roots used as a horse medicine.
Dye was made from the yellow flowers and used by the First Nations People to color arrows and skin bags.
Most importantly, the appearance of this golden pea-like flower was used as a form of phenology (study of nature) by the First Nations People because upon its arrival, the spring hunt for buffalo bulls could resume.
Warning: The pea shaped pods of a buffalo bean should never be consumed as they are poisonous!
I don’t mind spotting this type of smoke on the prairie!
This little flower is called, ‘Prairie Smoke.’ Otherwise known as Geum triflorum, three flowered avens or old man’s whiskers.
The flowers on this perennial herbaceous plant bloom from mid-spring to early summer.
They grow wild on the prairie but you can also purchase them from your local greenhouse and plant them as perennials in your flower garden.
Native Americans and early settlers once used the root from the Prairie Smoke to treat colic, fever, coughs and stomach ailments with tea made from its roots.
It was even used in the treatment of Tuberculosis (TB) an infectious disease that affects the lungs and other parts of the body.
I am traveling the middle world from west to east. I know that I am from earth but not of it. Today though, I must join my human family as it is a time of celebration.
The eagles are crying out in distain. Their shrill whistles permeate the air as I temporarily exit the higher realm. Their piercing screams remind me that they will continue to support my efforts to rise above human drama and past mistakes. I remember the lessons that I have progressed through then breath through self-doubt, illusions of fear and vanity.
My family is very unassuming. They accept me for who I am. I am the one who self judges. I am very hard on myself so, I prefer not to take on someone else’s illusion of who I am. Ego is hard to be rid of. However, ego demolishing makes you wise. It is very humbling.
It is hard to be a leader because people want to follow those who are wise or humble. Sometimes, they put you up on a pedestal that is impossible to uphold or maintain. I have no desire to be on that type of a pedestal. I prefer to simply be myself. Although, I have a strong desire to be the best that I can be, my preference is just to be happy doing whatever it is that I’m meant to be doing at the time. Now, if that led to an invitation to stand behind a podium for a sharing of mutual empowerment, I would be very accepting and grateful for the opportunity. This would allow all involved to achieve victory and freedom because we all chose to be present in order to experience the joy of shared wisdom. I like to share. This is what I try to teach to others. But they don’t understand.
I say to them, “I cannot be your leader. I may be able to assist you during your journey but, you must follow your own lead. Be an individual, revel in your differences. Share as you are guided. This is what it means to lead by example. This is what it is to be happy; joyful. This is the true essence of love. Love yourself. Take the small steps.” Continue Reading »
Vesta wandered along the creek and wove amongst budding trees and bush in search of the red willow her ‘ami,’ had sent her for.
Once boiled with water and ingested, the red bark of willow became a remedy which would lower fever and reduce pain; a much needed medicine at this time of year when the weather was unpredictably hot or cold.
Vesta noticed the creek started to bend just farther east from where she stood. Beyond the bend, an alcove would shelter her from a cool spring breeze that blew through this shaded area of burly twisted tree trunks. There a few feet beyond that bend lay a meadow surrounded by thick bush and willow tall enough to block any wayward wind. Vesta stepped briskly toward the bend up ahead, eager to shake loose her brown woolen cape and carefully coiffed hair. How she looked forward to these rare moments of freedom away from the confines of the community where she felt like such a hostage. Out of mortal fear, she’d been forced to camouflage herself amongst them – those she described as, ‘murderous vultures.’ She deliberately dressed in dowdy colors like they did; browns, grays and blacks were colors that more often than not kept one unnoticed among the colonies vultures. Still, she liked ‘tiny pretty things’ and would don a small sparkly necklace or pin that could be easily covered if necessary when prying eyes cast their umbrous glances in her direction. Continue Reading »
This is an update on my last post regarding the progress of Bill C-10; an Act to Amend the Broadcasting Act here in Canada.
Let me start this article by sharing a quote from a fellow Canadian regarding the digital sphere:
“We need to pay attention to what is happening.
The very character of our country is at stake,”
Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada, May 16, 2019
I agree; we most definitely do need to payattention to what is happening! Our entire country is literally being torn apart by some of the very characters who lead it! The digital sphere is only one area being abhorrently affected by these characters. Continue Reading »
Amarelle awoke screaming, the sound so high pitched and pitiful it cleared the very darkness from her unhinged mind.
Her mental clarity had partially returned thanks-be to a disturbing dream about clues for the future. Her blue eyes darted around unfamiliar surroundings until she glimpsed a tattered dirty image of herself in the darkened window. One hand was curled tightly into a fist. She felt a stabbing, throbbing pain emanating from it. She looked down at her left hand and slowly unfurled her fingers to reveal the contents which she gripped so tightly.
Inside the clenched fist of Amarelle’s left hand was a red thorny rose. She had squeezed the flower so hard it had punctured her palm. Blood droplets landed on her bare feet then trickled like tiny streams onto the floor boards.
Amarelle stared morosely at the rose’s squashed red petals and watched curiously as crimson droplets of blood trailed toward the floor. She was transfixed by the scarlet colors.
So entranced was Amarelle by the colors of red, that she had failed to noticed a large unwieldy figure who accompanied her in the room. Continue Reading »
Oh, what tales we Weaver’s weave when our well scripted words are spun together into a magical yarn.
I am a writer; a weaver of magical yarns.
I am a Weaver; a weaver of magical yarn.
I am a Weaver.”
I have always been a fan of folklore, myths and parables. Recently, I came across the story of a Wise old Weaver woman hidden in a cave. Every culture has mystical tales that tell of Weaver’s hidden in places unknown or away from civilization. Their only company a big black dog. They weave beautiful capes, robes or blankets with ethereal cords from the cosmos which are never completed because chaos (the dog) intervenes to unravel their work, at which point the Weaver’s begin again. The myth is that if the Weaver ever completes their work, the world will end. These Weaver’s have been creating this article of beauty since the beginning of time.
During the winter months, I began to weave. It all started because of boredom. I am an active person. I don’t deal well with boredom. Boredom led me toward the need to purge. It’s astounding the amount of items that one accumulates and then holds on to for no real reason. The time had come for me to remove needless items from my home – make more space – let’s say; in those dark, shadowy closeted spaces one like me hesitates to venture into.
I read a piece of prose by Andrew The Lonely Author at www.thelonelyauthorblog.com ; it started with, “love hung in her closet,” what an enchanting thought!
I am a little terrified of what might be hanging in my closets – cobwebs and skeletons. But, there is proper timing for everything and the time for purging was now. Continue Reading »
back of his head. Grabbing me with his teeth, he flung me into the air. The world exploded as I hit the ground and in half a daze, I crawled under the corral to safety.
flared wide and red and his white rimmed eyes were full of hate. His head and short mane were caked with blood and lather covered his huge black body.
my Dad and his best friend Frank.
embers coaxing it to flame then added larger pieces of wood. She could hear steady rhythmic breathing and snores. The babe still slept soundly as well. Vesta was certain her daughter was in good hands. She needed to go and quietly sit away from camp in order to decipher the dreams that so disturbed her rest.
camp. Sly little fox, they were never to be trusted Vesta had learned. They’re too smart for their own good she remembered as she thought back to the time she’d watched one get over confident when trying to steal from a wolf. Its greed had been its undoing. But, that was nature’s way. The strongest and more intelligent species survived.
“I’ll not stay!” Amarelle stated with forceful intent.
The Trefoil Muse 
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