January was a busy month for me. I decided to take a Flash Fiction course and also had the opportunity to attend an online conference for Self-Publishing given by the RWA (Romance Writers of America), which I enjoyed tremendously.
Tagline: Last week’s question about her short, teeny-weeny-afro (TWA) almost caused her to explode and show him that she had muscles. She was ready to give him her Ali left punch and knock him out.
Esther Mae Brodie, a chubby-sized, dark-skinned forty-two-year-old woman Expat living in Helsinki, didn’t care too much for C.J. Laine. The 5-foot-nine-inch Finnish man with a head full of light brown, reddish hair that touched his shoulders spoke fluent English but didn’t have an ounce of respect for his classmates or her. He challenged every English concept she taught. She didn’t understand why he was in her evening class. His irritating questions about her personal life had no boundaries. Last week’s question about her short, teeny-weeny-afro (TWA) almost caused her to explode and show him that she had muscles. She was ready to give him her Ali left punch and knock him out.
Walking down the hall to her room, she contemplated what he had up his sleeves tonight. Thus, Esther Mae was unprepared when the secretary ran out of her office to inform her that C.J. Laine had dropped out of her class early that morning. Esther Mae did a two-step dance, dancing down the hallway, praising God for getting rid of the jerk.
A month later, the school offered Esther Mae the opportunity to receive the total sum of the state pension she had paid out of her monthly checks, plus a bonus. It shocked her because none of her other Expat colleagues received such a deal, but that didn’t stop her from accepting the offer. Her heart had always desired to become a screenwriter; now, she could devote her time to living her dream. She hoped to have her feet in the door before her money ran out. If she lived frugally, she would have enough money for nine months or maybe a year if she avoided eating the foods that put weight on her hips, like desserts and chocolate.
On December 10, she sent out her first screenplay submission. Wary about whether someone would even look at her script, she almost got out of the post office queue but kept her nerves together by convincing herself that taking the first step by submitting was always the hardest.
Therefore, it was all the more surprising that she received an email within five days requesting that she meet with the studio owner at noon on December 22 in one of the expensive restaurants in Helsinki that she couldn’t afford.
Esther Mae searched the internet for the owner’s name because whoever had written the email had forgotten to mention who they were. She found nothing. Thinking it was a sinister prank, she ignored the email, marked it as spam, deleted it, and forgot about the invitation.
When Friday, December 22 came, Esther Mae woke up remembering she had not gone shopping since the first Advent weekend. She needed to buy food because the stores would be closed until the twenty-eighth.
As she dressed, she considered stopping by her favorite cafe and having a hot cup of dark, hot, bitter chocolate but decided not to, and she went home after shopping for things to make her holiday bright.
Returning, she paid no attention to the Bentley parked in front of her apartment house. Parking in the underground garage, she loaded as many packages as she could in her arms, leaving the rest for a second trip, and went to the elevator. On the seventh floor, she exited and noticed a man standing at her door.
Not recognizing the man and uncertain of who he was, she started to turn and get back into the elevator.
“Don’t run, Ms. Brodie, it is I. Don’t you remember me?” The man said.
Shocked, Esther Mae couldn’t quite believe the voice she’d heard. It was more profound, deeper than when she last heard it, but the wistful sense of humor whenever he had challenged her with one of his questions about her personal life remained.
“C.J. Laine, is that you? What are you doing in this part of Helsinki, standing at my door? It’s been months since I’ve seen you.”
“Yes, it has,” he said. Six months, to be exact, and you have already forgotten me. That hurts.”
“Why are you here? I mean, at my home?” Esther Mae stuttered.
“You missed your appointment, and I wanted to know why you stood me up?”
“My appointment?” Esther Mae asked, confused.
“To talk about your screenplay and a few other things. Didn’t you receive the email from my PA?”
“I thought it was spam, so I deleted it,” Esther Mae replied. “Besides, I searched the internet for the owner’s name and couldn’t find it and thought it was a hoax. I didn’t know it was you.”
“My Dear Ms. Brodie, please give me your packages and open the door. I’ve been gaga over you since I met you. We have lots to discuss. I’ve been planning for this moment for the longest.”
***
May all of you have a Merry Christmas and safe crossover into 2024.
Tagline: The kids fell in love with him, a man whose face they couldn’t see. Fascinated by the white gauze covering his head, ears, face, and neck, each wanted to be like him.
They did a slow waltz, not under moonlight but one lone star. Delia trusted him to keep her safe in his arms, and Zephaniah found his security in the star that winked at him from above. Held tight in his arms, Zeph guided her through a slow version of the Blue Danube that only they could hear in the silence surrounding them.
Usually, Delia would be at her sister’s home enjoying two weeks of fun with her nieces and nephews and walks with her sister. Zeph knew that, but he needed her with him. She had been in his life for six months, and his involvement changed her lifestyle and calendar.
He met her sister and the three kids. The kids fell in love with him, a man whose face they couldn’t see. Fascinated by the white gauze covering his head, ears, face, and neck, each wanted to be like him. They were sad when they heard his head would no longer be covered when they saw him the next time.
As they danced, Zeph thought about how slowly time had passed. Delia had told him the time had gone too fast. Like the kids, she had enjoyed having him the way he was.
The doctor said grafting skin from his thighs would take eight hours, maybe twelve since he also needed a donor. It was a relief for him to know that the donor would be Gaelen, his second-in-command and best friend. His team had put Delia in charge of his emotional stability.
The nightmares about the underwater explosion had returned regularly, and he asked her to move into a bedroom in his home to help him. His fear of her getting kidnapped during his surgery, when he could not rescue her, was enormous.
Tagline:After working throughout the night making her sweet round dark chocolat balls, she had wanted to stay home, but Friday afternoon was the usual time she went to Mass.
Hell is where you’re going. Straight to hell!” The Preacher shouted from the pulpit as he looked at his audience. “The wages of sin is death.”
Mimi shivered, hoping he was not referring to the planned march on the island to celebrate their freedom from slavery. The cold stones of the old church seemed to get colder, making her wary. She hoped that tomorrow would pass by quickly.
Dante’s Inferno is much more comfortable than sitting here between bricks that radiate hatred instead of hot waves from hell.
She tried to keep her eyes open while the Preacher ranted. After working throughout the night making her sweet round dark chocolat balls, she had wanted to stay home, but Friday afternoon was the usual time she went to Mass.
Two days later, on March 21, dark shadows fell over where they marched in Ponce and covered the town with death, leaving nineteen innocent people and two police officers dead and two hundred wounded, some badly.
Mimi had expected to meet new friends after the march. She’d planned for them to come to her basement and celebrate by dancing, drinking red wine, and eating her self-made Chocolat Sweet Delights, round balls made with dark black, raw cocoa beans, red pepper, sugar, and a few other hidden ingredients that were her family’s secret.
As she sat in the old church, she hadn’t known that would be her last time.
Take care, everyone.
Shalom shalom
Pat Garcia
This Flash Fiction is in honor of those who died at the Ponce Massacre on Palm Sunday, March 21, 1937.
Hello, Everyone, Sometimes an unexpected ray of sunshine comes into your life, brightening your day. When I got up this morning and looked at my email, I discovered I had won the WEP CHALLENGE FOR JUNE 2023. Since returning from the States, I have been facing severe life challenges. This win was my encouragement from God to keep going, and I am thankful.
Tagline: The closer she got, the clearer her head became until she stood before Strain Man with his cone-shaped head and dressed in metallic clothing.
Having heard The Stars and Stripes Forever’s first impatient blast, Boteè jumped off her sofa, got her jacket, grabbed her tiny case, and departed her first-floor apartment. She left a note for her best girlfriend, Peggy.
On the road with my friend.
Don’t know how long, but I’ll be back.
Boteè called him Strain Man. He was no stranger to her and was waiting at their secret spot.
Locking her door, she walked down the steps. Boteè hit the deep C below the middle C of the primary scale with her contralto voice and sang Amen note by note while holding her breath as she slid up the scale accenting the rise in a syncopated rhythm until she reached Middle C. She stopped, took a deep breath, and waited for a response.
Strain Man began playing the first trio, and the spotlight appeared and covered her with light from her head to her feet. The music arrested her and lulled her into a trance. When she began to march, she felt him move into the second trio. The light over her head brightened, and she felt like she was walking on clouds of sheet music as the second trio guided her into his presence.
The closer she got, the clearer her head became until she stood before Strain Man with his cone-shaped head and dressed in metallic clothing.
Strange. There are no stars in heaven.
“They’ll come. They’re just over the horizon,” Strain Man replied, with the third trio’s movement, communicating with her in the only language he knew from her planet.
And Boteè sank to the ground enjoying the encounter, and allowed herself to be transported into his world.
Warning: Dialect is used in the dialogue. The words are written as the African Americans spoke them in that period of time. They are not misspelled words.
Tagline: When Miss Scarlet slap me, it hurt. Sometimes me gets pains in my head. We human beings too.
“Mammy, ya ever think Miss Scarlet treat us like she treat Miss Melanie?” Prissy asked.
“Lawd, Child, whatever ya done gone and made ya say that? Mammy asked, startled by Prissy’s question. “You done had a sunstroke out there hanging out them clothes, I giv ya.”
“Just thinking,” Prissy answered. “When Miss Scarlet slap me, it hurt. Sometimes me gets pains in my head. We human beings too.”
“A change gonna come one day,” Mammy replied.
“When, Mammy?”
“Soon, child.”
“But how soon?”
“Only the good Lawd know that, Prissy. Now, iron Miss Scarlet dress fo she done come in here and slaps ya face again fo being lazy.”
***
On the set, Butterfly McQueen took on the role of Prissy and closed her mind before she spoke her lines. It blocked out the shame and degradation that rose within her, but her anger still burned.
As a nigger on the set, integrity and pride were traits she dared not reveal. That would put her in jeopardy of losing her life or getting raped until she passed out, or destroying her existence and demoting her to a cleaning woman like her Mama had been.
After saying her lines, the director shouted at her, “Your voice is beautiful and sounds just like a sweet bird.”
Butterfly nodded her head and quietly left the set.
Many thanks to the WEP Team and all the awesome writers who participate in the Challenge. The WEP has some of the best writers I know, and I am privileged to be among them.
Have a safe crossover into 2023.
Shalom aleichem
Pat Garcia
My story is embedded below. Click on the title link and it should take you to the full story. Thank you.
Tagline: He turned to talk to the man on his left side and the full extent of the scar, the zigzagged flesh that marred the terrain of his otherwise sculptured face, had me wondering who could have been so angry as to mark him so brutally.
The first time ever I saw his face, I stared. The scar, extending from the tip of his ear to his neck, shook the layers of indifference within me about humanity, and compassion swelled up. He turned to talk to the man on his left side and the full extent of the scar, the zigzagged flesh that marred the terrain of his otherwise sculptured face, had me wondering who could have been so angry as to mark him so brutally. He pivoted eighty degrees like a soldier; that’s when he saw me staring. He returned my stare, daring me to look away.
I shook my head, not in pity but with delight, and continued to stare, fascinated by his proud aura. It held me on the spot and kept me from leaving as he walked to me.
Successive dates led to an early marriage. Four weeks later, my newly acquired husband was gone. Our relationship hung on one request. “Write me daily by email, no matter what you’re going through and tell me about your day,” he’d said.
So, I poured out my fears, my pain at not being able to be with him, talk to him, to have a typical marriage, and my frustrations at him dominating my thoughts.
Since then, eight months, twenty-two days, twelve hours, and twenty- nine seconds have passed, and this time I, Ida Mae Jones, now Greco, find myself in the same café waiting on Salvatore, the man who drops into the ugliest corners of the world to protect others. Salvatore had explained to me before we married that I wouldn’t hear from him often when he was gone. Four letters testify to that. Yet I’ve written him an email every day as if I were writing an entry into my journal.
This morning the fifth letter came. Two short sentences: Landing at 9 a.m. Be at the café at 3 p.m.
I wrote in my journal: going to meet Salvatore Greco, my husband of almost a year. This time I didn’t email the entry to him; I put it in my purse.
Arriving at the café, I stood at the reception desk waiting to be seated. I felt Salvatore’s presence and turned. That’s when I saw the face I will never forget. He was coming toward me. I stared at him, searching his face for new scars, and found only one on his forehead, small though it was. He held my gaze as he walked to me; his eyes filled with light and hope. And my waiting was over.
***
I wish all of you a Merry Christmas and a healthy crossover into 2023.
Kate often wondered what lay behind the big red barn. She took a look at the face of her watch. Three in the morning. She had a flat tire and didn’t have any mobile reception. Leaving her car, she walked towards the barn to see if a house was on the other side of it.
A large cotton field with sixty-inch rows with no end was behind the barn and circling to the other side. Between the rows were patterns of squares laid out like a checkered board.
What kind of seeds can be planted between cotton in the shape of tiny squares?
Her curiosity got the best of her, and she stopped and walked in that direction to look and see.
Reaching the first square, Kate gasped.
This cannot be, she thought.
Tiny little heads of babies, the sizes of small miniature cabbages, were planted in neatly placed squares. Severed from their bodies, the moonlight showed their eye sockets with tiny wildflowers growing through them.
Good Morning, Everyone, I have taken the WEP Blog Post from their blog that announced my winning the August WEP and posted it here on my blog because I desire to spread the word about this excellent platform for unpublished or published authors. Below is not only my winner’s post but also the announcement for…
Tagline: Her glances revealed the short, distinct, presto beats as her fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard. The vibrations of her chest painted her laughter, and the nodding of her head the intensity of her feeling.
The Power of Touch
How beautiful you are, my darling!
Oh, how beautiful!
Your eyes are doves. (SS 1:16 NIV 2011)*
Gianluca saw the pureness of Aniyah’s soul through her eyes. As she looked deep into his, her gaze allowed him to hear the adagio of the triplets of the piano keys introducing the eternal beginning of the melancholic principal theme as she slowly swayed her body from left to right. Her stare gave him some semblance of the longevity of the musical arrangement. He got up from the bar stool and walked around the grand piano, and sat on the piano stool next to her.
His severely damaged ears perceived sounds through her body, and he listened to the wistfulness of the keys she played through the power of touching her. She played the principal theme through the open lid of the Börsendorfer he’d bought her as a gift.
Gianluca grunted. Aniyah’s reaction to his gift still lingered in his memory. Tears had spilled from her eyes, and her arms had hugged his chest tightly. Overwhelmed, she had even tried to embrace the Börsendorfer that now stood in their living room.
Such an emotional woman;she was worthy of so much more.
She had given him back a reason to live.
The rhythm of the principal theme flowed through the sways of her body. Gianluca closed his eyes and encircled her waist so he could listen to the dark, solemn tones that beguiled him as he touched her. He was in love with Aniyah and with the Moonlight Sonata. It was his favorite musical piece by Beethoven. The sad, melancholy opening reminded him of his loss and his gain.
Bombs bursting not far from where he had sought safety had profoundly damaged his ears and robbed him of his auditory nerves. His sensorineural hearing loss was permanent.
Aniyah’s patience had taught him how to hear with his soul; to release his hatred at becoming deaf; to forgive and not to blame. She’d shown him how valuable Sign Language, Lip Reading, and most importantly, how touch could help him perceive sounds. He imagined the invisible reality of the waves passing through his defunct auditory canal.
Gianluca sat next to her, watching her facial mimic, feeling the movement of her body. Their forthcoming evening of pleasure played out like a movie in his mind as he imagined the dark, grave, timbre of the triplets played, and he smiled.
***
Aniyah glanced at her husband as her fingers touched the keys. His curly black hair bounced.
Strange that a man with such pleasing, good looks could have so many inner scars.
Even more weird was how she had met him. The anguish on his face after she’d grabbed him from the edge of the platform where the velocity of a fast-moving train created a back draft. She’d sensed that he couldn’t hear the train approaching. She’d pulled him back just in time. The train would have sucked him into its path. Not knowing if he could sign language, she’d used it to see if he could. When he nodded his head, she apologized for grasping him so tightly. And their relationship started. A tight hug around the waist to pull him out of harm’s way had gotten her her favorite Cappuccino, a club sandwich, and then a slice of German Chocolate Cake at a Cafe. The afternoon had turned into evening. Dinner followed, and she’d found herself involved with an incredible stranger who now had a name, Gianluca Abate. Refusing to let her go, he told her his life story through sign language.
Aniyah, a boisterous woman with a teeny-weeny afro who had just turned forty, had been raised in an orphanage. When she was six years old, she heard the Moonlight Sonata for the first time and knew she wanted to be a pianist. When Aniyah turned thirty-five, she finally left the only home she’d known and started working as a dishwasher in a restaurant in a small town with a community college some two hundred and fifty kilometers away to study music. Now, she was married to Gianluca, whom she’d taught to hear through the power of touch.
She slowed her swaying movements, so Gianluca could feel the tones vibrating through her body and hear the end of the principal theme. Taking a three-second pause, she turned slightly to gaze at him. Smiling, she quickly kissed him before moving into the second theme with its Allegretto three-fourth pace. Her glances revealed the short, distinct, presto beats as her fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard. Her swaying picked up momentum, and Gianluca’s fingers thumped her waist, confirming that he was with her. Her fingers skirted down the keyboard of her Börsendorfer, and the movement intensified as she approached the Presto Agitato of the third theme; she gave all of herself to what the black notes spoke to her.
Abruptly, she slowed the tempo, intentionally allowing herself to hold specific notes sustained, and closed her eyes to enjoy the timbre herself, and she felt Gianluca’s fingers walk across her waistline in beat with the piece as if he were playing the piano himself. She was happy he heard what she heard, albeit with his soul. Thankful that she’d taught him to treasure the power of hearing, not by listening but by perceiving it through touch, she smiled.
And wheresoever he entered, into villages, or into cities, or into the country, they laid the sick in the marketplaces, and besought him that they might touch if it were but the border of his garment: and as many as touched him were made whole. (Mark 6:56 ASV)*
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
*Song of Songs 1:16, Taken from the New International Version 2011, Zondervan, A Part of HarperCollins Christian Publishing
*Mark 6:56, Taken from the American Standard Version, Publisher, Olive Tree, Copyright, Public Domain
Single, intelligent, robust, and well-groomed, this woman was a hooker who managed her company with pride. Quick-witted and clever, her shrewdness demanded respect from her customers. She did not tolerate foolishness. As managing director, she had learned early in life how to pit herself against the male dominating class. In her line of work, she needed,
• This hardness,
• This steadfastness,
• This I can do anything mentality.
She shunned popularity, yet she couldn’t avoid it. Everyone from the prominent to the penniless pauper knew her address.
Female friends—No, thank you. She learned early to refrain from friendships. Her kind represented the scum of society.
After all, she committed acts of intimacy genteel women would never dream of doing. For them, intimacy represented a charitable act of kindness toward their husbands that had to be tolerated.
Never mind that the prostitute was the bread earner in her family; forget that she ran a profitable establishment; don’t even consider that she took pride in doing the best with what she had.
The fact that she sold her body labeled her as riffraff, unfit to be respected––with the exception of the nighttime pleasures she gave to whoever could afford it.
When the two men showed up at her hotel, she knew something was about to occur, which would destroy her and her family if she did not take matters into her own hands and bargain quickly. The men were different and stood out among all the other guests that frequented her establishment. Besides, contrary to most men, they weren’t demanding she spread her legs to practice her trade. They showed respect to a woman the town called a whore.
Can you see her?
A woman shunned by society,
• A prostitute,
• A hooker,
• A whore,
Offering the two men lodging for the night up in the roof of her house. She even hid them under stalks of flax. She was a woman with enough love in her heart to lie when the king of Jericho sent her a message demanding that the two men be turned over to him.
Before the men lay down for the night, the prostitute went up to the roof to negotiate. Bargaining was something she excelled in, and she got what she wanted, freedom and safety for all her loved ones and made the spies swear to it.
As the spies departed her home, they said, “This oath you made us swear will not be binding on us unless, when we enter the land, you have tied this scarlet cord in the window through which you let us down, and unless you have brought your father and mother, your brothers and all your family into your house. If any of them go outside your house into the street, their blood will be on their own heads; we will not be responsible. As for those who are in the house with you, their blood will be on our head if a hand is laid on them. But if you tell what we are doing, we will be released from the oath you made us swear.” *
This woman changed her destiny and the destiny of her whole family. That’s all it took. One ounce of love, and Rahab, the harlot, became a heroine. All you need is love.
***
Wishing all of you the very best.
Until next time,
Shalom aleichem
Pat Garcia
*Verses taken from Joshua 2:17-20, New International Version 2011, Zondervan, a part of HarperCollins Christian Publishing
I am a proud member of the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB and for the next 48 hours (11/15 through 11/17) there is a $25 discount on any membership tier when you join the club!
We aren’t just an organization where you add your name to our roster, and then you disappear. We are the club that supports our members in numerous ways! Here are just a few…
-We purchase, read, and review our fellow member books that are listed in the catalog.
-We promote our fellow members and their books on social media, just as hard as we promote ourselves.
-We promote our members with interviews via our RAVE WAVES Talk Radio Shows for RRBCmembers only. Books are always being purchased during those interviews!
-We keep our fellow members lifted and promoted even when they can’t promote themselves (in the event of personal emergencies, illness, etc.)
-We have a hard-working Tweet Support Team, promoting our members and their books daily.
-At RRBC, we believe that “each one should teach one,” therefore, we don’t compete against each other. We lift as we climb.
There are so many more awesome ways that being a member of RRBC has benefitted me and I would love to share them all with you. Have questions? Just ask me!
RRBC is such a fun place to belong! We’re not just about books, you know, we’re also about making beneficial connections and lifelong friendships!
Today, Monday, 11/15 through Wednesday, 11/17 are our Recruitment Days and when you join, please list my name on your membership application as the person who referred you, as I’ll get a special prize! You can join here > RaveReviewsBookClub.wordpress.com/rrbc-join-renew
If you have specific questions regarding membership, please reach out to Paula, our Club Personal Asst! She’s awesome!
I hope to see you on the other side of membership soon and your books in the catalog!
Thank you for sharing this page to your social media platforms for me!
The WEP Winners have been announced. The competition was stiff as always. I am so thankful to be writing in a challenge where writers (most of us are Authors) pour their hearts out six times a year in each prompt and then help those that participated by critiquing and giving encouragement.
The WEP makes a difference in my life as a writer.
Thanks, WEP Team, for consistently presenting us with great prompts that bring out the best in us.
I have inserted the names of all of the authors with the link to each of their stories below. Those of you who take the time to read them will not regret it. These authors deliver first-class short stories.
Was there no mercy for a child of nine years who, unlike others, was brought up in a home that had spoken a different language than English? Black skin, nappy hair that a fine-tooth comb couldn’t even go through, the child’s place was to listen and obey, but what if she didn’t understand?
Born in 1797 in upstate New York, if she had known the torment she would endure at nine years of age after being separated from her family, she probably would have cursed the day she was born and died.
Purchased by a family who spoke no Dutch, the girl spoke no English. Her owners, infuriated at her lack of English, beat the language into her with rods and leather. She was not a person for them but an unruly, disobedient piece of property that did not understand and therefore could not follow orders. She became an It.
For It, lashings became a way of life; the beatings hurt and left intolerable bruises. But It found freedom in the God her masters sang about. Later, whenever they beat her, she would pray aloud, hoping the God she had come to believe in would rescue her from the torture. He did.
Sold to a tavern owner, she went to live in a bar and house of prostitution. The beatings stopped. Here, she saw the cruelties against women and the ruthlessness of men. She discovered her voice, and it dawned on her that she was not an It but a woman, a human being.
Unfortunately, her owner sold her. Her respite in the bar only lasted one and a half years. The pause gave her time to refuel and strengthen herself for the unknown brutality that awaited her in the future. Being denied the right to marry the father of her firstborn child because a neighboring plantation owner owned him and opposed the marriage, due to the fact the newborn would not be his property, she had to marry a slave owned by her new master, an older man who impregnated her four times.
On July 4, 1827, the state of New York issued its own Emancipation Proclamation and freed all slaves, but the woman who had endured so many hardships, and maintained her toughness, and her faith in the good of humanity was already free and had already started seeking to find her thirteen children––the children she had borne that were taken away and sold into slavery.
During the Great Spiritual Awakening, she had a life-changing experience, which would change the way she lived and changed her name. This woman became a friend of the progressive Quakers; she spoke out for the Civil War, recruited black men to fight for the Union, worked in government refugee camps for freed slaves, and spoke out for women’s rights.
She made her most famous speech in 1851 at the Ohio Women’s Rights Convention, held in Akron, Ohio. Let’s hear the address from the woman herself:
***
Ain’t I a woman
“Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that ‘twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what’s all this here talking about?
That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain’t I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain’t I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man – when I could get it – and bear the lash as well! And ain’t I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain’t I a woman?
Then they talk about this thing in the head; what’s this they call it? [member of audience whispers, “intellect”] That’s it, honey. What’s that got to do with women’s rights or negroes’ rights? If my cup won’t hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn’t you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?
Then that little man in black there, he says women can’t have as much rights as men, ’cause Christ wasn’t a woman! Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.
If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.
Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain’t got nothing more to say.”
***
Three days after Thanksgiving, on November 26, 1883, on a wintry, cold day in Michigan, this woman completed her mission at eighty-six years of age. She took flight. Isabella Baumfree, better known as Sojourner Truth, born and raised in slavery, died a free woman and Walked On!
Wishing all of you a lovely month. I hope to see you in October.
There are so many benefits to attending Writers’ conferences. They offer writers the opportunity to get to know and relate to others, and the RRBC’s 6th Annual Writers’ Conference & Book Expo, is no exception. Here you will meet new people, greet old friends, and get acquainted with the latest works by authors you know and love to read.
There will be games, prizes, surprises, and other goodies, so be sure to visit each Author Booth, take a look around, then leave a comment for your chance to win each Author Booth’s door prize!
There is a Scavenger Hunt Game to play, a 2 Truths & a Lie Game to play, and more! In each Author Booth, you will find a clue, and if you find the correct answer to all the clues and are the first to submit your answers, you could be the winner of an awesome prize!
Of course, we’ll have our READING ROOM open, and one of our members is going to blow you away showcasing their talent!
If you’re into BINGO, purchase your BINGO cards and join us for a game or two!
And what we all wait for every year – our RAFFLE! Yes, each year, we raffle off (7) $100 Amazon gift cards, and this is open to the public, so go on and snag your tickets today! Raffle tickets are only $5! How awesome would that prize be? Some of them also include additional goodies like other gift certificates, ebooks, and more! Enter for your chance to win one or more of these $100 Amazon gift card gift baskets. The more tickets you buy, the greater your chances of winning. (Please do not purchase more than 7 tickets).
This year for the first time ever, we’ve added our BEST BOOK COVER CONTEST! This contest is open to the general public, so go ahead and enter your book cover(s) now! Share your comments with us, and let us know which one you think is best!
Don’t forget the venue opens at 5 PM(CST) TODAY. We hope to see you there! In the event of minor time delays, please check the sidebar of the RRBC website for updates.
As they say in the Deep South, I’ll see y’all there!
Sometimes life is not fair; it is messy. You enter a transition phase that throws you into outer darkness.
At these moments in my life, the God I believe in dapples my way with splinters of light. These splinters are tiny pieces of hope and come primarily from two organizations where my writing is showcase or self-publish. One of these groups of authors is simply called The WEP (Write, Edit, and Publish).
I have been writing for them for almost eight years. They have seen me crawl through the quagmire of my mind to find the essence of my writing voice, and this entire community of writers strengthens my hope when I need it.
So today, I say thank you for the GREAT WAVE TEAM CHOICE AWARD, an award that I will cherish. The price of becoming an author is never easy, but it is times like these that make it well worth it.
Here is the link to the Great Wave Winners’ Page and the announcement of the award given to me.
It is also worth taking the time to read some of these authors. They are a fabulous group of writers. The links to all the stories are posted here below.
The man worked hard. He and his three sons hammered and pitched each wooden plank together. Sure, people thought he was crazy, but that didn’t disturb him. He closed his ears to what others said. If he were honest, and he was, he didn’t give a hoot. He hadn’t made it so far in life by seeking the approval of others.
The other day his sons had informed him that the neighbors thought he was insane. He had laughed and told his sons to get to work before he fired them. After all, he was not only their father but their employer. No one would give them the amount of money for the kind of work they did for him. They had no choice.
The father gazed down at the oldest son, looking up at the sun, and the old man thought about the discussion they had had the night before. His sons thought he was a daydreamer and had invited a lawyer to his house without his permission. Their excuse for not telling him had him laughing. They wanted to rattle his brain.
After talking with him, the lawyer said that declaring their father as insane wouldn’t work. Besides, the majority of the judges knew him too well as that no-nonsense man that spoke what he thought.
The sons’ wives were outraged, shouting they had become the laughing stock of the whole town, maybe the whole world. They were sick and tired of people pointing fingers at them. So, what, the old man said when they had tried to explain what it meant to them not to be among the popular crowd they considered their friends. Come to my house for tea, my wife would enjoy your company, he’d answered back.
***
The temperature had risen to forty degrees Celsius. The oldest son went to get a water bottle. As he passed his brothers, their accusatory looks felt like knives in his back. He had promised that he would speak with their father alone, once more.
He grabbed a bottle of water and went in the direction of his father. His father had turned to sit, his head hung down in his bosom. Oh my, the oldest son thought. The old man has died from the heat. He almost screamed help, but his father moved his head with a strange gaze and looked upward into the sun.
“Were you taking a little nap, father?” He asked.
“No, I was listening. I got further instructions,” the old man said.
The oldest son shook his head. “Father, there is no God who talks to people. You’re making us think you’re crazy.”
“No, I’m not crazy, my son,” said the old man. “You are.”
“So, what did he tell you this time?” The eldest son asked sarcastically.
“The animals will come on the boat tomorrow. He’ll bring them here. We have to put the feed and everything else in the ship tonight. “
“Father, I want you to stop this foolishness right now,” the oldest son screamed.
The old man stood. “You and your brothers get to work. We have a lot to do before the animals come and get your wives prepared to leave, and don’t forget to bring the food rations I told you to gather.”
By the afternoon of the following day, the boat was ready to be filled. Suddenly noises from the forest neared. The animals were there, and they stood in pairs and walked peacefully into the ship. Some went on the first level, others to the second level, and the birds flew up to the third level.
“Come, Woman,” said the old man to his wife.
The three sons gazed at their wives and shrugged. The middle son said, “Let’s pacify him. He’ll never believe the foolishness he’s put us all through until we go into the boat and sit with him for an hour or two. . “In fact, if we do that,” the son rationed, “it’ll be easy to get him qualified as incompetent and incapable of conducting his own affairs.” He chuckled. “This ark is our proof.”
All three brothers and their wives followed the old man and his wife into the ark.
As soon as they were inside this big belly of an ark, they heard the mighty roar of wind; a loud bang shut the door. Locked inside, with shock on their faces, they turned to look at their father.
“How did you do that? Open that door right now!” the oldest son yelled.
“I didn’t do anything. If you want to open the door, do it yourself. I’m going up on the third deck to have my dinner with my wife.”
As their father took to the stairs, the pitter-patter sounds of rain hit against the ship’s broad side.
“What’s that noise?” Asked the youngest son.
His father stopped midway and turned. “That’s the rain, my son, that you all thought wouldn’t come.
The old man, Noah, stayed in the ark for three hundred and sixty-four days, and the greatest flood that ever was and ever will be swept across the face of the earth.
————————————————————————————————————-
Thank you for reading. Have a lovely June/July. I’ll see you in August.
It’s my pleasure to feature today, author Liza Kirazian. Lisa is a very supportive member of the Rave Reviews Book Club. Please be sure to leave a comment below to ensure that you have a chance at winning a $20 Amazon Gift Card!
Appassionato (The Music We Made—Book 2)
Appassionato, Book Two of “The Music We Made” series, continues the passionate story of the next generation of the Driscoll family of musicians as Jenny Driscoll, a composer and conductor, navigates her personal and professional life in London in the 1990’s.
Author’s Bio
Lisa Kirazian writes fiction, plays, screenplays, and also directs for stage and screen.
Her writing has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Performing Arts Magazine, San Diego Union Tribune and in many other publications. She is in demand as a speaker and has been a guest on KPBS/NPR Public Radio and at various conferences. Lisa is…
Don’t ever say that History cannot be corrected. Where there is a will, there is a way. The second edition of Our Lady Of Victory by Author Shirley Harris Slaughter has been released. It has many new updates on this historic church that will interest many.
Blurb:
This is a second edition with updates on the state of this historic church. In the original publication files were lost then resurfaced with content altered along with missing photos during transition from one publisher to another. Such is the fate of an Independent Author.
This book evolved out of years of frustration at the total disregard and lack of respect for the contributions of Black Catholics in the city of Detroit. The author says, “We are not mentioned in the pages of history along with the other Catholic churches that sprung up during the World War II era, and that needed to be corrected.” The author did fulfill one dream since publication … that this church can now be found on the web even though it has merged with another church. It is now called Presentation-Our Lady of Victory Catholic Church.
Good Morning Everyone,
Today is Day 11 of the RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour. Author Nonnie Jules presents herself by putting her thoughts in poetic prose.
Enjoy.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Good Morning Everyone,
We’re into Day 10 of the RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour. Today’s story features Author Joy Nwosu Lo-Bamijoko. She’s written an engaging tale that you will enjoy.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Good Morning Everyone,
Today is Day 9 of the RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour. A new excellently written story greets you, Authored by Wendy J. Scott. Read and enjoy.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Good Morning Everyone,
This is Day 8 of the RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour and here is an encouraging story that will lift up your Monday.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Welcome to the 2020 WATCH“RWISA”WRITE Showcase Tour!
Featured Author for Monday, 11/16/20…
RWISAAuthor, PTL Perrin!
“SUNSET”
Eden backed her Boston Whaler, Eden’s End, away from the dock, swung her nose into the current and gave the outboard a little gas. Still in the no-wake zone, her granddaughter hung over the side near the stern and trailed her hand in the water.
“Leigh, a shark’s gonna bite that thing right off.”
“No, it won’t. See the dolphins alongside?” She pointed her dripping finger at a pair of breeching dolphins. “Everyone knows they protect folks from sharks.”
Eden shook her head, grinned, and watched the sleek bodies leap through gray water until the pod outdistanced them. She’d never heard of a shark this far up the intracoastal, but she enjoyed teasing Leigh, even if the girl didn’t like it much. Besides, she wouldn’t have to put up with…
Good Afternoon Everyone,
The RWISA WRITES Showcase is in its sixth day. Today Harriet Hodgson is being featured. She is an author that has a story to tell.
Please take the time and read her remarkable heartwarming story.
Welcome to the 2020 WATCH“RWISA”WRITE Showcase Tour!
Featured Author for Saturday, 11/14/20…
RWISA Author, Harriet Hodgson!
“UNLEASHING THE ADVOCACY WARRIOR”
My husband and I live in a retirement community that has a continuum of care. He is paraplegic and I have been his caregiver since 2013. Several months ago, my husband was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. A bone scan showed the cancer had spread to many parts of his body. As my husband became weaker, I realized I needed help to care for him.
Now my husband is in a rehabilitation unit. Unfortunately, COVID-19 prevents me from seeing him. I live on the 18th floor of the high-rise and my husband lives on the third floor. We are near each other, yet so far away. Being apart from each other made us feel stressed, frustrated, and down.
Good Morning Everyone,
Another intriguing author, Linnea Tanner, and an excerpt from one of her stories on the fourth day of RWISA WRITES Showcase Tour.
Take a few minutes and enjoy this wonderful tale.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Good Morning Everyone,
For the next eleven days, RWISA will be featuring their writers in a showcase.
Come and get to know some of the best authors that we have in the world. They are not only magnificent authors but they are awesome people.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat Garcia
Newt Heisley, with the POW/MIA flag he designed. (Copyright Don Jones Photography)
*Heisley planned to add color to the black-and-white image, but those ideas were dropped
Article by Marc Leepson.
You see it everywhere—the stark, black-and-white POW/MIA flag—flying in front of VA hospitals, post offices and other federal, state and local government buildings, businesses and homes. It flaps on motorcycles, cars and pickup trucks. The flag has become an icon of American culture, a representation of the nation’s concern for military service personnel missing and unaccounted for in overseas wars.
From the Revolution to the Korean War, thousands of U.S. soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors have been taken prisoner or gone missing. But it took the Vietnam War—and a sense of abandonment felt by wives and family members of Americans held captive—to bring forth what has evolved into the nation’s POW/MIA symbol.
The tingling of Jingle Bells heard on the streets,
Hurried, stressed, shopping,
Goose, turkey, deer, lamb or fish on the table,
That bring indigestion,
Overeating that deadens the guilty pull of our consciences,
Blinding us to the fact that over half the world is starving.
We get up from our tables,
With our plates still full of what we did not eat.
Christmas,
The celebration that has been taken over by our arrogance
Has been willfully dissected down to a small dot over the i to meet our emotional needs for belonging.
Our demands are for autonomy that separates us from the Creator who made us, demanding recognition as self-made men and women.
The virgin birth quietly disdained.
The God-Man ridiculed for such an unpopular entrance.
Unbelievable, we say.
His birth abhorred.
The Savior downgraded.
Christmas,
It’s about humiliation,
Believing in the virgin birth of the God-Man who upset the world.
Time changed from Before Christ to Anno Domini
And Salvation,
That dirty word that people seldom hear,
But when heard too often denied,
Opened the door to righteousness for all.
Though rejected by many, Love prevails.
Not in the gifts bought in department stores,
Not in the glamour of cosmetics, jewelry, or face-lifts,
Not in diamonds, silver, or gold,
Not in bonds, securities, puts, or calls,
Not in Christmas trees or cradles,
Not in boats, cars, planes, or trains,
That transport us away from the diffusion of our congregated confusion.
Christmas exists,
Because God took it upon himself to offer up the One sacrifice that would save us all.
Now Heaven’s gates are opened to all who believe.
That’s Christmas.
For God so loved the World that He gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16, The New International Version 1984 (NIV), Zondervan
Merry Christmas everyone,
Joyeux Noël à tous
Fröhliche Weihnachten an alle,
Buon Natale a tutti
It is the sixth day of December, and I am catching up after a month of NaNo (National Novel Writing Month) and three lovely days attending an online writers’ conference and book expo by RRBC from the first of December until the third of December. I now look forward to getting back into my routine.
Thanks to everyone who cheered me on during the month of November. I wrote 63,036 words on the third book of my series. Revision will start sometime next year.
Her refusal to bow down to a system that degraded people of color made her a Pariah.
She raised twelve children from different nationalities.
No one mentions the hardships of this StrongBlackWoman in the history books.
A woman who refused to bow down to a Jim Crow system.
Very few Americans talk about her.
She sang and danced,
And she spied for the French Resistance.
She became the first woman of color to star in a major motion picture production.
She defied the system.
In her own way, she challenged the erroneous lies promulgated by a nation.
Her departure from her country caused many people to breathe easier;
Some even said good riddance to this dancing woman who dared to dance at the Folies Bergères clothed in bananas.
Her banana dance was considered scandalous to the puritanical thinking bred in her country.
She helped save a nation.
Not the nation of her birth, but the nation of the people who adopted her in their hearts.
That same woman became a French Citizen and was buried in the Cimetière de Monaco.
She was the first and only American woman to receive full military honors for her funeral.
Born in Saint Louis, Missouri, in 1906, this Black Woman, an African-American, Freda Josephine McDonald, alias Josephine Baker is known as The Black Pearl.
It feels good to be back. I have not posted anything from myself on my Walk On Blog in ages, and it is about time that I started posting again.Once a month, I will feature women we have forgotten about as I have done in the past on this blog and also share some of my poetry.
Today, a revised version of a poem I released on Esther Newton’s Blog for one of her Weekly Writing Challenges.
Politics by Pat Garcia
My heart weeps.
Years filled with murder.
Women, children,
Old, young, dying,
My heart weeps.
Freedom, the way to live,
Dictators wanted,
Greed unquieted,
Power boosted,
Suppression of others routine,
And my heart weeps.
The best way, my way,
The right way, only my way,
People seen as dogs, infidels,
Breathing air, their air,
And my heart weeps.
Down through the Ages,
Past and now present,
The spirit of confusion, hatred, and death arises.
Turning men into war mongers,
Nations into furnaces,
Knives kill,
Like arrows diving pointedly into the soul,
Guns shoot,
Bombs explode,
Men, women, children die,
And my heart weeps.
Politics play,
Leaders encouraging each other,
As blood spills and soaks the ground,
The pavement,
The floor,
And my heart weeps.
Autonomy?
Monarchy?
Communism?
Socialism?
Democracy, what?
Socio-Marxism?
Dictator, ah what?
Strange bedfellows,
Do they understand?
People sent out to kill,
My heart weeps,
Listening has disappeared,
Only the cry of death can be heard,
As the politicians play the games called politics.
I’m calling you Wisdom,
Cause my heart weeps.
No one has ears to hear,
Eyes to see,
Blinded by their own greed, ambition.
They say my way is the best way,
And my heart weeps.
Shall I run,
Shall I stand,
Shall I proclaim how unique; how irreplaceable life really is?
Does no one see,
Does no one hear the wailing,
Of the child
The woman,
The man,
Oh, my heart weeps.
Yes, they sit there,
The politicians
Playing politics like a game of chess.
The men,
The women in the cabinets of this world,
Chic, but unwise,
Applauding their elite status yet knowing nothing,
For all of the writers pondering over the feasibility of writing, here are some words of encouragement from 777 Peppermint Place.
Have a great week.
Shalom,
Patricia
History is repeating itself. The age of Humanism is slowly marching off the world stage, but what comes next? Precedent historical repetition says that sooner or later another nation will rise. After all, the human race has lived through the rise and fall of many great nations. History is repeating itself.
The situation among the cultures is precarious. The Iron Curtain is slowly rising out of its sleep and finding its home among nations that want to protect their economy and the pure ethnicity of their race. Cultural diversity is leaving the stage. History is repeating itself.
The rudimentary ordinances of nature are being disobeyed. What was once one plus one equals two is now one plus one equals whatever makes you feel good. History is repeating itself.
Over one million people are on the run. The number of people who have died so far on the ground, in airplanes, in the seas is heartbreaking. Men talked, yet children cry, children die, women cry, women die. History is repeating itself.
In every corner of the world, there is tumult. Philosophical antagonism demands closed borders. An antagonism based on supremacy, it has plummeted us even nearer to a world war. It enacts to dominate, to make all men and women think alike. This antagonism has no mercy, no understanding, and no love. History is repeating itself.
“What are you doing, Child?” The Prophet asked.
“Watching the New Year come in over the earth.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“No, it’s not nice Prophet. It’s sad.”
“Why, Child. What do you see?”
“In every corner, I see children starving, women crying, human life wasted. Prophet, don’t people ever read about the past?”
The woman was heavy laden with child, and her husband looked at her with concern. Of course, he had to go. The census was mandatory. As he regarded his wife, he knew the journey would not be easy.
What is a few hundred miles or kilometers today? Catch a train to Hamburg from Frankfurt, Germany, and you arrive in four and a half hours, a plane ride from Augusta to Atlanta, Georgia is fifty-five minutes. However, this man did not have these comforts. His Mercedes-Benz was a donkey.
He observed his wife as he pondered over the trip ahead. Leaving her behind was not a consideration; in her was the hope of the nations, the salvation of the human race, and a shiver went through him as he thought of what could happen ahead. Thieves and robbers on the route and a desert where the temperature dropped at night were between the two cities, and ninety miles on a donkey was not a one-day ride. He figured he might be able to travel 10 miles a day, but even that would be hard considering that she was heavily pregnant with child.
Today the significance of this event has been revised; the hardship erased. The importance of this Child’s birth has fallen into abnormality.
Soon, it is Christmas.
For me personally, it is the time when I reflect backward to that birth in Bethlehem with Thanksgiving in my heart.
His birth changed History;
His birth changed my life and gave me a vision with purpose;
The Son of God came to earth so that I could have the right to be accepted in the Beloved.
A Civil War founded upon religious beliefs and how people should live has spread itself to the European Continent. What happened in Paris, France, was a battle, and an act of war carried out by the Islamic State. That we refused to take the declaration of war seriously in 2014 has resulted in the mass, willful, killing of innocent people, which took place on Friday, the thirteenth of November.
Religion, which oppresses, is like a dictatorship suppressing the inalienable rights of each individual who lives under its umbrella. Unfortunately, these inalienable rights, known as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are also echoed by these totalitarian societies, but they are interpreted differently, and the cultural upbringing displays a life we people in the West are not accustomed to––freedom and individual development find itself caught on the blind side of life.
Hopefully, revelation has broken through the thick skull of false reality we have let descend upon us, and our eyes have been opened to see that not everyone think as we think, act as we act, and desire to live as we live. If this were true, the Islamic State would not exist.
Unfortunately, this clarity is too late for those people who lost their lives in Paris, France on that dreadful evening.
Morning Everyone,
Aunty Acid is at it again. I love her wisdom on dealing with the obstacles of life, especially when you’re thrown a curve ball. So whatever life throws at you today, duck so it hits someone else. You don’t have to stand there and take it. You don’t have to start your week out with negativity. So duck and keep walking.
I don’t know when it happen, but I remember reading the MONDAY FUNNIES, one morning and bursting out with laughter. I was hooked on the funnies. Laughter is not typical for me before eleven a.m. If you ask the people very close to me, they will tell you, Pat is usually unapproachable before eleven.
Honestly, as a writer, I find myself experiencing highs and lows. It’s a writer madness that takes hold and motivates me to write what I see as I write about the world I live in during the early morning hours.
Thus, Chris Graham’s, CHRIS THE STORY READING APE’S BLOG has become a necessity in my life. It touches the humor within me, and laughter comes bubbling out.
Recently, Andrew Joyce, an author, sent out a dare, a seventy-nine-words dare to writers and it has been running on Chris’s blog as the Seventy-Nine-Words Story Challenge. Each week, stories are chosen as the best submitted. This week, one of my stories from The Child and The Prophet (a W.I.P.) was among the ones chosen and to be very honest with you that makes me happy.
To read my story and the stories of the other participants, please go to the link below. It’s only 79 words, and drop a line on Chris’s blog and let him know you were there and me too, of course.
Newt Heisley, with the POW/MIA flag he designed. (Copyright Don Jones Photography)
Walk On 
Viewpoint: A Commentary on Christmas
patgarcia ♦ December 22, 2015 ♦ 10 Comments
The woman was heavy laden with child, and her husband looked at her with concern. Of course, he had to go. The census was mandatory. As he regarded his wife, he knew the journey would not be easy.
What is a few hundred miles or kilometers today? Catch a train to Hamburg from Frankfurt, Germany, and you arrive in four and a half hours, a plane ride from Augusta to Atlanta, Georgia is fifty-five minutes. However, this man did not have these comforts. His Mercedes-Benz was a donkey.
He observed his wife as he pondered over the trip ahead. Leaving her behind was not a consideration; in her was the hope of the nations, the salvation of the human race, and a shiver went through him as he thought of what could happen ahead. Thieves and robbers on the route and a desert where the temperature dropped at night were between the two cities, and ninety miles on a donkey was not a one-day ride. He figured he might be able to travel 10 miles a day, but even that would be hard considering that she was heavily pregnant with child.
Today the significance of this event has been revised; the hardship erased. The importance of this Child’s birth has fallen into abnormality.
Soon, it is Christmas.
For me personally, it is the time when I reflect backward to that birth in Bethlehem with Thanksgiving in my heart.
His birth changed History;
His birth changed my life and gave me a vision with purpose;
The Son of God came to earth so that I could have the right to be accepted in the Beloved.
Merry Christmas to you,
Buon Natale a te,
Joyeux Noël à toi,
Frohe Weihnachten zu Ihnen,
Feliz Navidad a usted.
Shalom Aleichem,
Pat Garcia
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