#samplesunday Lessons From The Sparrow - A short story

Pulling the faded green sweater closer around my thin shoulders I shivered slightly. The office was cold. Perhaps Dr. Burgess had turned down the thermostat, hoping the cold would somehow distract me from the words he was saying. He was still talking, but my mind wandered away from him. Away from the cold office to another time. Another place.

"Did I ever tell you the story about the Sparrow, Dr. Burgess?"

"Ms. Caroll. . .no. No, you didn't."

I smiled at him across the desk top as my thoughts continued to wander back seventy two years.

# # #

"Mary Elizabeth!"

Mother's voice was shrill and the use of both names told me I was in deep trouble.

"What'd you do, Mary?" Jimmy Lee whispered, his eyes growing huge as only a six year old's can. Like me, he knew both names meant mom was really mad. Not just stand you in the corner mad, but really mad.

Standing outside my bedroom door I listened to mom mumbling to herself. "This child is going to be the death of me."

"Oh, no." I whispered glancing sideways at Jimmy Lee. "Bobber."

Opening the door I stepped inside, my gaze going to the shoe box in the middle of my bed. Mom stood on the opposite side of the room, hands on her hips, eyes glaring as her nostrils flared. Her flaming red hair, much like my own, seemed to stand on edge. Another indication her Irish temper was flaring out of control. Picking up the box I glanced at the tiny brown bird inside. His head was still bobbing up and down. He was still alive.

"He flew into the window." I stated, my own temper starting to flare. "We named him Bobber, because his head keeps bobbing up and down. See?"

I held the box out so she could look inside, believing that the sight of Bobber's little head going up and down would melt her heart, like it had melted mine.

"You know birds have lice and they carry disease. Now you take that bird outside right this minute and you bury it."

"Mom, he isn't dead yet!"

She sighed, jerking the bedspread from my rumpled bed. "Well, he's almost dead. Or at the very least he's dying. It'd be a kind thing for you to do, Mary Carroll."

"Would you bury me if I wasn't dead, mommy?" Jimmy Lee stared at her, eyes huge, face pale.

"Of course not, honey, but you're not a bird."

"God made the birds too, mom." I whispered, horrified that my own mother would contemplate such a thing. I watched as emotions flittered across her face. Anger, frustration, and finally acceptance. I knew I had her. She couldn't argue with God.

"Okay, but get it out of your room."

Grabbing Jimmy by the hand I took the box outside and placed drops of water along Bobber's tiny beak. He managed to swallow a few drops.

"Can we take him to the vet, Mary?"

"I don't think so, Jimmy. I don't have enough money."

"How much does it cost?"

"More than two dollars, and that's all I've got."

Jimmy glanced into the box, a huge tear clinging to the edge of his eyelashes. "Gosh, that's a lot."

The tiny head continued to bob up and down as if he had pounding headache. I could tell he was suffering.

"Mom's right, you know. I should probably go ahead and kill him." My voice quivered as hot tears ran down my face.

"If I were a man I'd do it for you."

Jimmy wiped at his own tears and I hugged him. "I know you would."

Forgetting about the lice and diseases I picked Bobber up in my hand and his head stopped bobbing. My closeness seemed to comfort him.

"You know the sparrow was the bird that stayed around Jesus when he was on the cross." I smiled at Jimmy as I sat down crossed legged on the grass.

"Really?" Jimmy asked, joining me in the grass.

"Yep. This is a very special bird."

Jimmy scooted closer and placed an arm around my shoulder. "He likes it when you hold him."

"Yeah, it seems to make him feel better. He knows he's not alone. " Sighing I stroked the small head. "Well, little bird it's up to you and God now. You have to choose. No one has the right to make that choice for you."

I held him until he stopped breathing. Jimmy and I buried him under the old oak tree in the front yard. We both felt good. Bobber didn't die alone, and he made the decision, not us. That moment set the pace for the next 72 years of my life. I'd learned a lot from that little sparrow.

# # #

"Ms. Carroll?"

Coming back to the present I reached across the desk and squeezed Dr. Burgess' hand gently. He was such a nice young man. Seemed like as I got older the doctors kept getting younger. And he seemed to be taking this so personally. Almost as if somehow my illness was his fault.

"Ms. Carroll, did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

Dr. Burgess sighed, standing up and coming around the desk. "Is there someone with you?"

"Why, yes. My granddaughter is in the waiting room."

"Would you mind waiting here just a minute? I'd like to talk with her."

I listened as they whispered outside the door. He was afraid I hadn't understood. I understood just fine. I was old, not senile. My cancer was growing at a rapid rate. Maybe six months, no longer.

"Grandma, are you ready to go home now?" Mary Carol, my namesake, looked at me through teary eyes.

"Yes, I'd like that." Grabbing my walker I stood up and started the slow process of making it from the office out the front door to the car.

Mary Carol was quiet all the way to the car and the short ride home. I knew she was hurting. Thinking about my death. My funeral. Well, I wasn't dead yet.

"How's art school?" I asked to break the silence.

"Oh, I don't know, Grandma. I was thinking of dropping out and coming home. Maybe it was all just a dream. I mean, there are too many great artists out there already."

"Did I ever tell you the story about the sparrow?"

Mary Carol grinned. "Yes, Grandma, you did. About a hundred times."

"Well, Mary Carol, you remember it. Don't you go burying things before they're dead. Not dreams and not people. Life is everlasting. People die and babies are born every day. Dreams never die. Unless you let them."

She looked at me thoughtfully. I knew for the first time the true meaning of the story had come out for her. Pulling into the driveway she parked the car and hugged me. "I won't forget, Grandma."

The old house looked comfortable. In my eighty years I'd lived many dreams there. The sparrow had taught me never to bury anything before it died. Not dreams, not people, not things. I snorted remembering the doctor's words. Six months, no longer. Made up my mind right then and there I'd live at least eight just to show him I could.

My gaze drifted to the ancient oak in the front yard. "Look, Mary Carol, the sparrows are nesting. We'll have babies soon."

Author Interview - Trine Daely - "Life Games"

A collection of poetry written over a span of dark years in my life, sometimes with hope for the future, sometimes without. I wrote about the images in my dreams, my daydreams, my nightmares - think of it as a verbal expression of a painting in my brain, with all the variations you would expect from colorful to minimalist, strict verse to free verse.

This is the journal of my dark travails as I came to accept the impending death of my mother, who passed away when I was sixteen, less than a month after my grandmother. I had been watching this happen since I was six, but coming to grips with the reality of it was something I had difficulty expressing until I started writing poetry.

Along that walk love was found, lost, found again, trust trampled, life expanded. I found my way through and learned to live again, trust again, and more importantly, to trust in myself. Here, I share that with you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Good morning everyone. Today it's my pleasure to have with me Trine Daely, a poet with just a little bit of a dark side. Of course, that appeals to me as I have my own dark side which is often reflected in my writing. I hope you enjoy the interview, and I hope you take some time to visit Trine's blogs, website and download a sample of her book. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

LP: Good morning, Trine. Why don't you tell us a little about yourself? Where you live now, and where you grew up.

TD: Hmm, that might be revealing a bit much. Suffice it to say I grew up down south, saw my share of hurricanes, and moved to the Midwest less than a decade ago. I'm a single mom, my daughter can be very challenging and time-demanding, so forgive me if I don't get written stuff out there as fast as everyone else seems to. The cat is spazzy, the fish are friendly. We're a strange household.

LP: Actually sounds rather normal to me. Having been a single mother myself, only our fish were spazzy and the cat was friendly. Do you feel that the environment you were raised in has any effect on your writing and your choice of genre?

TD: Definitely. I was raised in a house full of books, and got hooked on Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King early, so even when I try to write a piece of any kind with lightness, there's always a bit of a shadow over it.

LP: Cool! Some of my favorite authors, and shadows can be very enticing. When and why did you begin writing?

TD: Young, maybe nine or ten when I really started with short stories, about eleven when I started writing poetry. As to why, I guess all the questions and rages I had about and at the universe had to go somewhere.

LP: Wow, that's very profound. You learned early to channel your feelings into words, and words into written context to express your feelings. I would consider that an early gift. So what inspired you to take that huge first step and self-publish your book?

TD: Putting my writing out there for people to read is something I've wanted to do for years, but poetry is a bit of a niche item. Legacy publishing does not seem to devote a lot of their time and attention to it, so seeing the opportunity to get it out myself was a wonderful thing.

LP: I totally agree, and I think there are millions of readers who truly enjoy poetry. Do you have any plans to try your hand at a different type of novel in the future?

TD: Certainly. I doubt I'll do anything with my small backlog of short stories, but I have an entire future world that's been running around in my brain since I was about thirteen, and I'm finally writing down the lives of those I see living there.

LP: That sounds like a fun journey. Is there a specific message in your poems that you'd like the reader to grasp?

TD: Am I trying to get some underlying idea to them? No. I'm not a read between the lines poet.

LP: Are any of your poems based on personal experience or real life issues?

TD: In some way all of them are. Some are just images from dreams that I've written down as poems, some are my version of story outlines, the (game #) ones came out of a challenge over a few games of Scrabble with a friend, some were written after a good bit of introspection. They're all pieces of me and my life.

LP: That's one of the things I love about poetry. Poets seem to have an ability to bring emotions to life and create wonderful images with simple words that take the reader into a dream of their own imagination. Each reader may feel, see or experience something different.

Do you have a specific writing style?

TD: I'm not altogether sure just yet.

LP: Still working on that, huh? I'm often wondered what I'm going to be when I grow up too. So, if you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

TD: Stephen King, he's got some great works about writing out there.

LP: There's no doubt about the fact that he's the book world's Elvis. What book are you reading now?

TD: Simon R. Green's “A Hard Day's Knight” has my full attention as a physical book at the moment, but it's not unusual for me to have a different book in each of several rooms and whatever room I'm in, that's the book I'm reading there. I also take my e-reader with me a lot so I always have plenty of things to choose from to read. Right now the Kindle is loaded with Valerie Douglas's “The Coming Storm.”

LP: Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest?

TD: I'm not sure if they would be considered “new” authors, but some of the more recent additions to my list of favorite authors are Kat Richardson and Kelly Gay. Always looking for more authors to enjoy.

LP: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your first book?

TD: I would have gotten someone much more tech-savvy than me to format it for everything. Put them in chronological order as best I could. Maybe added an “About the Author” section at the back with some links, too.

LP: All easy changes, even now. Another great benefit of Indie publishing. Are you currently working on a new book, and if so, can you share some of it with us?

TD: That would be the aforementioned future stories. Right now it's looking like it will be a set of novella length stories of different people in that strange and scarred future.

LP: I hope you'll come back when you're finished and tell us more about that. What is the most challenging part of writing your current work in progress?

TD: Finishing it! That and really digesting the feedback from my beta readers when they give it a good (though admittedly needed) kick. Your first reaction is always to protect your “baby,” so learning to swallow that and really listen to them as serious readers has been both challenging and enlightening.

LP: One of the hardest lessons each of us has to learn, but one well worth learning. Who are your favorite authors and what is it that really strikes you about their work?

TD: That's a long list. Beyond the ones I've already mentioned I'd add Patricia Cornwell, Jeffery Deaver, Laurell K. Hamilton, Kim Harrison, Dean Koontz, C. S. Friedman, Piers Anthony, Robert Heinlein, Janet Evanovich. I'm pretty sure I missed some.

What strikes me about the work of my favorites? Their characters and the world(s) they move in seem to exist on their own.

LP: I see a couple of my favorites there and I totally agree. Did you design your own cover, and if so, what inspired you to use that image?

TD: The cover of Life Games started as a photo of the foot (paw?) of a lion statue in front of an abandoned building. For whatever reason, those statues (and others like them) fascinate me. The next cover will also feature the same lion statue from a different angle.

LP: Do you have any advice for other writers?

TD: Keep writing, keep reading, listen to your readers, connect with others. Actually I have no idea what to say to other writers in general, everyone is different, and while I've been writing for myself for years, I'm very new to the indie book industry. I've found some very interesting people among my fellow authors already. Great bunch of folks.

LP: I think that's one of the most amazing things about the Indie industry. I'm sure there's some of the "me" attitude out there, but it's the minority, not the majority. Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

TD: Thank you if you made this far, I hope you will join me on the future journeys. I wish you well and want you to know that I'm still new at this message to the readers stuff. I'll work on that, too.
*adds to list*

Thank you, Trine, for joining me today. I look forward to hearing more about your future works in progress. If you'd like to get to know Trine a little better, download her current work, or just stay in touch so you can see what she's doing in the future, visit the links below. Have a great day and Happy Reading!

http://www.facebook.com/Read.Trine.Daely
https://twitter.com/#!/TrineDaely
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55168
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Life-Games/Trine-Daely/e/2940012438911
http://www.amazon.com/Life-Games-ebook/dp/B004WWQA5G / http://www.amazon.co.uk/Life-Games/dp/B004WWQA5G

Tell Me A Story - A tribute to Poet Robert Penn Warren

As an author I truly appreciate the beauty of words. If you've read any of my poetry you've probably gathered that I'm not that great a poet. Occasionally something clicks for me and those moments are precious. Words are about passion, and poetry many times is passion at its best. Like the words of a beautiful love song they inspire us to greater heights. I, as an author, use words to weave stories. Stories of love, hate, fear, good and evil. My words aren't always subtle like the poets. And that perhaps is why I have always loved poetry.

Kentucky has had many great poets, and possibly some in the making right now. Robert Penn Warren caught my eye early on with the subtle messages weaved into his words. And if you've ever been to a poetry reading--they're amazing. To have someone read those lines of verse grasping the passion beneath the words.

I combined poetry and story in my second book because of my love of the art, and the passion in those short verses that say so much. Take the poem below, one of my favorites by Mr. Warren. As an author I immediately have a vision of this young man as he stands in the road. His passion to see the world, experience life as yet unknown. To write his story. Perhaps he is a young man in his early teens wanting to spread his wings. He knows there's a world out there. He can't see it, but he's heard about it. And his heart beats to fly into the adult world. Or perhaps he's a young man and war is going on, and he aches to join the fight. Either way you can feel the passion of this young man, standing on a dark country road, hearing the sounds of life in motion, and seasons changing. Or perhaps it is simply the opposite. A time when the Elderberry blooms. Mid-summer. Perhaps he was seeing the days slip by, moving much too fast toward the end of summer.

The ability for the reader to feel the passion, and place upon it their own feelings and emotions is part of the true beauty of these subtly written words.


Robert Penn Warren 1905 - 1989

Tell Me a Story

Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood
By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard
The great geese hoot northward.

I could not see them, there being no moon
And the stars sparse.I heard them.

I did not know what was happening in my heart.

It was the season before the elderberry blooms,
Therefore they were going north.

The sound was passing northward.



I hope you enjoyed my tribute to Robert Penn Warren. Look up his poetry, see what passion it inspires in you. Enjoy for this is National Poetry Month.

Some Monday Humor--WIP - More of The Road To Hell

There were a million questions running through my mind, but a subtle kind of peace had settled over me and Jolly, and the thoughts of that pack of Red's Best kept my smart ass mouth closed until we reached the corner.

An old woman was standing there, grey as me, and twice as ugly. If life had been cruel to her, death sure as hell wasn't treating her much better.

"There she blows. So, how do I clean her up?" She sure needed somebody to clean her up.

Now, I knew that last part hadn't been spoken out loud, but the old woman turned to face me.

"Ah, sweet Jesus."

"Where?" Jolly squelched, a look of sheer terror on his face.

"It's a figure of speech dumbass. Look at her. Dammit, Jolly, she's drooling." What a mess. How the hell was I supposed to clean her up?

Jolly recovered quickly, but he seemed to lose some of his bluster. Almost sounded sad, like he was hurting or something.

"That's not your soul. That's Molly."

"So, what's a Molly?" I asked, feeling uncomfortable as those empty sockets continued to stare me down.

"That's what happens to a soul if you fail."

I took a good long look at the old woman. "Shit."

"Exactly, Jake Savior. Fail to deliver your soul on time and he will wind up lost here forever, slowly going insane until he becomes nothing more than a demented drooling mess." Jolly paused for emphasis. "And you will wind up like me."

Now that was a sobering thought and should have been enough to shut me up. Momma always said I was the prettiest one in the family, just not the smartest.

"Well, Jolly," I slapped him on the back in good humor, "looks like my soul is a no-show. What say I clean up old Molly and we all go home?"

Damn, there's those red eyes again. Thankfully Jolly wasn't in the mood to burn me to cinders this time.

"It doesn't work that way. There's rules."

"Rules, huh?" Well that was something to think about. Wherever there were rules there was a way to break the rules. "So, we just gonna leave her here to rot? That don't seem quite fair, does it? I mean it ain't her fault whoever was supposed to clean her up failed."

Jolly didn't answer, but I could tell the thought appealed to him. I was getting to him.

"Your soul is about to arrive."

If you've ever visited Lexington you know that traffic never stops on New Circle. Anytime of night or day you can find a steady stream heading somewhere.

I glanced at the highway expecting to see cars collide any second. Instead what I saw was a kid on a skateboard headed straight for the middle of the street.

"Oh, hell no, Jolly. I don't do kids." Screaming I headed for the street. "Get off the road kid. What the hell's wrong with you?"

Jolly was yelling something behind me, but I couldn't hear him over the old woman's squawks. Wouldn't have made any difference anyway. I kept right on going screaming at the kid and waving my arms at the car. It passed right through me and I heard the sickening sound of metal against flesh, the screeching of wheels on wet pavement and finally total silence except for my own labored breathing. Jolly joined me in the street.

"Rule Number 1, you can't stop it."

"Anybody ever tell you your rules suck, Jolly?

"Rule Number 2, stay on the path. And Rule Number 3, don't lose the manual."

With that Jolly handed me a small leather book with the words Good Intentions burned into the leather binding.

"So what do I. . ." Shit. Jolly pulled a disappearing act right in front of my eyes.

Okie dokie, Jake old man, looks like you're on your own. At least I had the manual to tell me what to do. Opening it I found the first page was a map, golden streets leading straight to the Pearly Gates. Sweet.

The kid looked about six years old so I wasn't totally surprised. I mean, all kids went to Heaven didn't they? This gig was gonna be a piece of cake. Get the kid there quick, find Jolly and get my reward.

Turning the page I couldn't help grinning. Jolly had a sense of humor after all. Rule Number 4, don't break The Rules." Ah, Jolly, and I was just starting to like you.The third page wiped the grin off my face and was the final straw that broke the camel's back in convincing me God really did have a sense of humor. The words seemed to glow on the page, burning with an eerie blue flame. One more mocking reminder that if life ain't fair, death's even worse.

THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH GOOD INTENTIONS.

Writing - Character Development - Body Language and Show Don't Tell - Part Three

One of the things I love about writing these blogs is that I learn as much as I share. My approach is rather simple at times, but developing real life characters is as simple as watching those around you or a good TV show or movie. Profiling – the physical looks of your character, as well as their little ticks and quirks, and then adding the internal mental/emotional baggage to their persona.

Kentucky has a comedian that has always used real life episodes for his comedy. He can truly entertain you for hours as real life is often funnier than fiction. Of course, if we’re lucky few of us know serial killers or the “bad” guys/gals we write about. Or perhaps we do, and once again if we’re lucky we don’t become a part of their agenda.

I was watching Criminal Minds last night. It was an old show, and one I’ve seen before. But truthfully I’ve never really seen the killer in the light I saw him last night. The show opens with him in his house and his actions clearly show you in the first few minutes that he’s obsessive compulsive. Perhaps someone unfamiliar with obsessive compulsive order at first glance in the apartment would merely sum him up as a neat freak. But closer examination of his movements, the three turns of the door handle before opening it, the measured number of brushes with the tooth brush, the fanatical placing of items exactly as they were before he picked them up all point to something more than just neatness.

As I’ve been blogging on facial expressions I watched his this time. He has a look of innocence, and possibly a little “book wormish”. Not unattractive, but what some of us older people would have labeled “geekish” in our day. Even though I’d seen this show before I at first saw him as the victim (which if I remember correctly, he was a victim as a child, so perhaps that image wasn’t totally off). He leaves the apartment walking down the street and an older woman drops something as she’s getting into her car. He picks it up and gives it to her. A nice, quiet, helpful young man. And so polite. As I stated, he has a look of innocence, and also a look of skittishness. Not someone you would expect as confrontational.

He approaches a house for sale where he’s greeted by the realtor. This throws me in his character just a little, for this action requires a certain boldness. It’s broad daylight, and anyone could walk into this house at any time. He allows her to see the knife for just a moment before he moves in close, shoving the knife underneath her heart. Here his facial expression is truly a work of art. He closes his eyes, his head tilts back just a fraction, and a look of total satisfaction crosses his face. Perhaps sexual satisfaction, but the one thing you know for sure is something about shoving the knife into this woman relieved some inner need. An inner need so strong it was impossible for him to overcome it.

The woman stumbles away and he asks her in a voice that has just the right amount of innocence and curiosity – “Where are you going?”

He follows her as she stumbles into the living room and sits down on the couch. He isn’t too close, not threatening nor helping. He leans over her and looks into her eyes watching her die. Here once again his face is a painting of curiosity, as if he has no understanding of what he’s done, or the consequences of his actions.

My first thoughts—wow, a perfect killer and one no one would see coming. And even though you fear the character you also have just a little sympathy for him because you realize immediately this isn’t who he wants to be—it simply is what life has made him.

Profiling – your characters must fit your story in age, physical looks and internal emotional/mental baggage and/or needs. Work with them by watching others who have similar “needs”. Start with people you know describing them in ways that would probably surprise them, as well as may surprise you as you look underneath the physical persona. Keep a note pad by your side as you’re watching your favorite movie and profile the characters. Play with it and have fun. The next time you sit down to write I believe you’ll find your characters taking on new life.

Poetry - A Grandmother's Poem

I used this as the dedication in Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery. For 7 months I watched him grow, looked into his eyes on ultra-sounds, listened to the tiny beat of his heart. Just a moment in time.


To Caleb Gavin Fuson. Born December 7, 2008. Died December 7, 2008. A precious moment in time.

A GRANDMOTHER’S POEM

In just a short moment,
you became the softness
beneath my smile,

In just a short moment,
you became the twinkle
in my eyes,

In just a short moment,
you were my dreams
of the future,

The things we would do,
The things I would teach you,
The things you would teach me
In just a short moment we shared,
A lifetime of love,

And then you were gone,
To sleep with the angels.

Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery