What’s a quote that perfectly describes your outlook on life? ——————————-
”Light is not something you chase. It’s something you carry. My life is a slow, steady unfolding — and the light grows as I go.”
Here’s how I see my inner light, given to me as a gift from my Heavenly parents: It isn’t a spotlight demanding attention. It’s a lantern — quiet, steady, and deeply personal. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t rush. It simply glows, even on the days when I feel dim or uncertain. And the more I honor it, the brighter it becomes.
Some people think inner light is something you earn. But I know better.
It’s something I carry — through fog‑days, best‑days, ancestry, creativity, faith, and the soft unfolding of this life of mine.
🌟 What Inner Light Really Is
Inner light is the part of you that stays steady even when everything else shifts. It’s not confidence. It’s not perfection. It’s not productivity. It’s presence.
Quiet strength — the ability to keep moving gently, even when life feels heavy.
Soul clarity — the sense that something inside you knows the way, even when your mind doesn’t.
Creative truth — the spark that guides your writing, your journals, your heritage work.
Faithful resilience — the belief that God meets you in the soft places, not just the strong ones.
Ancestral glow — the way your roots, in my case, my Acadian roots, feel like a lantern handed down through generations.
Inner light is not loud. It’s loyal.
🌙 How Inner Light Shows Up in Real Life
It shows up when you write one honest sentence on a fibro fog‑day. It shows up when you choose gentleness over pressure. It shows up when you create something small but sincere. It shows up when you trust your own rhythm instead of forcing someone else’s.
My inner light is woven into my Pages Alight brand — the soft watercolor motifs, the candles, the feathers, the glowing edges of the planner spreads. It’s in my voice, my heritage projects, my night‑owl creativity, my faith‑friendly tone.
It’s the thread that ties everything together.
🕊️ Inner Light as a Spiritual Companion
Your inner light is not just emotional or creative — it’s spiritual. It’s the quiet assurance that you are guided, held, and seen. It’s the whisper that says:
You don’t have to shine for the world. You only have to shine from the truth inside you.
This is why my work resonates with overwhelmed readers. I don’t teach them to chase clarity. I try to teach them to trust the glow they already carry.
✨ A Gentle Invitation
If you’ve been doubting your brightness lately, let this settle softly in your heart:
Your inner light is not fragile. It’s faithful.
It stays with you through every season. It grows with every act of creativity. It strengthens with every moment of honesty. It brightens every time you choose presence over perfection.
You don’t have to force it. You only have to honor it.
Your inner light is already shining — quietly, beautifully, and right on time.
PLEASE NOTE: I’ve entered a contest in Nightcafe and I’m hoping to win. The prize is money, which I intend to use it to publish my many manuscripts. Please consider going to the site and voting for me. I cannot tell you how much I’d appreciate it.
My health is still hanging in at stage 4 CKD, thank goodness! I’ve been blessed so many times.
Below is a description of my entry to the contest:
This story weaves a rich tapestry that connects the epic, historical resilience of ancestors directly, into a modern story of survival and extraordinary love.
Capturing the blacksmith roots, the grief of Acadians, and the mending of self and foster children, this story highlights the concept of an unbroken line of patriots and survivors.
The protagonist (celebrating 50 years of marriage) reflects on her life of fostering over 200 children, adopting 3, and giving birth to 5. It explores her slow recovery from severe childhood trauma (parents divorced by age 4, a father with schizophrenia, a mother developmentally delayed to age 13, and enduring childhood physical and sexual abuse). It details the hardships she and her husband overcame, including losing babies, and celebrates their clean, enduring romance.
Incorporating a cohesive parallel narrative arc, the story interweaves the historical trials of my ancestors (the Acadian expulsion, the Irish potato famine) with my own personal trials (childhood trauma, fostering 200 children), showing that the “patriot DNA” of survival was passed down to me, through my children.
The Paternal Grandmother’s side: Direct descent from the legendary Acadian leader Joseph ‘Beausoleil’ Broussard, embodying the patriot spirit and the tragedy/triumph of the Acadian expulsion.
The Maternal Grandfather’s side: A deeply rooted line where the protagonist is related to him 17 different ways, filled with early American patriots.
The Maternal Great-Grandparents (The Peppers): Newlyweds fleeing Ireland immediately after the Potato Famine, arriving in New Orleans to build a life from scratch as blacksmiths.
The themes of ancestral survival, blacksmithing/refining fire, and patriotism mirror the protagonist’s fight to survive her childhood and become a sanctuary for 200 forgotten children.
Submit a Body of Work that tells a story from start to finish. Be reviewed by expert judges, and compete for a $1,000 grant and a feature in Prompt Magazine.
I’m just finishing up the outline for this yet-to-be-written book, which will be a historical novel/memoir.
A man slaughters a big cow, starts the grill, and says to his daughter, “Daughter, go call our relatives, friends, and neighbors to join us… We’re having a celebration!”
The daughter goes out to the street and shouts, “Please help! My father’s house is on fire!”
After some time, only a few people come out to help, while many others act like they didn’t hear anything. The ones who came stay, eat, and enjoy the food until late.
The father, confused, looks around and says to his daughter, “I don’t know most of these people. Some I’ve never seen before. Where are our friends, family, and neighbors?”
The daughter calmly replies, “The people who came didn’t come for a party. They came because they thought we were in trouble. These are the people who care about us. These are the ones who deserve to celebrate with us.”
Lesson:The ones who don’t show up when you’re struggling don’t deserve to be with you when you succeed.
What do you think? I think it all depends on the intent of a person, really. Some people may WANT to help, but don’t know how. There are times in everyone’s lives when it’s just too hard to stretch and serve another, even though we want to help.
If someone came to our door right now, my husband would do everything he can, but he can’t give money or can’t be gone from the house very long, as people need him here. Those circumstances must be taken into consideration, and not punish those with good intent.
As an author weaving tales of survival and mysticism, I’ve fallen in love with runes, those enigmatic symbols from our ancestors. Today, let’s explore how these ancient marks breathe new life into modern stories, drawing from their historical roots to inspire today’s readers and writers.
Imagine a world shattered by catastrophe, where survivors cling to fragments of ancient wisdom to forge their path forward. In my Zion series, a mysterious rune etched on a weathered stone whispers prophecies of hope amid the ruins. It’s not just a plot device—it’s a bridge to the past, pulsing with magic that feels alive on the page.
Runes aren’t mere letters; they’re portals to a bygone era. The Elder Futhark, the oldest known runic alphabet, emerged around 150-800 AD among Germanic tribes in Scandinavia and beyond.
Carved into wood, stone, or bone, these 24 symbols served practical purposes—like labeling possessions or commemorating the dead—but they also carried deeper, mystical connotations.
Derived from the word “rún” meaning “secret” or “mystery” in Old Norse, runes were believed to hold divinatory power. Warriors might consult them before battle, or shamans use them in rituals to glimpse the future.
Historians draw much of what we know from sources like the Anglo-Saxon Rune Poem and the Norwegian Rune Poem, which assign poetic meanings to each symbol.
Take Fehu, the first rune, shaped like a cattle horn: It represents wealth, prosperity, and the rewards of hard work.
Uruz, resembling an aurochs (a wild ox), embodies raw strength and endurance—perfect for tales of overcoming adversity.
Then there’s Ansuz, linked to Odin, the Allfather, symbolizing wisdom, communication, and divine inspiration.
These aren’t static definitions; they’re fluid, open to interpretation, which is why they fascinate storytellers like me.
In my Zion series—starting with Zion: The Beginning and continuing through the chronicles—I’ve adapted these runes to fit a post-apocalyptic landscape. Here, they’re more than historical nods; they’re survival tools.
Characters decipher rune-inscribed artifacts to unlock hidden bunkers or predict environmental threats, blending ancient lore with futuristic grit.
For instance, a protagonist might trace Uruz during a brutal storm, drawing on its energy to push through exhaustion.
This isn’t arbitrary—I researched authentic meanings to ensure they resonate authentically, then twisted them to serve the narrative. It’s like Tolkien did with his Elvish scripts or runes in The Hobbit, where they add layers of world-building that make Middle-earth feel timeless.
What draws me to runes in storytelling is their versatility. They’re visual poetry: Simple lines that evoke complex ideas, making them ideal for visual media like book covers or fan art.
In Zion, they symbolize resilience in chaos, mirroring real-world themes of adaptation in uncertain times. And honestly, incorporating them sparks my creativity—it’s like unlocking a secret code in my own writing process.
Speaking of process, let’s get practical. If you’re an aspiring writer eyeing mystical elements, runes are a goldmine. I start with research:
Books like The Rune Primer by Sweyn Plowright or online archives from museums provide solid foundations without overwhelming you. Then, I sketch them out—drawing Fehu or Ansuz helps internalize their shapes and energies.
One tip I had fun with: Try “rune journaling.” Each morning, pull a rune (you can use apps or make your own deck) and let it inspire a scene. Stuck on a character’s motivation? Draw Ansuz for a wisdom breakthrough. It’s a low-pressure way to infuse some Nordic or Celtic magic into your drafts.
In Zion, this method led to some of my favorite twists—like a rune that shifts meaning based on context, forcing heroes to question fate. It’s empowering: Runes remind us that stories, like real life, are woven from choices and interpretations. If you’re curious, grab a notebook and experiment— who knows what secrets you’ll uncover?
As we step into 2026, runes feel more relevant than ever. In a world buzzing with AI and rapid change, they ground us in human heritage while fueling imagination. Whether you’re devouring fantasy epics or crafting your own, these symbols endure because they tap into universal truths: Strength in struggle, wisdom in whispers.
From Book 1: Zion: The Beginning Of the 6-part Series “America’s Great Perfect Storm”
If runes have sparked your interest, let me know and when it’s ready, I will let you know.. You’ll dive into the Zion series on Amazon—start with Zion: The Beginning and see how these ancient marks shape a new world.
Share your thoughts in the comments: Have you used runes in your stories, or do they appear in your favorite books?
I’d love to hear! And stay tuned for more chronicles woven in runes—next up, perhaps a rune-deep dive on my upcoming podcast.
Thanks for reading, fellow adventurers. Until next time, may your paths be marked with prosperous runes.
Being an author isn’t just about putting words on a page—it’s about chasing the spark that turns ideas into stories that touch hearts. As the creator of Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast and George and the Brave Eagle, and a blogger who recently hit 1,048 visitors, I’ve learned that writers live in a world where imagination and purpose collide. If you’re wondering whether you’ve got that writer’s spark, here are some signs, tied to my own journey of crafting children’s books, growing my blog, and advocating for hope.
What Happens Next?
You’re Always Asking, “What Happens Next?”
You might be a writer if you can’t help but wonder what’s around the next corner of a story. Whether I’m walking along the Emerald Coast, where Discovering Misty was born, or brainstorming for George and the Brave Eagle, I’m constantly asking, “What happens next?” A seashell could inspire a mermaid’s quest, or a soaring bird could spark a tale of courage. If you’re always chasing the next plot twist, you’re a writer at heart.
You Rewrite the World to Make Sense of It
You might be a writer if you process life’s highs and lows by turning them into stories. When life feels heavy, I pour my thoughts into blog posts about resilience or craft scenes where Misty faces challenges with grit. Writing is my way of making sense of the world, and if you find yourself doing the same—whether through poetry, fiction, or a journal—you’re likely a writer, too.
People Watcher
You’re a People-Watcher with a Purpose
You might be a writer if you process life’s highs and lows by turning them into stories. When life feels heavy, I pour my thoughts into blog posts about resilience or craft scenes where Misty faces challenges with grit. Writing is my way of making sense of the world, and if you find yourself doing the same—whether through poetry, fiction, or a journal—you’re likely a writer, too.
You might be a writer if you study strangers in a coffee shop, imagining their backstories. I’ve built characters for Discovering Misty: Friends Forever by watching kids play at the beach or families share stories. Writers don’t just observe—they weave those moments into narratives that resonate. My blog often reflects these snapshots, connecting everyday life to bigger themes like hope and community.
You Fall in Love with Your Tools
You might be a writer if you have a favorite pen, a lucky notebook, or a laptop you treat like a trusted friend. My desk, cluttered with notes for my GoFundMe campaign for George and the Brave Eagle, is my creative sanctuary. If you get a thrill from the click of a keyboard or the smell of fresh paper, you’re part of the writer’s club.
You’re Haunted by Stories That Demand to Be Told
You might be a writer if an idea grabs you and won’t let go until it’s on the page. The story of George, soaring with bravery, or Misty, discovering her strength, kept me up at night until I brought them to life. If you’ve ever felt a story tugging at you, insisting it needs to exist, you know the writer’s calling.
You Find Joy in Reader Connections
You might be a writer if a single reader’s comment lights up your day. When someone leaves a review for Discovering Misty on Amazon or shares how my blog inspired them, it’s like fuel for my soul. Hitting 1,048 blog visitors felt like a milestone worth celebrating, and every interaction reminds me why I write: to connect, inspire, and spread joy.
You Write for Something Bigger
You might be a writer if your stories carry a deeper purpose. For me, it’s about more than children’s books—it’s about weaving hope and resilience into every page, a mission that ties to my advocacy for suicide prevention. Whether I’m sharing a blog post about family reading or a story about a brave eagle, I write to remind readers, young and old, that they’re not alone. If your words aim to lift others up, you’re a writer with heart.
You Keep Going, No Matter What
You might be a writer if you push through rejection, doubt, or the grind of promotion—like pitching Discovering Misty to bookstores or rallying support for George and the Brave Eagle. Writers don’t quit because the spark of creation is too strong. Even on tough days, I find myself back at my desk, writing a new blog post or polishing a chapter, because stories are how I make a difference.
If these signs feel like home, you might be a writer. Embrace the spark, chase the stories, and let your words light up the world. For me, it’s about bringing Misty and George to life, growing my blog, and sharing hope—one story at a time.
The holidays are often painted as a time of pure joy—twinkling lights, family gatherings, and cherished traditions. But for many, this season stirs deep sorrow. Grief doesn’t pause for celebrations; it can make empty chairs, familiar songs, and festive cheer feel like painful reminders of what’s missing.
Whether your loss comes from the death of a loved one, estrangement, divorce, health challenges, or even the family you wish you’d had, holiday grief is real and valid. Expectations of mandatory happiness, resurfacing memories, and cultural pressure for perfect togetherness can all amplify the ache.
“No Empty Chairs…”
The good news? You don’t have to force cheer or pretend everything’s fine. Grief and joy can coexist. Here are some gentle ways to care for yourself this season:
• Give yourself permission to feel. Cry if you need to, laugh if it comes naturally, or simply rest. No guilt required.
• Rethink traditions. Keep what comforts you, adapt what hurts, or skip altogether. Light a candle in memory, share a favorite story, or create something entirely new—like volunteering or a quiet day alone.
• Set kind boundaries. It’s okay to decline invitations, leave early, or ask for space from certain topics. Protect your energy.
• Speak your needs. Tell supportive people what helps: “This year is tough—let’s keep it low-key” or “I’d love to talk about them today.”
• Practice small self-care. Eat, rest, move, breathe. Honor your loved one through a donation, a special ornament, or playing their favorite music.
• Seek support if needed. Friends, grief groups, counselors, or online communities can lighten the load.
Christmas Dreams
If you’re supporting someone grieving, your presence matters most. Listen without trying to fix it. Acknowledge their pain. Offer specific help. Simply say, “I’m here for you.”
Grief changes the holidays, but it doesn’t erase meaning. In time, the sharp edges soften, and space opens for new warmth alongside the memories you carry.
The Magic of Christmas
This season, be gentle with yourself. Your feelings are valid, your love endures, and healing comes in its own quiet way.
Wishing you moments of peace amid the complexity. 🎄
Below is my Creation Listing for 2025. As you can see, I haven’t been using this tool very long, but I’m certainly enjoying it. The entries in the piece shows some of my books and yet-to-be published books of this year.
You can see Misty, the mermaid of the Emerald Coast, from my 2 children’s books of the same name. She’s chatting with 6-year-old George Washington and his buddy, the brave eagle.
Under that section, you’ll find the book cover for my Washington’s Fantastical Crossing, where he’s being watched by merfolk – I really hadn’t planned to write so many stories about merfolk!
The one at the bottom middle is part of my America’s Great Perfect Storm. The leopard and night-watchers are suggestive of Obama’s dream — more on that later.
The bottom left is from my YA speculative fiction, “The Covenant Fire”, a story about a team asked to locate and activate an ancient artifact, while avoiding the evil cabal chasing them to recover the artifact to use for their purposes. This artifact is meant to bring about the 2nd Resurrection and gather the Lost Ten Tribes.
“Pages Alight” is my forthcoming podcast on YouTube! Coming very soon.
It Changed Me contest entry. You don’t grow by expanding what you already know. You grow by standing in something that doesn’t need you and choosing to learn its language anyway. Write a Story that shows how perception changes someone that causes growth, good or bad.
Monterey Bay Aquarium
The first time I saw the ocean, I was twenty-three and already convinced I knew everything worth knowing. I’d grown up in a landlocked county where the biggest body of water was a stock pond behind my grandfather’s barn, and I’d spent my teens treating that pond like a kingdom. I could name every catfish by the scar on its lip, predict the exact second a turtle would surface, and skip a rock six times if the wind was right. The world beyond the county line felt theoretical, like a rumor adults told to keep kids in line.
College had widened the map a little, but only on paper. I studied environmental science because it let me stay close to dirt and water I already understood. My professors talked about coral bleaching and ocean acidification the way priests talk about hell—distant, inevitable, someone else’s problem. I nodded along, aced the exams, and went home for summers to fish the same pond with the same buddies. Life was a closed loop, and I liked the hum of it.
Then my girlfriend, Mara, got accepted to a marine biology program in Monterey. She asked me to drive out with her, just for the summer, to help her settle before I started my senior year. I said yes because I loved her and because California sounded like a dare. We loaded her Civic with aquariums and textbooks and my one duffel of clothes, and we pointed west.
California Coast
The drive took four days. We slept in rest-stop parking lots and ate gas-station burritos. Mara read aloud from field guides while I drove, her finger tracing pictures of kelp forests and sea otters. I humored her, but inside I was cataloging exits back to the interstate, back to the pond. Every mile felt like a betrayal of the kid who’d sworn he’d never leave.
We hit the Pacific on Highway 1 just south of Big Sur. The road hugged cliffs so steep I couldn’t see the water until we rounded a bend and there it was—endless, moving, louder than any silence I’d ever known. I pulled over at a scenic turnout because my hands had gone numb on the wheel. Mara got out first. I followed, slower, like the air itself might push me back.
The ocean didn’t look like water. It looked like weather. Waves rose and collapsed with a violence that made my pond seem like a puddle pretending to be brave. Salt stung my eyes before I reached the railing. Gulls wheeled overhead, screaming in a language I didn’t speak. I stood there until my legs shook, not from fear exactly, but from the sudden, nauseating realization that everything I’d mastered back home was irrelevant here. The ocean didn’t care about my rock-skipping record or the way I could smell rain coming in the mesquite. It had its own rules, and I was a trespasser.
Mara tugged my sleeve. “You okay?”
I lied and said yes.
We found an apartment in Pacific Grove, a shoebox with a view of the bay if you pressed your face to the kitchen window. Mara started her program. I got a job at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, mostly mopping tanks and feeding squid to moray eels. The pay was nothing, but it kept me near her and, I told myself, near the research I’d eventually need for grad school apps.
The aquarium was a cathedral of glass and salt. I learned the rhythms fast: dawn feedings, midday tours, the hush when the lights dimmed for the kelp forest exhibit. Visitors pressed their palms to the tanks and asked me questions I couldn’t answer yet. Kids wanted to know if sharks slept. Old men wanted to know if the octopus could really change color on purpose. I smiled, said “Let me check,” and went to find a docent.
At night, Mara came home smelling of brine and formaldehyde. She talked about intertidal zones and upwelling currents until her voice cracked. I listened from the couch, soda going warm in my hand, feeling the distance between us widen like a tide pool at low tide. She was becoming fluent in a world I still stumbled through.
One morning in July, the aquarium’s dive team was short a safety diver. The regular guy had food poisoning. My boss, a woman named Keiko who’d once swum with great whites off Guadalupe Island, asked if I’d fill in. I’d logged maybe twenty dives total, all in quarries back home. But I said yes because Mara was watching, and because some reckless part of me wanted to prove the ocean hadn’t beaten me yet.
The dive was in the Great Tide Pool exhibit—an outdoor tank the size of a basketball court, open to the sky. We were supposed to scrub algae off the rocks and check the surge pumps. Easy work, Keiko said. I suited up in a borrowed 7-mil wetsuit that pinched under the arms. The water was fifty-four degrees. My teeth chattered before I even hit the surface.
Underwater, the noise vanished. Just my breathing and the click of the regulator. The rocks were slick with life—anemones like green fireworks, scallops clapping shut as I passed. I forgot the cold. I forgot Mara waiting topside. I was inside the thing I’d feared, and it was beautiful.
Then the pump jammed.
It happened fast. A plastic bag—someone’s lunch trash—had tangled in the intake grate. The surge stopped, and the water level began to drop. Fast. The exhibit was designed to mimic tides, but this was wrong, mechanical. Keiko signaled frantic: Fix it. Now.
I kicked down to the grate. The bag was wedged tight. I yanked. Nothing. My fingers went numb inside the gloves. Air hissed from my regulator in panicked bursts. Twenty feet above, the surface looked impossibly far, a silver coin I couldn’t reach. For the first time since I’d left home, I thought: I might die here.
I forced my breathing slow. In, out. Like skipping rocks—find the rhythm. I wedged my knife under the bag’s edge and sawed. The plastic gave with a rip. Water roared back through the pump. The level rose. Keiko grabbed my arm, thumbs-up, and we surfaced to applause from a crowd I hadn’t noticed.
Mara met me at the ladder. Her face was pale. “You scared me,” she whispered.
I couldn’t answer. My legs wouldn’t hold me. I sat on the deck while interns wrapped me in towels. The ocean smell was everywhere—on my skin, in my hair, inside my lungs. I realized I wasn’t shaking from cold anymore. I was shaking because something had cracked open.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Mara breathed softly beside me. I slipped out to the tiny balcony and watched the bay glitter under streetlights. A sea otter floated on its back, cracking clams against its chest. The sound carried across the water—sharp, deliberate, alive.
I thought about the pond back home. How small it seemed now. How safe. I’d spent years perfecting control there—knowing every eddy, every shadow. The ocean had stripped that illusion away in one clogged pump. It wasn’t cruel; it was indifferent. And somehow that indifference felt like grace.
The rest of the summer unfolded differently. I asked Keiko to teach me everything. I logged dives in the open ocean, cold and murky, learning to read surge the way I’d once read wind on mesquite. I failed a lot. Lost a fin to a kelp tangle. Got bent once from ascending too fast. Each mistake carved me smaller, humbler, better.
Mara and I fought more. She wanted commitment—grad school together, a life built on this coast. I wasn’t ready to promise forever, but I was ready to stop pretending I belonged anywhere else. When August ended, she drove back east for her fall semester. I stayed. Took a full-time tech position at the aquarium. Slept on Keiko’s couch until I could afford my own place.
The pond still exists. I go back sometimes, when holidays pull me home. The catfish are fatter. The turtles slower. I sit on the bank and skip rocks—three bounces now, maybe four if I’m lucky. The water smells like algae and cow manure, familiar as childhood. But it doesn’t own me anymore.
Monterey Bay
I’m twenty-eight now. I lead dives for the aquarium’s research team. I can read a swell chart the way farmers read clouds. Last month, I watched a kid press her nose to the kelp tank and whisper, “It’s like another planet.” I told her it was better than that—it was ours, if we paid attention.
Some nights, I still dream of that clogged pump, the water dropping, my lungs burning. I wake up gasping, but not scared. Grateful. The ocean didn’t kill me. It just made me big enough to hold it.
Contest: Write 150 words about your life in full; don’t give just parts of your life.
I was born in a small town. Story was my first language. I learned to read the rules in school and to rebel in books. Now they’re arrows pointing injustice and wonder.
I was married young and divorced younger but I learned motherhood would be an anchor in all storms of love. Then I was married for keeps.
Mother and foster motherhood came. Six boys, two girls, two angels, brave and funny. I learned to read my heart in their handwriting and put children’s books in print.
Misty a mermaid swam in my thoughts and cried for a tiara! Faith grew where my eyes met a portrait of Christ saying, “You are enough.”
I am a writer today scheduling social media posts, recreating like fireflies; still I believe stories can cross ice floes.
My life? Untidy, hope-full, windy, full of notes of beauty, sometimes heartbreaking and often rewriting manuscripts.
Below is a story I entered in a contest on the website Fanstory. Unfortunately, I didn’t read the instructions carefully enough, so I wrote it too long. There was a max word count and I went over by quite a lot. Lesson learned: don’t be in such a rush and omit reading all the instructions! I entered late and was near the entry deadline. Oh well! Now, this is for your enjoyment: my attempt at mystery/crime writing.
Union Station
The phone buzzed on the counter, a persistent vibration slicing through the quiet hum of Anna’s kitchen. She glanced at it absently, stirring her coffee, the steam rising in lazy curls like forgotten memories.
The number was unfamiliar — an area code from somewhere east, maybe Chicago. She let it ring out, assuming it was another spam call about extended warranties or debt consolidation. But then it buzzed again. Same number. Her stomach twisted with an inexplicable unease. She picked up.
“Hello?” Her voice came out sharper than intended, edged with caution.
“Marcus?” She gripped the counter, the cool granite anchoring her as the room seemed to tilt. “How… why the hell are you calling me now?”
“Anna?” The reply was gravelly, worn by time, but instantly recognizable. Her breath caught in her throat. Marcus. After twelve long years.
A low chuckle escaped him, bitter and laced with exhaustion. “Didn’t think you’d hear from me again, did you? Hey, I didn’t either. But I’m in trouble, Anna. The kind that’s got me looking over my shoulder every single minute.”
She hadn’t heard that voice since the night he’d walked out of their cramped Chicago apartment. They were twenty-five then, wild and inseparable, tangled in a love that felt invincible—until it wasn’t.
He’d left behind a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the kitchen table and a scribbled note: I’m sorry. I can’t. No explanation, no goodbye. Just gone. She’d searched for him at first, calling friends, scouring social media, even filing a missing persons report. But he vanished like smoke.
Over the years, she’d rebuilt her life in Seattle: a steady job as a graphic designer, a cozy apartment overlooking the Sound, casual dates that never went anywhere. She’d convinced herself he was dead, or worse, that he simply hadn’t cared enough to stay. Now, here he was, dredging up the past like a bad dream.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.
“The kind where people end up dead if I don’t fix it fast.” A heavy pause stretched across the line. “I need your help, Anna. You’re the only one I can trust.”
She laughed, a sharp, hollow sound that echoed off the tiled walls. “Trust? You disappear for over a decade, and now you need my help? You’ve got some nerve, Marcus.”
“I know. Anna, I know.” His voice softened, cracking at the edges. “I wouldn’t be calling if there was any other way. Please.”
She paced the kitchen, her bare feet cold against the floor. Outside, the Seattle rain pattered against the windows, blurring the city lights into a hazy glow.
Hanging up would be easy—should be easy. But there was something in his tone: raw desperation, mingled with a fear she’d never heard from him before. It hooked her, pulling at threads she’d long thought severed.
“What do you need?” she said finally, the words tasting like defeat.
“There’s a package in a locker at Union Station. Chicago. I need you to pick it up and bring it to me.”
“Chicago?” Her voice pitched higher. “You expect me to drop everything, fly across the country for you? After all this time?”
“I’ll cover the ticket. Everything. Anna, please… it’s bigger than me. Bigger than what happened between us.”
She sank into a chair at the table, her coffee growing cold. “What’s in the package, Marcus?”
“I can’t say. Not over the phone. Lines aren’t safe.”
“Of course,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Same old Marcus, always with the secrets and shadows.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he rattled off a locker number and a four-digit code. “There’s a flight out tomorrow morning. I’ll text you the details. Anna… I’m sorry. For everything. I never stopped—”
The line went dead before he could finish, leaving her staring at the phone, her heart pounding.
Sleep evaded her that night. She tossed in bed, memories flooding back: lazy Sundays in bed, laughing over burnt pancakes; heated arguments that ended in passionate reconciliations; the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his dreams of adventure, far from their mundane life. And then, the emptiness after he left.
She’d thrown herself into work, traveled solo to places they’d once planned to see together, even dated a few guys who reminded her a little too much of him. But none of it filled the void.
By dawn, she was at the airport, boarding a red-eye flight with a carry-on bag and a knot of doubt in her gut. Why was she doing this? Closure? Curiosity? Or something more stupid, like hope?
The flight was turbulent, mirroring her thoughts. She landed in O’Hare under a slate-gray sky, the wind whipping her hair as she hailed a cab to Union Station.
Union Station
The station was a bustling hive of echoes and hurried footsteps, commuters weaving through the grand hall like threads in a tapestry. She found the lockers in a dimly lit corner, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and exhaust. Her fingers trembled as she punched in the code.
The door clicked open with a metallic groan. Inside sat a small metal case, no larger than a hardcover book, secured with a combination lock. It was heavier than it looked, as if weighted with secrets. She zipped it into her backpack, scanning the crowd for any watchful eyes. Paranoia, she told herself. But her skin prickled nonetheless.
Marcus had texted an address: a derelict warehouse on the city’s industrial outskirts. The cab driver raised an eyebrow but said nothing, dropping her off amid crumbling concrete and overgrown weeds.
The building loomed like a forgotten relic, its windows boarded up, graffiti scrawled across the rusted walls like urban hieroglyphs. She knocked tentatively, the sound swallowed by the wind.
The door creaked open, and there he was. Marcus. Older, with threads of gray weaving through his dark hair, deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth.
But those eyes — restless, piercing —were the same. They still held that spark, like he was always one breath away from bolting.
“You came,” he said, his voice a mix of relief and disbelief. He stepped aside, ushering her in.
“You didn’t leave me much choice.” She held up the backpack. “This what you wanted?”
He nodded, closing the door behind them with a soft click. The warehouse interior was cavernous, dimly lit by a single flickering bulb dangling from a chain.
Stacks of crates lined the walls, casting long shadows. A rickety table in the center held a clutter of yellowed papers, a laptop, and an empty takeout container. He took the case from her, his hands steady but reverent, as if handling something fragile and dangerous.
“What’s going on, Marcus?” she demanded, crossing her arms. “You owe me an explanation. A real one.”
He set the case on the table and flipped open the latches. Inside nestled a glass vial filled with an amber liquid that seemed to pulse faintly under the light, like a living thing. “This,” he said quietly, “is why I left all those years ago.”
She stared at it, then at him. “A vial? You left me over a vial?”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s not just any vial. I got mixed up with some bad people back then. Scientists, black-market types, government spooks—I still don’t know the full picture. They were developing something revolutionary. A serum. It could cure diseases, extend life… or weaponize it to control populations. I was their courier, their errand boy. Young and dumb, thinking I was part of something big.”
“And this?” She gestured at the vial, her voice laced with skepticism.
“The last viable sample. The project went south — betrayals, leaks. Everyone involved started disappearing. I took this and ran. That’s why I left you. To keep you safe. If they’d known about you…”
She processed his words, the pieces clicking into place like a puzzle she’d never wanted to solve. “So you’ve been hiding all this time? Running from shadows?”
“Not shadows. Real people. Ruthless ones.” His eyes darted to the door. “They’ve been closing in. That’s why I needed you — no connections, no trail.”
Before she could respond, a low rumble echoed outside: tires crunching on gravel, deliberate and ominous. Marcus’s face drained of color. “Great. They’re here.”
Adrenaline surged through her. “Who? Your ghosts?”
He grabbed her arm, yanking her toward a shadowed back exit. “No time. Run. Don’t look back.”
She wrenched free, her pulse thundering. “I’m not leaving you again, Marcus. Not like this.”
His gaze met hers, raw and conflicted; regret, fear, and something warmer flickering there. “Okay. Together, then.”
They burst out the back door into the pouring rain, the vial secure in her backpack. The downpour soaked them instantly, turning the ground to mud. Footsteps pounded behind, sharp voices slicing through the storm like knives. “There! Don’t let them get away!”
An alley stretched ahead, flanked by chain-link fences and abandoned lots. They sprinted, breaths ragged, splashing through puddles that reflected the city’s muted lights. A black SUV screeched around the corner, headlights piercing the gloom like predatory eyes, pinning them in place.
Marcus shoved her behind a rusted dumpster, his body shielding hers. “They’ll kill for that vial,” he whispered urgently, rain streaming down his face. “It’s not just a cure. It’s power. Whoever controls it decides who lives, who dies. Governments, corporations — they all want it.”
A shadow detached from the alley’s mouth: a figure in black, rain-slicked coat billowing, a silenced pistol glinting in the dim light. Anna’s heart hammered against her ribs, terror clawing at her throat. She clutched the backpack, the case’s weight a grim reminder of the chaos she’d stepped into.
“Marcus,” she hissed, “what now?”
He peeked around the edge, his jaw set. “We fight. Or we run smarter.”
The figure advanced, boots squelching in the mud, scanning the shadows. Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the scene in stark white. The pursuer’s face was masked, eyes cold and methodical.
“Give it up, Hale!” the man shouted, voice muffled by the storm. “No more running!”
Marcus tensed, then whispered, “On three. We bolt left, toward the tracks.”
One. Two. Three.
They exploded from cover, zigzagging through the alley. A shot whizzed past, embedding in the fence with a metallic ping. Anna’s legs burned, fear fueling her speed. Another crack, louder, closer. Marcus stumbled, clutching his side, blood blooming through his shirt.
“Marcus!” she screamed, grabbing his arm.
“Keep going!” he gasped, pushing her ahead.
But the shadows multiplied —more figures emerging from the rain, closing the net. The vial thrummed against her back like a heartbeat. Ahead, train tracks gleamed under distant lights, a possible escape. Behind, the hunters drew nearer, their pursuit relentless.
As another shot rang out, splitting the night, Anna realized this call had pulled her into a web she might never escape. The rain washed away her tears, but not the dread: was this reunion, or the end?
Hey, everyone! I wanted to share my joy — and surprise about winning 1st Place in the writing contest. It was a “Dialogue Only” competition, where the author cannot use any words that are not part of the dialogue between the characters. Take a look! It was quite fun and rewarding…I won $100!
Some stories weave themselves into our hearts, becoming more than words on a page—they become part of our lives. Robert Munsch’sLove You Foreveris one such tale, a children’s book that captures the eternal bond between parent and child with a tenderness that transcends generations. Its iconic refrain, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be,” resonates deeply, reflecting a love that evolves yet never fades. For me, this book holds special meaning, as I gifted it to my mother and mother-in-law for Mother’s Day, a gesture to honor the unbreakable ties of family. Its emotional depth inspired my own children’s book, Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast, where love and connection shine through adventures along Florida’s shores.
InLove You Forever, Munsch crafts a narrative that mirrors life’s cycles. A mother rocks her baby, singing her lullaby of devotion, and as time passes, the roles reverse—her grown son cradles her in return. This poignant shift hit me profoundly when reading to my sons, now grown, in our East Texas home. The story’s simplicity—its gentle rhythm and heartfelt illustrations—belies its power to evoke tears and gratitude. It reminds us that love is a constant, even as life changes. I felt this when I wroteDiscovering Misty, where Misty the mermaid and Moriah the loggerhead turtle forge a friendship that weathers challenges, like Moriah’s entrapment in a fisherman’s net inFriends Forever. Their bond, set against the vibrant Emerald Coast, echoes the steadfast love in Munsch’s tale, showing young readers that care and loyalty endure.
What makes both stories timeless is their ability to speak to all ages. Love You Foreverisn’t just for children; it’s for anyone who’s loved or been loved. Its message of eternal devotion connected me to my Acadian roots, where family and heritage are sacred. Similarly,Discovering Mistyuses the magic of mermaids and coastal adventures to teach trust and friendship, inspired by the real-life Misty Joy, a Florida performer whose warmth infuses the series. When Misty helps Moriah or teaches a lesson about kindness inThe Missing Tiara, it’s my way of bottling that same universal love for young readers, encouraging them to carry it forward.
As a writer, I’ve learned from Munsch to keep stories simple yet profound, letting emotions breathe through small moments—like a mermaid’s smile or a mother’s lullaby. For thisThoughtful Thursday, I invite you to revisit a book that shaped your heart. Share it with someone you love, just as I did withLove You Forever. And if you’re looking for a new adventure, dive intoDiscovering Mistyon Amazon or Audible, where love and friendship sparkle like the Gulf waves.
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